Jackpot Jamboree Brillante

Topple The Titans in Tightened Terror. Torn Territories Turn Turbulent in The Teething of Totality. The Telemetry of Time, Tortured of Torrent Theories, Told in Turrets of Transpiring Terribleness, from Tumultuous Tikes unto Teens, Trading Toys for Tea.

Thrice Thrusted upon by the Tyranny of Tanks. Venial in Vindictive Viciousness of Vindicated Venom, Venomously Vilifying the Vials of Villainy in the Veins of Vampires, Validity of Valuable Violence, is Valiant in the Vaporous Vacationing of Vagrant Vices.

Why Whelp in the Weather When you can Wave to the Whirling Wisps, Whipping Where the Whimsical Were Way back in the Wellness of Whip its, Wrangling my World, With Waterless Worms, as War shouts are Wasted in the Wackiest Walks of Waking Wonder. im lost in the Xenobiotic zen of Xerces, on a Xebec to the X on the map.

Xenogenesis, in the Xesturgy of my Xyston Xd Yelling Yearned from Yelping. Yucking it up with the Yawn of a Yocal. Zapped from a Zone i Zoomed with Zeal in the Zig and Zag of my Zapping Zimming Zest, upon a Zombie-less Zeplin.

Zealot, Zionist, or Zoologists, Zeros or ones, just Zip your Zip locked. and Zzzzz Zzzz Zzz Zz Z Zero. M Salinger Jul Dear Self,. But that doesn't mean you are without superpowers Your sensitivity is your greatest gift, but without care, can also be your greatest downfall You must learn to master your craft.

selfcare selflove depression anxiety motivational empowering. Najwa Kareem Aug Ramadan in Sarajevo to Remember. Ramadan in Sarajevo, Bosnia The first day and the second What a blessing!!! Brothers and Sisters in the Old Town speaking the words Salamu Alaikum Sisters wearing veils with colors like in the bright rainbow appearing before me and my two new friends from Bosnia in a sky above a bussling bazaar, there a smaller group of humans watching and a larger group of tourists capturing a rare moment in Sarajevo on photo Many brothers wearing kufis and many brothers with trendy hair styles paired with Western outfits gathering in the courtyard of Gazi Husrev-Bey Mosque, the largest in Bosnia and sixteen centuries old.

Tourists from Africa, America, Europe, and other landscapes and many locals exchanging words and gestures in a month better than a thousand Families spending time together at the Grand Mosque and at smaller mosques and in other places surrounded by picturesque hills and green plush trees A father, a mother, their toddler son he practicing walking on a masjid's cobblestone, and their young daughter she smiling at her father as he walks by.

Each family member physically at a distance from each other. Each family member at a cell's distance in communion with each other.

In the mid afternoon on a Ramadan's day, a sister from Munich and I having met for the first time at Bey Mosque ride together in a taxi up a steep hill to see a guest house she knows A smell of lingering cigarette smoke permeating the air within the house so thick beckons me to leave politely and quickly.

Upon entering and a brief conversation with the owner, a piece of generosity is handed to me, a square shape piece of wood with Ayat tul Kursi in hand calligraphy During the late afternoon hours, a time for reading Quran by many at mosques in the city.

Sisters and brothers sitting on carpeted floors, some with backs supported by mosque walls, some with bodies sitting in chairs, fasters occupied with the most perfected Divine Scripture A brief leisurely stroll with my two new friends Dzenita and her sister Amina through part of the Bazaar, they sharing opinions of their favorite restaurants, best eating experiences, and other things In the early evening, a time to buy food to prepare for the Iftar meal.

Showing me how it's done in Sarajevo, Dzenita and Amina invite me to join them on an excursion up a hill to buy Somun, a Bosnian flatbread topped with black seeds from the city's famous bread maker. Standing in a line longer than Georgetown Cupcake, Dzenita surprises me with a gift of Somun for myself Two dates, one cube of Bosnian delight, and one cup of water to break our fast with at the Bey Mosque.

A canon bomb sounds off to announce the time for Magrib prayer and Iftar, customary in Sarajevo during Ramadan Startled and alerted by the bomb's depth and volume, I stand up to join the congregation for communion with God, The God Most Gracious, Most High Out of nowhere I'm invited to Iftar at a shop nearby the Grand Mosque, about 8 of us guests being served by the warm owner, she offering a meal for Iftar at her shop every night during Ramadan, a big-hearted tradition of hers Cevapi, Cevapi, Cevapi I'll say it once more, Cevapi -- sold in Bosnian restaurants, cafes, bazaars, and made in many homes, eaten happily by many fasters at Iftar.

Contempleting my desire to spend more time in the city over sleep, the three sisters showing great generosity and I embrace and exchange Salams at a stop near the main station, the three walking with me to an open place before continuing on In the land of a marriage between the East and the West and where newspaper is used to clean a cafe window, on the list of to-dos -- shopping for gifts for family and for souvenirs, window shopping done along the way, asking myself Shall I buy a Dzezva, a hand-made Bosnian coffee set, or a vintage wood Sarajevo box, or a woven wallet, or Bosnian sweets.

In a bazaar walkway, Maher Zain's song "Ramadan" playing loudly. At another moment, lyrics about a month of devotion and sacrifice from Sami Yusuf echoeing. Shop owners in Old Town with dispositions of calm and quiet grace greeting me and others cordially and respectfully.

