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A Picture and a Poem

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Friend [Jan. 11th, 2010|11:09 am]
A Picture and a Poem

ruth5221
[Current Mood |cheerfulcheerful]





A true friend gives -

a smile when you’re happy, a tear when you’re sad,

a nod when you’re great, a sigh when you’re not

When the weather is stormy and things turn out so bad

a hand to guide you on your way

a pat on your back to tell you everything’s gonna be okay
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Forgive Me [Jan. 10th, 2010|01:01 pm]
A Picture and a Poem

ruth5221
[Current Mood |bouncybouncy]





Forgive me for saying this much

Quietly, you came into my life

Reluctantly, I gazed into your eyes

Silently, you smiled at me and I smiled back

Slowly, I noticed you are gentle and kind

Secretly, you slipped into my heart

Suddenly, oh suddenly, I’ve fallen in love!
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Suffer. [Jan. 6th, 2010|12:36 pm]
A Picture and a Poem

kristineeeeann
[Current Location |United States, Texas, North Richland Hills]

Eye

cracked smile,
mangled heart, torn
from my chest.
dangling from my ribs,
for every eye to suffer.



 
 
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(no subject) [Nov. 20th, 2009|02:44 am]
A Picture and a Poem

mark40e
Photobucket
marta; chicago

4 YEARS

4 years...strange.

still feeling the love. still feeling the luck.

i mean,
it's different. sure.

when i was younger there was this tune called
"space age love song". i hardly remember the melody,
but some reason
when i look at her,
it somehow comes to mind.

funny.

right before i snapped this shot
i said,
"you should never have your picture taken with alcohol
in your hand!"

she quickly tucked the glass of wine behind herself
as we just simply started to laugh.

we sat down,
enjoyed the view...and didn't say much for the next
15 minutes or so.

we didn't have to.

the quiet comfort after the laughter
said it all.
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(no subject) [Nov. 15th, 2009|12:07 pm]
A Picture and a Poem

mark40e
Photobucket
milwaukee art museum; WI

LAND ESCAPE

i mostly wander around. always have.

it's amazing i've made it this far.

when i was a kid
i'd get sent out to the yard to pull weeds
and end up looking for four leaf clovers. my mind is more apt
to focus in on the moment
than to think about the future
or the past.

i might know for sure if this is working for me,

but i can't remember what's happened
and i cannot see what will be.

sleeping has always been the most perfect waste of time.

everything else is just a path to getting back to bed.

i stand up. cross the room. reach in to the fridge for a glass of milk.

i wonder what happened to lara botinelli. and i KNOW what happened
to elise geiger. amy tuesday too. none of them are here now,
and it's all for the better.

i sip my milk. it is quiet. only the sound of the refrigerator humming.

every day people die for nothing. the same ways they have lived.

the rich,
the poor,
the beautiful,
and the ugly continue to need each other
in order to feed their hate.

and although santa clause doesn't exist
i certainly wish he did. he represents all that ever made sense to me,

minus the jolly red suit,
of course.

i wander back to bed
and dream of four leaf clovers
as the rest of the world
makes their way to work.

it's a wonder any of us make it anywhere...the view goes on and on.
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(no subject) [Oct. 25th, 2009|09:09 am]
A Picture and a Poem
freya_sacksen

Wellington Botanic Gardens, Wellington, New Zealand

Narnia V.
He is the first defence.

Long before any other light goes up, his will, stirring in the shadows.
His voiceless song is the first to sing out,
And leads his brethren to join in.

Around him, the trees add their own chorus,
The flowers their high, soft chimes,
The grass their hoarse, whispering moans.

As a conductor waves toward an orchestra,
To begin the first movement of their piece -
So too does the first defence raise up his voiceless voice,
Urging the others, too, to add their tales.

Here sings a pohutakawa,
Known as the Southern Christmas Tree,
Telling tales of children who tried to climb him.

Here whispers a willow,
Speaking of a jilted lover
Who cried beneath her branches.

Here the grass speaks
Of children plucking up its hair and making
Bracelets from it,
And of lovers lying back and eating picnics.

Between them all threads the silent song
Of the lampposts,
Led by the first defence,
Their glows highlighting the faces in the bark,
And standing against the wind that would
Stifle their songs.

