My smoking might be bothering you, but it’s killing me.

1 1 1 1 bu2ndleofsunshine00wood_0006

“A pipe is to the troubled soul what caresses of a mother are for her suffering child.”
-Indian Proverb

1 1 1 1 bundleofsunshine00wood_0006

“[Lighting a cigarette] Well, I’m not here to impinge on anybody else’s lifestyle. If I’m in a place where I know I’m going to harm somebody’s health or somebody asks me to please not smoke, I just go outside and smoke. But I do resent the way the nonsmoking mentality has been imposed on the smoking minority. Because, first of all, in a democracy, minorities do have rights. And, second, the whole pitch about smoking has gone from being a health issue to a moral issue, and when they reduce something to a moral issue, it has no place in any kind of legislation, as far as I’m concerned.”

― Frank Zappa

1 1 1 1 bun4dleofsunshine00wood_0006

 

 

In his grief over the loss of a dog, a little boy stands for the first time on tiptoe, peering into the rueful morrow of manhood. After this most inconsolable of sorrows there is nothing life can do to him that he will not be able somehow to bear. James Thurber

 

A BOY AND A DOG
By Marty Hale

I want my boy to have a dog,
Or maybe two or three…
He’ll learn from them much easier
Than he would learn from me.
A dog will show him how to love
And bear no grudge or hate;
I’m not so good at that myself
But dogs will do it straight.

I want my boy to have a dog
To be his pal and friend,
So he may learn that friendship
Is faithful to the end.

There never yet has been a dog
Who learned to double-cross,
Nor catered to you when you won
Then dropped you when you lost. 1 1 1 1 abookofcheerfulc00fran_0051

 

A Boy and His Dog
Edgar Guest 

A boy and his dog make a glorious pair:
No better friendship is found anywhere,
For they talk and they walk and they run and they play,
And they have their deep secrets for many a day;
And that boy has a comrade who thinks and who feels,
Who walks down the road with a dog at his heels.

He may go where he will and his dog will be there,
May revel in mud and his dog will not care;
Faithful he'll stay for the slightest command
And bark with delight at the touch of his hand;
Oh, he owns a treasure which nobody steals,
Who walks down the road with a dog at his heels.

No other can lure him away from his side;
He's proof against riches and station and pride;
Fine dress does not charm him, and flattery's breath
Is lost on the dog, for he's faithful to death;
He sees the great soul which the body conceals--
Oh, it's great to be young with a dog at your heels!

 http://sofinesjoyfulmoments.com/quotes/A-Boy-&-His-Dog.htm

Words are like the spider’s web: a shelter for the clever ones and a trap for the not-so-clever. Madagascar

1 1 1 1 bl3ackforestsouve00shoeiala_0085

The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW : 1842 – 1954), Saturday 25 May 1935

1 1 1 1 The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW - 1842 - 1954), Saturday 25 May 1935

1 1 1 1 bla4ckforestsouve00shoeiala_0085

A spider’s cobweb isn’t only its sleeping spring but also its food trap.   African

1 1 1 1 bla5ckforestsouve00shoeiala_0085

The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW : 1842 – 1954), Saturday 11 June 1927,

1 1 1 1  The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW - 1842 - 1954), Saturday 11 June 1927,

1 1 1 1 blackfores2tsouve00shoeiala_0085

The problem with finding the easiest way, is that the
enemy already booby trapped it.

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A blow with a word strikes deeper than a blow with a sword. Robert Burton (1577 – 1640) English scholar, writer, clergyman

1 1 1 1 1 a2utomatictoywork00auto_0007

Some men of a secluded and studious life have sent forth from their closet or their cloister, rays of intellectual light that have agitated courts and revolutionized kingdoms; like the moon which, though far removed from the ocean, and shining upon it with a serene and sober light, is the chief cause of all those ebbings and flowings which incessantly disturb that restless world of waters.

Charles Caleb Colton, author and clergyman (1780-1832)

1 1 1 1 1 automatictoywork00auto_0007

 

The power of prayer does not lie in its ability to change the world we live in as much as in its potential to change we who live in the world.