Shopping a few hours more until near sunset for post cards with a real version of the Grand Mosque, finding only less than satisfactory versions. Time running out for shopping, another reason now to return to Bosnia, God-Willing Magrib prayer a second night at the Gazi Husrev-Bey Mosque.

Observing the crowd, a striking occurrence taking place, a teenage boy walking a small length behind a man on to the mosque carpet. There the boy approaches an older man giving him a respectful hand shake.

After prayer, a native of Sarajevo shares with me in wholesome conversation, "You are known in the town not by what you have. You are known by how well you behave. Overflowing with people mostly young adults, men and women sitting at tightly packed small tables inside and a few outside, conversations merging into each other with a loud volume flowing throughout, Shisha being smoked by some, cigarettes by some, smoke in the air and the temperature inside melting away heavy make-up on sisters' faces.

Not having a good feeling right away when walking in and not wanting to stay, the two of us leave quickly. My two new friends Dzenita and Amina aka angels of hospitality and kindness reciprocating my gift to them of Milka chocolate give me a gift before departing the next day. Not knowing then I collect Tesbih, their gift is now my most favorite of my Tesbih collection Husbands and wives, men and women both young and old, well-groomed and well-dressed, some holding hands as they stroll through narrow pathways in the Old Town on a Ramadan's night.

Families talking and eating at restaurants, friends in groups sharing laughs, so much to see, so much to experience. At a cafe where baked goods, ice cream, and other sweets are sold, a lady sitting with a group of others initiates speaking to me, stopping me in my tracks.

Bidding me farewell, she extends me a gracious compliment Ramadan in Sarajevo, Bosnia to Remember The first day and the second What a blessing!!! by Najwa Kareem. Sleepy Sigh Apr Generosity in Death.

I never gave interviews There was nothing to say, No one needs to know What I had for breakfast The day I made my mark On an impressionable city. They don't need my opinion, It would just be another color On their palette, and I can't have that. I don't want to see myself Painted on the homes and faces of strangers.

I have lived to prove my worth, Not to have it affirmed - Mirrors are not worth their reflections. Mirrors can be vacant. I know my selfishness prevails on them Only while I live. I don't mind.

Perhaps when I am gone, They'll look me up. They'll forgive my stinginess When they have me pinned up in a glass case.

They will thank Death for transparency, But use my name to save face. At least I will be spared the sight; That's all I have come to expect.

I console myself that it won't quite Be me those empty minds reflect. Imagination travels miles with a breath, For that I thank the generosity in Death.

Written for a prompt. I think The Fountainhead's Howard Roark might have snuck his voice in at the edges. Reza Bavar Jun What is a Legacy What's the equation that leads to the sum that is A Human Life The curtain draws as it must and when it's done We spill out of this "Life" a grocery bag of idiosyncrasies, neuroses, hypocrisies, and other I-sees What are we in the end but broken pieces of a puzzle we leave for others to assemble--who cares if the pieces fit.

Someone found a Kind word here Another a Generosity A memory of a Lie Proof of a Cruelty Acts of Humanity by a human being acting Who knows me well enough to define my Legacy?

Who else but "I". I like spoken word poetry a lot and this poem works best if it's read in that type of tone. word life i humanity am spoken who legacy.

nivek Nov the sheer generosity of love, an uncalculating God. calculating heart of mine be gone! and may unbridled generosity take its place. Nayya May Did you leave me, because you wanted someone better to come in my life?

love pain confused hurt questions grief. Stu Harley Aug The Wheels of Generosity. when the heart opens up like a fountain spring to give all that it can bring just like it had hands attached to the soul make the wheels of generosity guide our homeland. Stephanie Lynn Mar jeffrey robin Oct AND WE ARE HERE TOGETHER ALREADY aren't we?

Keith Labonte May I believe that givers never quit because they wish their generosity would be reciprocated. Never waiting for payback. Only hoping that the taker may become a giver for someone else. vircapio gale Aug Sita's first glance at her love, and the aching sickness that ensued.

her open lips. her hips --but after, merely to dismiss and even sleep a bit and quip inside at irony to be at mercy of a girl in flowers when he with arrows demons lay to rest though she would, within the selfsame hours lose her wits ; in cityscape descried the triad: gold dome gifts for sky in shining generosity Mithila's people overflow with joy exuding free abundance carelessly-- jewelry loosed on playful street from overkeen embrace, is left to lie; loss in ever-present wealth nigh obsolete musth of elephant, froth of steed, floral garlands tangle, line and mix for clouds of honey-bees to lick their feast.

in revelatory crash of passion's oceanic weight Manmata: the god of love, who Shiva is said to have burned to ashes with the purity of his contemplation Lakshmi: Hindu goddess of wealth, prosperity both material and spiritual , fortune, and the embodiment of beauty.

She is the consort of the god Vishnu. She takes her mortal form as Sita in the Ramayana, destined for Rama who is Vishnu's avatar. Guna: an element, 'thread', 'string' or principle of nature; the three gunas are sattva , rajas , and tamas Dukkha: suffering Anthro-: as in 'human' "The impact of the Ramayana on a poet, however, goes beyond mere personal edification; it inspires him to compose the epic again in his own language, with the stamp of his own personality on it.