As dawn rises, slowly the chorus softens,
Slowly the stories halt,
Slowly the voiceless songs turn into silence.

The first defence is the last of  them to leave,
Softly sputtering and singing the tiniest of lullabies,
To help his fellow soldiers and singers sleep
Till nighttime,
When he will sing once more,
The chorus of voiceless stories.

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(no subject) [Oct. 24th, 2009|08:17 pm]
A Picture and a Poem
freya_sacksen

Easy route to Lady Norwood Rose Garden, Wellington Botanic Gardens, Wellington, New Zealand.

Narnia IV.
This lamppost is more concerned for humans than he is for plants.

For this he is unceasingly mocked.

But, as he often points out,
If someone does not light the way
For these strange moving metal boxes,
They will undoubtedly injure the trees that his kin so adore.

That tends to shut them up fairly quickly.

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(no subject) [Oct. 24th, 2009|09:24 am]
A Picture and a Poem
freya_sacksen

Bowen Street Memorial Park, City Side, Wellington, New Zealand.

Narnia III.
Huddled between the fronds of a fern
Stands the first child of the first,
The oldest of them all.

His glow is weary and flickering,
And yet as defiant as those of his kin.

In the sun he rests his weary old bones,
Allowing it to warm his cast iron body
And his glass cased face.
He listens to the ferns and the trees - his oldest friends -
Whisper and murmur in the hot, North wind.

The summer wind is far kinder than her winter counterpart.

For when his bones are so hot that it burns all who stand near him,
She shifts and slithers through the gaps in the leaves
And traces cold, soft kisses along his skin,
Soothing the metal and embracing it.

Periodically, in the winter,
When he and his kin are so cold and wet there is fear of rust,
She defies her Southern counterpart,
And wraps her arms around them,
The slight warmth of her breath holding back the winter wind.

While there is no true winter they stand guard against,
They nonetheless keep eternal guard
Aiding their old green friends
And helped by the summer wind
Smiling and singing and laughing
Rather than roaring and yelling and raging.

She holds steady with her friends,
Steady and eager,
And whispers stories of the North to her oldest friend,
The first born child of Narnia.

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(no subject) [Oct. 23rd, 2009|08:30 am]
A Picture and a Poem
freya_sacksen

Bowen Street Memorial Park, Wellington, New Zealand.

Narnia II.
Winter wind is known for its death,
Stealing away the breath of the cold,
Taking away the dying leaves and flowers.

Only the evergreens dare to show defiance,
Staying green and bright all year.
The winter wind howls in rage and shakes the branches
To no avail.

The evergreens' quiet conspirators are
The lampposts that stand in the graveyard,
Showering the early, claustrophobic night
With yellow, summery, radiant light,

Completely inappropriate for the cemetery in which they stand,
A dying, closed-off cemetery,
Where no more of the dead may enter.

But sometimes, in the winter night,
The long-suffering dead come out and dance,
Their last, weary, hateful spite
Leading them to waltz and spin and foxtrot
Throughout the now-dead graveyard.

These lampposts, children of the first,
Stand out against the winter, silent sentinels,
Silent soldiers,
Silent warriors against the deadly dark.

When summer comes, their weapons are laid down,
For in summer night, while they will glow,
They need not take up arms against the cold and sharp
Wrath of the winter wind,
That steals the breath of the cold,
And takes away dying leaves and flowers
And howls and roars and rages at defiance.

An eternal battle, light and green versus dark and cold,
And every year, they look forward to respite
And to the sleeping dead lying deep
Beneath the grass of a dead grave.

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(no subject) [Oct. 22nd, 2009|02:18 pm]
A Picture and a Poem
freya_sacksen

Wellington Botanic Gardens, Wellington, New Zealand

Narnia I.
There is no winter here.
Not winter, like it once was known,
White snow in the air,
Black ice on the ground.

What is winter here?
It is rain and bitter winds,
Blowing off of the icy South.

Once, it was said
That there was a lamppost
That witnessed an everlasting winter,
Forever snowy and cold and sad.

These lampposts witness a land
Without that. Like the first,
They stand alone, tall sentinels,
Shining summer light out into the night.

Like the first, their lamplight glows
And is known only (or mostly) to
The trees and grass,
Who crowd around them,
Like growing subjects before an iron king,
With his gaudy, glassy, gilded crown.

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