George Tyger (Unitarian Universalist; Chaplain, U.S. Army)War Zone Faith

War has no eyes ~ Swahili

1 1 1 1 1 b2illybookhughesa00lowdrich_0017

“I am free, no matter what rules surround me. If I find them tolerable, I tolerate them; if I find them too obnoxious, I break them. I am free because I know that I alone am morally responsible for everything I do.”

― Robert A. Heinlein

 

1 1 1 1 1 bil3lybookhughesa00lowdrich_0017

 

Hope (A Poem Dedicated To The Australian Prisoners Of War WWII) (Poetry)

by Prudence Wheeler, Star of the Sea College – Australia

Why do we dread the dawn,
If Hope is but a light.
If hope is but a comfort,
Take comfort in the night.

Hope is in the Summer birds,
In every breath they sing.
Hope vanishes as they flee,
as they spread their two free wings.

Hope is in our loved ones,
Or so we are told.
It is a chill when we are hot,
and warmth when we are cold.

But then I suddenly realise,
As I hear that morning call.
Hope here does not live in birds.
It does not live at all.

1 1 1 1 1 billybookhughesa00lowdrich_0017

“I went to the worst of bars hoping to get killed but all I could do was to get drunk again.” ― Charles Bukowski

1 1 1 1 1 re2alnewyork00hugh_0403

The Bailey Barracks

Tall and bright the flowers stand:

defiant of the smoke clouds,
drowning in an ocean of liquor.
As I borrow from the lungs of my companions
My drunk mind figures,
Maybe the flowers  deserve better.

The bar is an island
surrounded by endless suits;

Brown—no, Johnson—talks sales.
“Another brew, sweetheart.”

She stands tall and bright
her eyes watering

as she provides salvation from a tap;
a mother, a shepherd, her gaunt face weathers.

And as I borrow smoke from the lungs of my companions,
my drunk mind figures,

maybe she deserves better.

Freddie Young – Melbourne Boys Grammar School

1 1 1 1 1 realnewyork00hugh_0403

She tries to remain still, to focus, / but it won’t stop rocking, / the carriage, this world.” Lachlan Brown.

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.”

– Langston Hughes –

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Queensland Times (Ipswich) (Qld. : 1909 – 1954), Monday 23 February 1948,

1 1 1 1 1 Queensland Times (Ipswich) (Qld. - 1909 - 1954), Monday 23 February 1948,

“When a man gives his opinion, he’s a man. When a woman gives her opinion, she’s a bitch.” ― Bette Davis

 

 

Chagrah v’oz motneiha vat’ametz zro’oteiha


She girds her loins in strength, and makes her arms strong.
1 1 1 1 1 princess1911tenn_0091

 

The Women of the West

by George Essex Evans

They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill,
The houses in the busy streets where life is never still,
The pleasures of the city, and the friends they cherished best:
For love, they faced the wilderness – the Women of the West.

The roar, the rush, and fever of the city died away,
And the old-time joys and faces – they were gone for many a day;
In their place the lurching coach-wheel, or the creaking bullock chains,
O’er the everlasting sameness of the everlasting plains.

In the slab-built, zinc-roofed homestead of some lately taken run,
In the tent beside the bankment of the railway just begun,
In the huts on new selections, in the camps of man’s unrest,
On the frontiers of the Nation, live the Women of the West.

The red sun robs their beauty, and, in weariness and pain,
The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again;
And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men cannot say-
The nearest woman’s face may be a hundred miles away


The wide Bush holds the secrets of their longings and desires,
When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar-fires,
And silence, like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast-
Perchance He hears and understands, the Women of the West.

For them no trumpet sounds the call, no poet plies his arts-
They only hear the beating of their gallant, loving hearts.
But they have sung with silent lives the song all songs above-
The holiness of sacrifice, the dignity of love.

Well have we held our father’s creed. No call has passed us by.
We faced and fought the wilderness, we sent our sons to die.
And we have hearts to do and dare, and yet, o’er all the rest,
The hearts that made the Nation were the Women of the West.