The Ramayana has thus been the largest source of inspiration for the poets of India throughout the centuries. Thus we have centuries-old Ramayana in Hindi, Bengali, Assamese, Oriya, Tamil, Kannada, Kashmiri, Telugu, Malayalam, to mention a few.

Narayan whose prose version of Kamban's 11th c. Tamil --originally written on palm leaves-- i'm reading at the moment, and whose advice i've found myself compelled to follow.

Mitchell Feb For When I Go Goodbye Prague. Goodbye Prague, to a city I never thought I'd know. Goodbye Prague, to a heaven that is lined with shattered beer bottles and stamped out cigarettes the junkies and the hobo's here still manage to get a few puffs out of.

Goodbye Prague, to a hell that was once hovering with the feelings of control, manipulation, and more control, but now is twirling top speed to a land unknown. Goodbye Prague, I do not know when I will see you again, but I hope that I do and that I never grow so old that I forget you.

Goodbye to your abstract animals smeared black, screaming in the exploding summer sun. Goodbye to every cobblestone that shines after a fresh rain or snow, slippery to the newcomer, an annoyance to the amateur, thoughtless to the old timer.

I scream so long through faint puffs of carbon nicotine clouds made illuminated by the icy orange street lamps years old glow! I scream so long to late metro's and early trams! I scream so long to the roaring rocks who reflect the faces of aging clocks!

So long to passed out bums and unforgiving metro officers. So long to dollar fifty beers and the fear of getting deported. So long with counting silver crown to make even, seeing my math prowess has lessened. So long embedded needles and bottle caps deep within the snowy cobble. So long listless wanders all their money thrown away until the month of May comes to knock on their door.

So long alleyway romance crown notes and old men in their rickety fishermen boats. So long sad masked faces who in their forward march sit stunned seeing fortune picks only some. So long through the grey mist stabbed with neon signs that attract the youth and the mad.

So long to the feeling everything I had to say was the wrong thing. So long to feelings of foreign familiarity whose ball and chain were slowly starting to rust away. So long in song to the player's of Riegrovy hill whose voices I just couldn't stand.

So long I've come to understand everyone's got a choice to live or wish they did. So long to the wide swept hills of Petrin, where angel's of lore go to rest atop dusted fresh snow, among the dotted new born vine. So long to the sound of wet metal against metal, a scream of order carried on the blue man's shoulder.

So long to a city whose architecture reminds me of old men's faces and whose color reminds me of elderly women's dresses. So long to smoking in front of children without a second thought for their health. So long to racism that is wicked, but grunted genially - the executioner smiles at the accused - the gravedigger's weep for the dead - the ant makes a break for a hill not his.

So long forlorn love whose only remedy for a cure is the beer sitting in front of you. So long to wondering what's going on in the world, when all I want and got is what's right in front of me.

Farewell Prague, you shadowed street walker, a cloak of stars around you, finding all that owe you your due. Farewell Prague, you in the morning eyes half mast, snow crunching underneath stony white.

Farewell Prague, miss-handler of crooked time pieces stating the obvious, ignoring to blame bluntly on youthful alcohol abuse. Farewell Prague, you took me up the hill and through the woods where ravens, black as gutter ice, crackled down at me like showers of New Year's fireworks.

Farewell Prague, you gave me peace where I once thought I was unable to have. Farewell Prague, you befriended me, then ordered me a shot that made me cough, then ordered me a beer so we could sit and truly feel what it is to sit and wallow in our time here.

Farewell Prague, you entranced me with view after view to a city to stubborn to die. Farewell Prague, I leave you like you would leave me. Farewell Prague, to your fat snow flakes that drop into wide eyed children mouths, tasting of iron whiskey rye, though they do not flinch at the taste. Farewell Prague, I leave you with a hush of a whimper, bitter as the cold, and indifferent as the server's over at Cafe Lourve.

Farewell Prague, with a thousand miles of graveyards, where ghosts barely have the strength to weep. Farewell Prague, I admit I never knew how to love until I came to visit you.

Farewell Prague, I see the cards there on the table and you're winking at me while I stand at the backdoor, and what's more, there's a secret you've got to give that I refuse believe. Farewell Prague, to your open sore catastrophe of society, KFC on every block, and Starbuck's on every other, and on the other other are the lined' wino's shaking open handed and spread for a case of cardboard vino.

Farewell Prague, to the nasty smoker's in trams that just stopped caring. Farewell Prague, to a city rhythm generated by an ignorant originality and uniqueness, where the same has no name and the the plain jabber on about their jobs in their pretty blue jeans. Farewell Prague, because to say goodbye would mean we don't have that friendly tone.

Farewell Prague, I see to sacrifice oneself for the comfort of the elder or the opposite fills me with agitated obligation stationed in a vessel older than I've ever lived - yet I know it, for it is me. Farewell Prague, you are a lost lullaby caught in the wind of an elastic multi-colored pin-wheel, shining riches of the rainbow into the eyes of children, who all whistle when they snore.

Farewell Prague, a button upon the Earth, like every man. Farewell Prague, a love song sung in the depths of a damp grey hall, rivers all around, so the sounds too much to drink were outlandish in high emotion, juvenile commotion.

Farewell Prague, we were young - not caring about the future, but of course, with worry in our hearts for worry is a sign of human being human; yet, still, we asked nothing of one another and you gave and I gave and you took and I took and we walked underneath one another's blanket's until we were no longer cold and the winter showed to be just an annoying individual at the party.

