Tag: poetry

If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

I’m loving “If You Forget Me” by Pablo Neruda right now.

Listen my audio recording of this poem while you read, here.

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

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{ Out of Your Bone Weary Soul }
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{ Out of Your Bone Weary Soul }

I do not understand { Out of Your Bone Weary Soul }

 

Have you ever woken up to find that your life has changed overnight?
And you wonder, how did this happen?  How did I get here?
Your choices were meant to take you somewhere else, but somehow it didn’t work out that way?
You realize you’re all alone, when you meant to have increase.
You realize you’ve opened the door wide open to many foolish paths, when you meant to follow God’s path.  And you are blind-sighted.
You realize your heartache can only get you in trouble – when you look at the paths before you and don’t see the future you thought was yours.
You sit in despair.
Like everything you thought you knew has been ripped out from under you.
Like your very heart is about to explode inside your chest from beating and searching so hard, but it has nowhere to go.
You have nowhere to go – and yet you can go anywhere, because you are tied down to nothing.
And that is the very saddest part of it all.
You belong to nothing – to no one.  Anymore.
You have no one to call home anymore.  No hands to hold your heart.
You have no place to hang your hat, your clothes, your trinkets, your collection of 37-years of life.
A gypsy, suddenly.
Your wandering heart can finally wander, but you don’t want it to.
You don’t want to face the paths that it may take on this blank canvas.
The first strokes to set the precedence, the mood, to set the next chapters of your life.
An unpaved road, an unexpected fork.
You could lay down strokes of angry black, portraying a fearful, rogue wanderer.
You could lay down strokes of fierce red, portraying a mask of distracting bold adventure.
You could lay down strokes of happy yellow, portraying a faux optimism.
You could lay down strokes of honest blue, serenely portraying your melancholy heart, surrendering sorrowfully to the reality before you, painting each stroke without pretense, but with all the passion and authenticity you can billow out of your bone weary soul.
Yes, I will paint blue.  It is the hardest.  It is the softest.

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~ Something’s Brewing ~

IMG 1081 768x1024 ~ Somethings Brewing ~

something’s brewing
something deep
something sweet

it excites me
it scares me
it makes me breath quickly
it makes my heart beat fast

it reminds me of who i am
it reminds me of why i’m here

it makes me feel wild and unpredictable
it makes me feel whole and vulnerable

it’s daring
it’s primal
it’s wholesome

it evokes mutual trust and a natural flow
it encourages yin and yang and sets my soul aglow

i am not afraid to give
i am not afraid to ask

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Poetry Reading | The Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda

The Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda, my first attempt at a poetry reading.

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If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda
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Not All Who Wander Are Lost | JRR Tolkien

p20130111 185209 Not All Who Wander Are Lost | JRR Tolkienp20130111 190325 Not All Who Wander Are Lost | JRR Tolkien{some say i am a lost soul. but just because i wander, does not mean i am lost. in fact, nothing has ever made me feel more found.}

I am the seed of my mother and father.
I am the progeny of the ages of my ancestors.
I am the end of the line – my nieces and nephews left to carry the torch.
I am the contrarian, so says my dad affectionately, and I embrace it.

Outside of the cocoon that I call home, I much bolder and brighter than I really am, coming home, exhausted, to gently fall back inside myself where it is quiet.

To date, the most exciting thing I’ve done is to challenge the way things are – anywhere, all the time. How did it get to be the way it is? And why should I accept that?  I won’t, oftentimes, preferring instead to move to the music already inside me.

I have far too many rooms in the place I live, cold storage spaces for things I don’t need and which weigh down my soul. How would it be to get rid of it all? To dare live simply with little? I intend to find out.

I should like more windows than I have walls, if that is any indication of how much I crave the natural light, whether sun or moon. What would it be to live under these ruling lights alone, without the constant background noise of buzzing lightbulbs? It would be beautiful, I dare speculate.

I have been dubbed the black sheep, affectionately, whether spoken or unspoken. I am sometimes viewed as a lost soul. But just because I wander, doesn’t mean I am lost. In fact, nothing has ever made me feel more found.

I am forever. The cells of my body have always existed. If matter cannot be destroyed, only broken down, then I dare say it has always existed on the corollary.

I need truth. I crave it in all things. In relationships, in philosophy, in religion, in ideas, in art, in the food that I eat. I want everything pure and true. I want to have no room or tolerance for synthetics in my life.

The world needs love, but first, a swift kick in the pants.

To live is to grow – your garden, your intellect, your soul’s estate, your heart. To live is to understand, and be in harmony with nature and the laws of God.

It is one of my deep frustrations in life that I shall never get to read all of the books that line my shelves. There are many good choices, but there is only so much time. I could spend my lifetime studying and really understanding perhaps just one section, instead I dabble, here a little, there a little, never committing or excelling in one area.

I would choose to live in an agrarian society, where people depended on the work of their hands in the dirt to toil for their own food. I would live in a day without industry, which has only made our lives more busy, and less rewarding, I presume.

Before falling asleep, I think about all the things I’d rather be doing that I am simply too tired to do. As much as I love my bed and laying next to my love, I am frustrated by all the time lost. I need a lot of sleep.

Right now I am happily wearing a silk robe with Geishas on it. My dad brought it home for me from a business trip to Korea he took in the 80′s. I was just a young girl, and remember wondering why he brought me a big robe fit for a woman? Now I couldn’t be happier that he did.

As early as 4th grade I have kept the secrets of my friends who often seem drawn to confide in me. Regretfully, I have kept my own secrets, mostly born of shame.

My sister makes me laugh. More than anyone – well, other than myself. I really do crack myself up, and I noticed actually just over this past Christmas that my father does the same. He really cracks himself up. I like that I get that from him. But, when I get around my sister, it usually ends up in a fit of giggles over everything, over nothing. They are some of my favorite times.

My favorite time of the day? Usually afternoons. I dread getting ready for the day, what a waste of time. I dread that time just before I surrender to evening before bed, I don’t want the day to be over. Any afternoon I allow myself to indulge in leisure - a good book or a good painting, is a good day for me.

Silence. It’s music to my ears. It’s golden. It’s warm and embracing. It’s freedom. It’s a cold snowy day when I’m out feeding the animals and all stay warm inside, leaving only the sounds of the snow crunching beneath my feet.

When I leave this life, I want to remember that I tried with all my soul to know truth, to live truth, to be truth, even at the risk of losing everything.

*art and journaling exercise for Face to Face by Misty Mawn. It’s not too late to sign up!

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