 

The end of the end was the best place to begin.

 

 

 

 

The Elephant’s Nostalgia

This is the door.

http://redroomcompany.org/poem/lindsay-tuggle/elephants-nostalgia/

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The Argus (Melbourne, Vic. : 1848 – 1957), Friday 10 February 1956,

1 1 1 1 1 The Argus (Melbourne, Vic. - 1848 - 1957), Friday 10 February 1956,

1 1 1 1 1 ho7wtoputonamateu00hack_002R6

John Godfrey Saxe’s ( 1816-1887) version of the famous Indian legend,

It was six men of Indostan
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant
(Though all of them were blind),
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind.

The First approach’d the Elephant,
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:
“God bless me! but the Elephant
Is very like a wall!”

The Second, feeling of the tusk,
Cried, -“Ho! what have we here
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me ’tis mighty clear
This wonder of an Elephant
Is very like a spear!”

The Third approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake:
“I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant
Is very like a snake!”

The Fourth reached out his eager hand,
And felt about the knee.
“What most this wondrous beast is like
Is mighty plain,” quoth he,
“‘Tis clear enough the Elephant
Is very like a tree!”

The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
Said: “E’en the blindest man
Can tell what this resembles most;
Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an Elephant
Is very like a fan!”

The Sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Then, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope,
“I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant
Is very like a rope!”

And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!

MORAL.

So oft in theologic wars,
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance
Of what each other mean,
And prate about an Elephant
Not one of them has seen!

http://www.noogenesis.com/pineapple/blind_men_elephant.html

1 1 1 1 1 ho7wtoputonamateu00hack_0026

“The whole thing’s illusion, [Jacob], and there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s what people want from us. It’s what they expect.”
― Sara Gruen, Water for Elephants

1 1 1 1 1 how5toputonamateu00hack_0026

“Terror made me cruel ” Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

1 1 1 1  1 folktalesofbenga00dayluoft_0381

 

“Ghosts don’t haunt us. That’s not how it works. They’re present among us because we won’t let go of them.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I said, faintly.

“Some people can’t see the colour red. That doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” she replied.”

― Sue Grafton, M Is for Malice

“If you see the lion’s teeth Do not think the lion is smiling” – Arabian

 

 

“إذا رأيت نيوب الليث بارزة       فلا تظن أن الليث يبتسم”.

1 1 1 1 1 C2hronicle (Adelaide, SA 1895 - 1954), Thursday 3 April 1930

Brisbane at Nightfall

As dusk approaches, gulls have gathered here
behind a fishing boat, their bodies white
and shining as they glide before the sheer
metallic-coloured river banks. Tonight
they’ll rest upon the quiet waters, drift
in silence like the Lady of Shallot.
The city holds its breath. Now there’s a shift
of light: the sky is palest apricot…
and there against the backdrop of the sky
the flying foxes lift upon the air.
The pulsing of their wings as they go by
has quickened every heart-beat. Everywhere
above us sooty shapes whirl ever higher,
like bits of blackened paper from a fire.

© Copyright Kathy Earsman 

http://laryalee.webs.com/garden/kathy.htm

1 1 1 1 1 C3hronicle (Adelaide, SA 1895 - 1954), Thursday 3 April 1930

“Anyone who has a continuous smile on his face conceals a toughness that is almost frightening.”
― Greta Garbo

1 1 1 1 1 Ch5ronicle (Adelaide, SA 1895 - 1954), Thursday 3 April 1930

The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW : 1842 – 1954), Saturday 20 June 1942

1 1 1 1 1 The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW - 1842 - 1954), Saturday 20 June 1942

1 1 1 1 1 Chronicle (Adelaide, SA 1895 - 1954), Thursday 3 April 1930

the dog barks, but the caravan passes on

For every intellectual a lapse, for every horse a stumble, and for every sword (bearer) a disaster.