Farewell Prague, to your lack of complications, making simplicities acceptable again. Farewell Prague, to the snow that never stops falling, all while slumbering within dream until the seam is ripped so the old can die. Farewell Prague, I've shined every marble staircase and washed every tram window; you owe me nothing because I like you.

Farewell Prague, to the long nights bleeding away at the table alone, the lady fast asleep, lit by the dim orange glow of the twisted streetlights below. Farewell Prague, to the long nights forgetting pains of existence and accepting every solution to ward of resistance. Farewell Prague, our long talks and hovering walks, always forcing me to balk.

Farewell Prague, at last you got the praise you have always deserved. Farewell Prague, to bad service but good drink and food. Farewell Prague, you curious tale the bravest man would waver to say. Farewell Prague, to bridges galore and more dead leaves then wrinkles on my crooked face.

Farewell Prague, at night the sheen of liquor wears off only if you let it be so. Farewell Prague, to all the those lonely mornings bent head into book on the way to work.

Farewell Prague, how long till you grow to be young again? Farewell Prague, how long till I admit my defeat to you? Farewell Prague, how long until I accept I'm the last fool in this world? Goodbye Prague, the last soldier is standing, but the war is not yet won.

Goodbye Prague, to your hazy stars glimmering and shining for an indebted audience. Goodbye Prague, the sun breaking through ink spilled colored clouds, the birds chirping, the dogs barking, and us wondering where we started. Goodbye Prague, your churches are empty so the sins of man run rampant and at last the prayers of men go unanswered; we now abandoned to fend for ourselves.

Goodbye Prague, the puncturing purity of your ways make me giggle in delight as I listen to the cool piano man play; his eyes on the horizon shattering like toppled china. Goodbye Prague, at last there is a time where we both get what we want.

Goodbye Prague, the verandas are chilled with the dew of winter and the snow glitters like bitter diamonds as the fool tips his hat to shy away the sunlight. Goodbye Prague, every rain drop that fell upon me was a gift you can never take away. Goodbye Prague, the fool adheres to agnostic rules but the cruel here see no reason to sue.

Goodbye Prague, I think therefore the dust of escape reflects the waves of the river Vlatva. Goodbye Prague, to your lack of vowels. Goodbye Prague, when the night wavers hear the Beherovka weep into its own glass, love leaving her forever making no note to Kissy.

Goodbye Prague, tram driver's unforgiving in their merciless need for schedule. Goodbye Prague, the last homage to the war standing like a shining diamond neath chipped and shattered rubble.

Goodbye Prague, a listless memory mentioned only in drifting dream. Goodbye Prague, every loving glance smelling of freshly poured beer over newly fallen snow.

Goodbye Prague, to your hardness, your beauty, and your madness. Goodbye Prague, your days wet with rain, stricken by sunlight, reflecting white emerald into the window panes of passing trains.

Goodbye Prague, at last you got what you deserved. Goodbye Prague, now I can weep and say I have trampled upon your cheek and slunk through your veins and trudged through your blood and skipped through your hair and saw every line - both sought after and nought - you have acquired through time.

Goodbye Prague, there is no reason to get excited, you are free. Goodbye Prague, I see the silhouette of the trees that line your hills and I am forsaken to see the leaves turning from jovial yellow greens to disregarded and disparaged furnaces of dim fire reds and browns.

Goodbye Prague, the people within you deserved all of the credit. Good Prague, the people outside of you deserve what ever they believe they do.

Goodbye Prague, you family to families with common sense and love rampaging through your barley stained veins. Goodbye Prague, perhaps there is nothing under your rubble, maybe already all is lost for everyone, everywhere, but maybe, you living the simpler life, can show all that life can be so.

Goodbye Prague, you gave me letters, words, lines, commas, apostrophes, and dashes, paragraphs, pages, and eventually, a story; I leave you marked. Goodbye Prague, an old friend whose hand I shook but knew would one day turn my back on.

Goodbye Prague, the bite of your cold generosity and your bustling love leaves man with nothing but to bike back with no chance of triumph. Goodbye Prague, street cleaners clean up your wear and tear from the mothers and fathers that bore you, some years ago; ageless, you loom longer than they would like.

Goodbye Prague, the night is curling in as the wave crashes to the short and I am the lost sun looking for a place to rise, trying to get to the sky. Philosophicalyoungmind Jan I ponder the question Of why might he Be trying to gain my friendship Nothing in this world is free I accept and I thank Though I keep up my gaurd I accept and I thank Though not fooled by their charm.

trust mystery gift test trial generosity suspension. Jorge L Echevarria Jun Generosity Monstrosity. Step aside and let the others have their way but what about you?

A doormat on the muddiest of days for everyone's messy shoes? After you my dear I insist The door wide open to my heart you missed Your chance to come inside and have a seat Instead you'd rather be alone saying you need someone to be with I'd even ask to see you, you tell me you're beat Bed time, but you're online stalking When we could be talking But hey, I'm nobody special just a normal dude Just remember one thing I tried to always be there for you.

love hate thoughts nice deep. Michael Stefan Feb Generosity is not in giving what you have aplenty But in sharing what you lack Altruism is in balancing the scales of suffering Even if you have only half a sandwich Then two people Are only half hungry.

share give generosity strive be better. Samir Jun prelude to "I cry". we're always lending out a hand a hand that asks why we're always lending out a hand one asking why is it I want to die we're always lending out a hand a hand that leads you to surprise we're always lending out a hand saying what happens if I cry?

Dorothy A Nov What My Mother Taught Me A Eulogy For the Living. This is not a poem. It is not really a story, either. I don't really need to classify it in a category, I suppose. I simply say it is an expression of respect, gratitude, and love for my mom like a living eulogy.

Recently losing a loved one in the family to a tragic death, I am realizing how vital it is to tell my mother how much she means to me. No, it doesn't have to be Mother's Day for this to take place, nor her birthday although she just turned 76 on November 2nd. The reason is so much more than the norm, than the expected.

It is an urging need within to express my emotions, my creativity—before I forget—before the emotions fade, or I talk myself out of doing what I think is right. I fear I might start to take things for granted again and never decide to actually do it. You see, when my father died nearly eight years ago, it was at his funeral that I spoke the kind, fond words in a eulogy that I wrote for him.

It was nice to say it at church to an attentive audience who heard how I lovingly felt about my dad. It seemed easier, safer to my comfort zone, not to speak such things to him while he was alive. Sure, my father knew I cared.

I looked after him when he was dying, and we had a great bond during that time. But I would love to turn back time, and tell him face-to-face. I cannot, but I wish to say these things to my mother now, while she is still here—and not simply in her memory someday—writing it all down before I forget what I want to her to hear and read for herself.

It is easy to fight with someone you love, and to find fault. Most children have conflicts with their parents. Often, some of us want to place blame and be angry, even if it is momentary. It is another thing to stop and think of what our lives mean, and to remember those who enhanced us, shaped us, and taught us.

Sometimes, we learn the hard way. We may learn by fire—I often have—for it is the intense stuff that shapes us, develops us, and refines us into who we are.

If we are keenly aware about it, that is, and use everything for our good. My mother taught me many good things. I want to say them in the here-and-now, not just to memorialize her some day in the future….

so here it goes. This is what my mother taught me: She taught me that hate is a sin. Yes, a sin, for my mother realized that hate is a strong emotion, a destructive one that is not pleasing to God. She thinks it is simply wrong—no matter what.

As a child, this wasn't always what I wanted to hear—if I was passionately, downright, furious with someone—but I surely have grown up and now understand that she was absolutely right. No matter how justified I can feel, the wisdom of it keeps tugging at my heart.

As I have heard in a quote before: Hate is easy, love takes courage. I have my mother to thank for instilling such principles in my childhood.

They perpetually instruct me, speak to me and to remind me throughout my years. My mother taught me to be fair and even in life, and she never played favorites among me and my two older brothers.

If it can be helped, she believed that nobody should get more than the other, or less. As the oldest of 13 children, she understood that proper distribution is important, and nobody should be left out My mother taught me to be honest.

If I wanted her to lie for me, I saw that she was against it and quite uncomfortable about going against her belief. That is something that I learned to uphold as a virtue, too, applying to my life.

Even the little things, she taught me. She still is in the correcting business on stuff like that! She has written a little bit of poetry and sketched a bit, too. Her poetry was simple and sweet, and she would write stuff in my birthday cards a few times.

She even wrote poetry in her father's card one time, and he thought it was beautiful. It was not often that she heard such compliments. I guess that is where I get my love of poetry, story writing, painting and drawing—from her. And I think, perhaps, my mom got her interest in sketching from her father.

My mom had and still has a beautiful singing voice. Many in the family told me so. She certainly could have been a professional singer—she was that good.

Some of her siblings could sing well, too, and her mother. It used to drive my crazy that she would hum to songs in commercials or start singing when music played in the movies or on TV.

But I later realized how fun singing was, and my mom was surprised that I actually liked to do it, too. I think she was convinced that I held an anti-singing stance in life. If only I could sing half as good as she ever did, and appreciated it more.

My mother taught me not to waste, not food or practical things. And although I used to think she was way too much like that, I now understand it is a value to use money wisely. My mom certainly appreciated the value of a dollar, growing up in a large, impoverished family.

She certainly did not come from the "throwaway generation". My mom also taught me generosity. She has been this way with her children, helping us out financially, if needed. My father was that way, too, later in life. It was a blessing to know my mom and dad were there for me, and I could be there for them.

They were adamant about helping others if they helped you. And surely that can be expanded to helping those who cannot help themselves, something I am passionate about. My mother knew how to laugh and have a playful side to her. Even with her physical ailments—her bad back, her arthritis—my mom has maintained her humor.

My dad did, too. There was plenty to be serious about. Yet they both had a silly side to them, and those kinds of qualities remind me that growing older does not mean that one has to lose that childlike part that keeps us young and less heavy-laden.

My mom just has always had a more bubbly personality. Starting out in life as very shy and introverted—more like my dad—I also learned to be a bit more like her. Lastly, my mother taught me about faith, that there is a God. I believed in God as a little girl. Later, my mom and I had our share of fighting and bickering about the importance of going to church..

As a teenager, I had major doubts and disbelief, and stayed away from such practices. But there was a foundation laid down before me that I later desired to lean on and thirst for.