Arabian

1 1 1 1 1 b3lueflycaravan00mcewuoft_0006

Weekend markets, Broome: The gypsy’s story

FLORA SMITH

This town takes people like me:

people who must have a greater distance…

The night Grandfather told me he could not go on,
could not work the night train to Budapest, I took off
my coat and placed it over the old man’s shoulders.

Grandfather came for me
when I was twenty. He meant to see if I would work
to keep him    but it grew into love    a hard love.
From him I learned my letters    numbers    and the cards.

In Hungary where I was born
they never gave us education. They could find us mad
if we did not read or write    so being mad
we could be shut away again    and cities looked better
with us off the streets.

The coat would be of some use:
a trade for a pack of cigarettes perhaps.
My people lived on nothing, always moving on
and when a man could not move on, he made a quick death.

We were at the back of the yards,
hands under armpits for the warmth.
Grandfather’s head was silvered by drizzle, a faint moon

making him saint-like, and this so far from truth
as to be laughable, saving me from tears.

I promised him
I would remake our cards in some safer country;
bring back their honour by working them again,

hearing the dance of symbols and colours speak,

seeing their wisdom come.

Yes, this town takes people like me

and the cards call only those who wish to hear.

But the nights burn: dark returns me
to Buda or some other city where police pull down

our shanties, gangs are paid to hunt us out
and if sleep comes, it is in fragments.

The rattle of palm fronds on my roof

sounds like distant gunfire…

Flora Smith

http://www.australianpoetry.org/2013/06/26/weekend-markets-broome-the-gypsys-story/

1 1 1 1 1 blueflycaravan00mcewuoft_0006

A man’s true character comes out when he’s drunk. Charles Chaplin

1 1 1  1 1 addy fiftyhithertounp00maypiala_0049

Please Stop, Mom.

© Kayla S. Birdno
I smell the whiskey on your breath.
And you beg for me to put your temper to the test.
You slap me around, and call me names.
Mom, I’m sick of playing these games.

Source: Please Stop Drinking, Mom, Addiction Poem about Family http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/please-stop-drinking-mom#ixzz2uPNTXqOz
Family Friend Poems

1 1 1 1 1 addy fiftyhit2hertounp00maypiala_0049

Alcohol is perfectly consistent in its effects upon man. Drunkenness is merely an exaggeration. A foolish man drunk becomes maudlin; a bloody man, vicious; a coarse man, vulgar.

WILLA CATHER, “On the Divide,” The Troll Garden

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/a/alcoholism_quotes.html#K71wx3yMtQWE4xcO.99

1 1 1 1 1 addy fiftyhithertounp00maypiala_0049

Illustrated Sydney News (NSW : 1853 – 1872), Saturday 13 May 1893

1 1 1 1 1  Illustrated Sydney News (NSW - 1853 - 1872), Saturday 13 May 18933

 

1 1 1 1 1 Illustrated Sydney News (NSW - 1853 - 1872), Saturday 13 May 189325

 

1 1 1 1 1 Illustrated Sydney News (NSW - 1853 - 1872), Saturday 13 May 1893

1 1 1 1 1 addy fiftyhithertounp00maypiala_00492

Kenneally: what’s the problem? Rats only smell when they’re dead and whose fault will that be?

1 1 1 1 1  1 1 1pi4edpiperofhamel00brow_0008

“Rats and roaches live by competition under the laws of supply and demand; it is the privilege of human beings to live under the laws of justice and mercy.”

Wendell Berry

1 1 1 1 1  1 1 1pi5edpiperofhamel00brow_0008

きゅうそねこをかむ 

(kyuuso neko o kamu)
a cornered rat will bite the cat

Left with no choice, even a relatively weak person/animal will fight back.

1 1 1 1 1  1 11 piedpiperofhamel00brow_0008

 
‘I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.’

A. E. Housman

 

1 1 1 1 1 1 1  1 2piedpiperofhamel00brow_0008

I Like Rats

I never saw a rat
Sorry for itself.
I never saw two rats
Consoling one another for being rats.

Rats live good full rat-lives with other rats.
Rat mind and rat heart plunge them into rat sex
with other impassioned rats.
People say they are ugly and dirty and cause disease.
I say people cause disease.
I never caught a cold or syphilis or gonorrhea  or
manic depression from a rat.