Although our religious paths differed for good, my mother and I both are Christians, and my mom never lost or questioned her faith like I often have. I am now glad to be able to say that I have faith in God, and it is so necessary for me. Yes, my mother taught me many things for which I am grateful for.

Nigel Morgan Oct Zuo Fen's Birthday. When Zuo Fen woke day was well advanced into the Horse hour. In her darkened room a frame of the brightest light pulsed around the shuttered window. A breeze of scents from her herb garden brought sage, motherwort and lovage to cleanse the confined air, what remained of his visit, those rare aromatic oils from a body freed from its robes.

Turning her head into the pillow that odour of him embraced her once more as in the deepest and most prolonged kiss , when with no space to breathe passion displaces reason in the mind.

She has submitted herself to enter yet again that persona of the young concubine taken from her family to serve that community from which there seems no escape. I was born in a humble, isolated, thatched house, And was never well-versed in writing.

I never saw the marvellous pictures of books, Nor had I heard of the classics of ancient sages. I am dim-witted, humble and ignorant, But was mistakenly placed in the Purple Palace.

He kneels beside her, gradually opening his ringed hand wide on her gowned thigh, then closing, then opening. A habit: an affectation. His head is bent in an obeisance he has no need to make, only, as he desires her he does this, so she knows this is so.

She is prepared, as always, to act the part, or be this self she has opened to him, in all innocence at first, then in quiet delight that this is so and no more.

The rhapsody is a fork in the road. It pictures appearance with a brilliance akin to sculpture or painting. It depicts the commonplace with unbounded charm. as you are, dearest poet. Over the years since he took her maidenhead, brusquely, with the impatience of his station, and she, on their second encounter deflowered him in turn with her poem about the pleasure due to woman, they had become as one branch on the same tree.

She sought to be, and was, his equal in the prowess of scholastic memory. She had honed such facility with the word: years of training from her father in the palace archives and later in the mind games invented by and played with her brother. She listened and transcribed, then gradually drew the Emperor into a web of new experience to which he readily succumbed, and the like of which he could have hardly imagined.

He wished to promote her to the first lady of his Purple Chamber. She declined, insisting he provide her with a court distant from his palace rooms, yet close to the Zu-lin gardens, a place of quiet, meditation and the study of astronomy. She expected due recognition for one whose days moved closer to that age when a birthday is traditionally and lavishly celebrated.

Her maid Mei-Lim would have already prepared the egg dishes associated with this special day. Her brother Zuo-Si may have penned a celebratory ode, and later would visit her with his lute to caress his subtle words of invention.

Your green eyes reflect a world apart Where into silence words are formed dew-like, Glistening as the sun rises on this precious day. As a stony spring washes over precious jade, delicate fishes swim in its depths dancing to your reflection on the cool surface.

No need of strings, or bamboo instruments When mountains and waters give forth their pure notes. Meanwhile Xi-Lu stirred on the coverlet reminding Zuo Fen that the day was advancing and he had received no attention or conversation.

It was whispered abroad that this lady spoke with her cat whom each afternoon would accompany his mistress on a walk through the adjacent gardens. Now returned they had worked in ever secret ways to serve their Emperor in his conflict against the war-lord Tang.

She would remove herself and her maid to a forest cabin: to lie in the dry mottled grass of summer and listen to the rustle of leaves, the chatter of birds, the sounds of insects and the creak-crack of the forest in the summer heat.

She would plan a new chapter in her work as a poet and writer: she would be the pale girl no longer but a woman of strength and confidence made beautiful by good fortune, wise management and a generosity of spirit.

She would study the ways of the old. This short story with poetry introduces the world of Zuo Fen, one of the first female poets of Chinese antiquity. Clay Face Feb Fictional Fixedness. My leg hurts The jaws of this inhumane trap engulf my lower shin I have the tool to disarm it and free myself But I muttle in my adolescent egocentric pain Caught within monotonous routine and self interest I rot like my peers I've sunk to a level of self loathing, that I enjoy pulling myself down I Am Disgusting.

I Need Help. I cry for things I can give myself but alas I withhold it to feel sorry for myself Me and my fellow youth Equally as useful, equally as useless Although I am free of the crowd I am still blinded by my adolescence Purpose Interest Intellect Great-fullness Peacefulness Gen­erosity Love PURPOSE all I've know is I am here to be a vessel for knowledge and indoctrination I am here to have an opinion I voice, but does not matter.

I do not matter. This function is welded to me However The voice of destiny reasons with me again and I hear: Seek what's within Garrot it. Place yourself into the walls of meaning and the murals upon't Serve others in selflessness.

Share with others in selflessness. Learn from others in selflessness. Teach others in selflessness. Your a pawn in the samsara. Do your duty within its game.

Gain higher consciousness so you can share the path to it. Become a giver, not a taker. Interest Intellect Great-fullness Peacefulness Genero­sity Love Six lessons left, define yourself within them. Or perish within your self indulgent pitiful hole. Got a Tool lyric in there for those who like Tool Anyway This is the firt lesson of my ascension After more than some self reflection I thought I was ready to post a kind of collection of what I've found so far.

Obviously I haven't reached ascension yet. So it's kind of unfit to call this collection ascension. It's more of some lessons I've learned in self reflection and my path to ascension I want to pursue throughout my life. Hope you take something away from this or be influence to write poetry yourself.

Maybe do some of your own self reflection I don't know. Thanks for reading if you got this far. Sorry I am a quite person IRL so everything I vent here is pretty long. selflessness ego selfish selfloathing hatred learning learn intellect ascension purpose.

Walter W Hoelbling Dec generosity in hard times. in hard times especially those of us who can afford it should be generous unless we want to have tanks in our streets again soon.

hardship generosity dictatorship. Peartini Feb For You Yes. Thank you for the gift of saying yes to me today. It is an excess of generosity that you acquiesce to my request. But as soon as I would have you bound to my passion's content I would look to free you.

As I feel so deeply for you, that a moment of your bind would be an eternity of concern for me. You were not born to be bound a true Alpha. You: Confiner of my affection.

Master of my body. Premier in my mind. North of my compass. Just know that appreciate your generosity toward me and have never taken your interest for granted. bound master generosity. TOD HOWARD HAWKS Aug A CHILD FOR AMARANTH. I hope you enjoy A CHILD FOR AMARANTH. Chapter 1 Amaranth Anderson née Christensen was sitting in her chair at the kitchen table because she could feel another poem welling up inside her.

So she picked up her pen, turned to the next empty page in her notebook, and began to record. WE HAVE MINED OUR MOUNTAINS We have mined our mountains, we have fished our seas, we have felled our forests, we have gathered our grains, but we have not yet embraced the infinite energy of our souls, which is love.

Fitts, who was a renowned poet, literary critic, translator of Greek plays, and at that time, judge of the Yale Series of Younger Poets competition, assigned everyone in the class to write a poem that would be due the next day. That night she had tried to write a poem.

The poem she wrote was awful. The next day, she handed in her poem. When Mr. Fitts handed back the poems several days later to her and her 11 classmates, she looked at the piece of paper. At the top of it was the number 50, a failing grade for sure, circled many times with red ink.

If this is yourself, be someone else. Amaranth had gone to law school after graduating from Columbia College, Columbia University where she and Ty, the man who was to become her husband, had met their first year there and seemed as if, almost instantly, had fallen in love. So she dropped out, an act for which her father, an attorney himself, would never forgive her.

Nonetheless, she returned to Sedona, Arizona, where she had grown up, and because her sleeplessness had not gotten any better, but, in fact, had gotten much worse, entered psychotherapy. The problem was that she was slowly dying inside.

Chronic insomnia was the first overt sign that she needed to begin to live her own life, and therapy was the catalyst to that end. She learned, in time, that she had her own dreams, her own needs, her own desires, her own wishes to be fulfilled. In short, she had her own life to live.

And that realization was when she became a poet. Her own feelings, which had been buried for years, began to emerge. And Amaranth found that when she married her feelings with her intellect, a poem would well up inside her, and, quite literally, pop out of her.

An unrecorded poem would evaporate virtually instantly. It would enter the ether, lost forever. After recording the poem, she put her pen on the notebook, got out of her chair, put on her light jacket, walked to the kitchen door, opened it, walked down the few stairs, then walked down the slight hill toward the creek that flowed behind her house.

It was soon to be spring and she wanted to see if the crocuses had begun to crack the earth that had been hardened by the cold winter. When Amaranth saw the burgeoning crocuses, she said hello to them. They were her friends, her confidants. So spring was on its way, she thought.

Pleased by that realization, Amaranth then turned around, walked back up the hill, and entered the house. Ty and Amaranth had gotten married in Sedona.

Both had once visited Boulder, Colorado and vacationed in the mountains for two weeks. As a result, they wound up going to a small town near Boulder called Niwot one evening to have dinner at a fine restaurant there. The next day, they returned to Niwot to look around.

They both really liked Niwot, cozy and unpretentious as it was. They made another visit there, and after much deliberation, decided to buy a house in Niwot and make it their home.

Ty had secured a position at Fairview High School in Boulder as a teacher of American history, which had been his major at Columbia. Both were 32 years old. Both Ty and Amaranth wanted to have a family, but though they had tried innumerable times to get Amaranth pregnant, they had not succeeded.

Amaranth, too, had gone to several doctors to see if it were she who had a problem, but the doctors could find nothing wrong with her.

This dilemma perplexed both of them. And, in truth, Amaranth had begun to experience some low-level anxiety and depression over the situation. Chapter 2 Ty got home about He walked up behind Amaranth, who was standing in front of the kitchen sink, and gave her a kiss on her nape and a big hug.

He was no fan of Trump. She knew how Ty felt and how outspoken he had always been. She was actually proud of Ty for having the courage to speak his mind in all situations. Amaranth finished preparing dinner and brought the food to the dining room table.

She had prepared one of her favorite vegetarian meals. Both were vegetarians. It had been a most difficult year for Ty, having Trump every day lying and cheating. He remembered vividly watching on live, worldwide TV the Charlottesville riots, watching and listening to the neo-Nazis and the white supremacists screaming terrible chants at Jews and blacks, as well as hearing that some crazy racist had run over with his vehicle and killed a nonviolent female protester who favored love over hate.

These grotesque incidents sent Ty to bed for almost two days, he was so emotionally wrought. out of the Paris Agreement angered Ty, too.

And to top it all off, Ty thought he was just flat-out dumb. I love you dearly. That night Ty and Amaranth made passionate love, then fell asleep peacefully.