Kenneth Koch

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 pi7edpiperofhamel00brow_0008

“Accept that some days you are the pigeon, and some days you are the statue. Dilbert

indianpigeonsdov00bake_0145

Pigeon

(Carl Sandburg)

The Flutter of blue pigeon’s wings
Under a river bridge
Hunting a clean dry arch,
A corner for a sleep–
This flutters here in a woman’s hand.

A singing sleep cry,
A drunken poignant two lines of song,
Somebody looking clean into yesterday
And remembering, or looking clean into
To-morrow, and reading–
This sings here as a woman’s sleep cry sings.

Pigeon friend of mine,
Fly on, sing on.

indianpigeonsdov00bake_0153

Lepszy wróbel w garsci niz golab na dachu
It’s better to have a sparrow in your hand, than a pigeon on the roof.

indianpigeonsdov00bake_0237

  • Rules are for the obedience of fools and the guidance of wise men.
    – Douglas Bader

indianpigeonsdov00bake_0243

MANY A WORD IS SPOKEN IN ANGER

1 1  1 1 11 1 1 il3lustratedmaga01unkngoog_0020

Two monks were arguing about the temple flag waving in the wind. One said, “The flag moves.” The other said, “The wind moves.” They argued back and forth but could not agree. Hui-neng, the sixth Patriarch, said: “Gentlemen! It is not the flag that moves. It is not the wind that moves. It is your mind that moves.” The two monks were struck with awe.

1 1 1  1 1 1 11 illustratedmaga01unkngoog_0020

The Argument

It is windy out there. Back

home an argument continues.
We could be swimming, eating,
going for a walk, pointing
at a bird. Taking batteries
to the emergency. How many
birds do I have? Have I had?
The hydra in the sunshine.
I could be sitting in a
window composing the postal
service on an invisible grid
of trumpets. My skull could be
whizzing through weeks worth of
nests. I could be a fish,
on a train.

http://redroomcompany.org/poem/sam-langer/argument/

1 1 1  1 11  11 i2llustratedmaga01unkngoog_0020

“A clever wife often sleeps with a stupid husband.”
-Chinese 

1 1 1 1  1 11 1 i6llustratedmaga01unkngoog_0020

All blame is a waste of time. No matter how much fault you find with another, and regardless of how much you blame him, it will not change you. The only thing blame does is to keep the focus off you when you are looking for external reasons to explain your unhappiness or frustration. You may succeed in making another feel guilty about something by blaming him, but you won’t succeed in changing whatever it is about you that is making you unhappy.”

Wayne Dyer 

1 1 1 1 1  11 1 illustratedmaga01unkngoog_0020

He is most free from danger, who, even when safe, is on his guard. Publilius Syrus

1 1 1 1 1  11 1 h2ighroadofempire00murrrich_0321

 

Every stone has been turned, and every stone has been beaten into agreement that it is a stone, and every stone has vowed silence, every stone has agreed roundness or sharpness will be its predictable gift. Handle this stone, then, every day, and offer its dullness to the sky, sense its vigilance. This is the only way.

http://www.hotsdots.com/poetry/author/mduwell/

Hell, There ain’t no notes on a banjo. You just play it.

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 gumboyaya00louirich_0463

 

The Song of the Banjo

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

1894

You couldn’t pack a Broadwood half a mile—
   You mustn’t leave a fiddle in the damp—
You couldn’t raft an organ up the Nile,
   And play it in an Equatorial swamp.
I travel with the cooking-pots and pails—
   I’m sandwiched ’tween the coffee and the pork—
And when the dusty column checks and tails,
   You should hear me spur the rearguard to a walk!
       With my ‘Pilly-willy-winky-winky-popp!’
          [Oh, it’s any tune that comes into my head!]
       So I keep ’em moving forward till they drop;
          So I play ’em up to water and to bed.
In the silence of the camp before the fight,
   When it’s good to make your will and say your prayer,
You can hear my strumpty-tumpty overnight,
   Explaining ten to one was always fair.
I’m the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd,
   Of the Patently Impossible and Vain—
And when the Thing that Couldn’t has occurred,
   Give me time to change my leg and go again.
       With my ‘Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tump!’
          In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled.
       There was never voice before us till I led our lonely chorus,
          I—the war-drum of the White Man round the world!
By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread,
   Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own,—
’Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed,
   In the silence of the herder’s hut alone—
In the twilight, on a bucket upside down,
   Hear me babble what the weakest won’t confess—
I am Memory and Torment—I am Town!
   I am all that ever went with evening dress!
       With my ‘Tunka-tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!’
          [So the lights—the London Lights—grow near and plain!]
       So I rowel ’em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh
          Till I bring my broken rankers home again.
In desire of many marvels over sea,
   Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars,
I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay
   Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger shores.
He is blooded to the open and the sky,
   He is taken in a snare that shall not fail,
He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die,
   Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale.
       With my ‘Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!’
          [Oh, the green that thunders aft along the deck!]
       Are you sick o’ towns and men? You must sign and sail again,
          For it’s ‘Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!’
Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear—
   Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel—
Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer—
   Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal:
Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow,
   Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine,
Hear me lead my reckless children from below
   Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine!
       With my ‘Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!’
          [Oh, the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!]
       And we ride the iron stallions down to drink,
          Through the cañons to the waters of the West!
And the tunes that mean so much to you alone—
   Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose—
Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the groan—
   I can rip your very heartstrings out with those;
With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun—
   And the lying, and the lusting, and the drink,
And the merry play that drops you, when you’re done.
   To the thoughts that burn like irons if you think.
       With my ‘Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!’
          Here’s a trifle on account of pleasure past,
       Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes to see your sin
          And—the heavier repentance at the last!
Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof—
   I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man!
Let the trumpet snare the foeman to the proof—
   I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran!
My bray ye may not alter nor mistake
   When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things,
But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make,
   Is it hidden in the twanging of the strings?
       With my ‘Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!’
          [Is it naught to you that hear and pass me by?]
       But the word—the word is mine, when the order moves the line
          And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die!
The grandam of my grandam was the Lyre—
   [Oh, the blue below the little fisher-huts!]
That the Stealer stooping beachward filled with fire,
   Till she bore my iron head and ringing guts!
By the wisdom of the centuries I speak—
   To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth—
I, the joy of life unquestioned—I, the Greek—
   I, the everlasting Wonder-song of Youth!
       With my ‘Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!’
          [What d’ye lack, my noble masters! What d’ye lack?]
       So I draw the world together link by link:
          Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back!

Though a good deal is too strange to be believed, nothing is too strange to have happened. Thomas Hardy

1 1 1 1  11 1 1  f4ilmlandfavorite00losa_0009

MY APHRODISIAC IS A POET

Tess Driver

Climb inside, comfort me
with lush imaginings as I
walk the tightrope of your lines.

I caress the lips of your knowing.
Read to me poet, soothe my imaginings,
massage my longing with thoughts
that cling to every pore.

I shiver at your rhyme;
it is dark outside, poet,
fill me with light and laughter
so the moon grows full and stars
caress the nippled dawn.

Poet, lust after me
with your singing verse:
wash the sharp word edges,
drown me in the flesh of your verse.

http://www.australianpoetry.org/2013/03/26/south-australia/

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“Love is a possible strength in an actual weakness.”
― Thomas Hardy, Far from the Madding Crowd

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TESS DRIVER

Party Dress

Fragile as the truth
it hangs on a crocheted hook
covered in white blossom,
a gossamer memory.

All that time,
season to season
green embroidered petals
now pale and frayed,
danced on cream silk,
styled with tucks for secrets.

So slim, two large hands
could fit around the waist.
Kisses flutter moth-like
from the neck-line
once softly curved
over quivering breasts.

A million silken threads
to create a dream.
Touch it gently
or it will unravel
in your hands.

From Blue: Friendly Street No. 27

http://friendlystreetpoets.org.au/?page_id=301

 

 

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