That would be great. Thank you for your help. Rosenstein about her situation. She found she was not nervous telling Dr. Rosenstein everything about her situation. The more she told Dr. Rosenstein, the more she relaxed. She spoke for a long time, virtually the entire fifty minutes, the usual length of a therapy session.

If you begin to feel worse, tell me. If your anxiety and depression begin to worsen, I will prescribe for you the appropriate medications. Is that OK? She got out of her chair and turned toward the door. Amaranth had called her best friend, Julie, the night before, asking her if she would like to have lunch today.

Julie had said yes, so Amaranth got into her car and drove to Parkway Diner. When Amaranth opened the door at the entrance to the Parkway Diner, she saw Julie sitting in a booth to the right.

Amaranth, even though she was not conscious of it, was very excited about her session with Dr. How are you doing after seeing a psychiatrist for an hour?

I told him everything. I feel so much better than I did last night. I take him to the public library every week. He just finished Tom Sawyer. Now he wants to read Huckleberry Finn. Tommy likes to play outdoors. Julie felt uncomfortable to talk to Am about having kids for fear of making Am feel even worse about her predicament.

They were best friends, so they could talk about anything, and did. Amaranth still lay in bed half asleep. What had happened last night while she was asleep? Amaranth asked herself.

That voice, that sound. What was that about? Amaranth lifted her head off her pillow, then sat on the edge of the bed. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before. The voice. She got out of bed and went into the bathroom. She took off her nightgown and took a shower.

The voice in her sleep, what was it trying to say to me? she thought. She brushed her teeth, combed her hair, then came back into the bedroom. But it was, in its own way, real. One sentence. That was all it was. Amaranth got dressed and made her way into the kitchen.

She looked out the window above the kitchen sink. It was a beautiful day, the sun shining on everything. The sky was blue, the grass was green. The sunshine reflected off the water in the creek.

She made some coffee and sat down in her kitchen chair and slowly took a sip. She took another sip of coffee. The voice was not threatening, but it was sincere, earnest, she thought.

She took another sip. Amaranth sat a long time at the kitchen table thinking about the voice and what it said, yes, what it said directly to her, it seemed.

Finally, she got up from the table, put on her light jacket, then opened the kitchen door, went down the few steps, and walked toward the crocuses and the creek.

It was, indeed, a beautiful day. She sat down on the grass next to the burgeoning crocuses. She began to tell the crocuses what had happened last night.

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Terms of service. Privacy policy. Cookie policy. Cookie settings. Change language. Made with love in Switzerland. com all rights reserved. If it can be helped, she believed that nobody should get more than the other, or less. As the oldest of 13 children, she understood that proper distribution is important, and nobody should be left out My mother taught me to be honest.

If I wanted her to lie for me, I saw that she was against it and quite uncomfortable about going against her belief.

That is something that I learned to uphold as a virtue, too, applying to my life. Even the little things, she taught me. She still is in the correcting business on stuff like that! She has written a little bit of poetry and sketched a bit, too. Her poetry was simple and sweet, and she would write stuff in my birthday cards a few times.

She even wrote poetry in her father's card one time, and he thought it was beautiful. It was not often that she heard such compliments. I guess that is where I get my love of poetry, story writing, painting and drawing—from her. And I think, perhaps, my mom got her interest in sketching from her father.

My mom had and still has a beautiful singing voice. Many in the family told me so. She certainly could have been a professional singer—she was that good.

Some of her siblings could sing well, too, and her mother. It used to drive my crazy that she would hum to songs in commercials or start singing when music played in the movies or on TV.

But I later realized how fun singing was, and my mom was surprised that I actually liked to do it, too. I think she was convinced that I held an anti-singing stance in life. If only I could sing half as good as she ever did, and appreciated it more.

My mother taught me not to waste, not food or practical things. And although I used to think she was way too much like that, I now understand it is a value to use money wisely.

My mom certainly appreciated the value of a dollar, growing up in a large, impoverished family. She certainly did not come from the "throwaway generation".

My mom also taught me generosity. She has been this way with her children, helping us out financially, if needed. My father was that way, too, later in life.

It was a blessing to know my mom and dad were there for me, and I could be there for them. They were adamant about helping others if they helped you.

And surely that can be expanded to helping those who cannot help themselves, something I am passionate about. My mother knew how to laugh and have a playful side to her.

Even with her physical ailments—her bad back, her arthritis—my mom has maintained her humor. My dad did, too. There was plenty to be serious about. Yet they both had a silly side to them, and those kinds of qualities remind me that growing older does not mean that one has to lose that childlike part that keeps us young and less heavy-laden.

My mom just has always had a more bubbly personality. Starting out in life as very shy and introverted—more like my dad—I also learned to be a bit more like her. Lastly, my mother taught me about faith, that there is a God.

I believed in God as a little girl. Later, my mom and I had our share of fighting and bickering about the importance of going to church.. As a teenager, I had major doubts and disbelief, and stayed away from such practices.

But there was a foundation laid down before me that I later desired to lean on and thirst for. Although our religious paths differed for good, my mother and I both are Christians, and my mom never lost or questioned her faith like I often have.

I am now glad to be able to say that I have faith in God, and it is so necessary for me. Yes, my mother taught me many things for which I am grateful for. Nigel Morgan Oct Zuo Fen's Birthday. When Zuo Fen woke day was well advanced into the Horse hour. In her darkened room a frame of the brightest light pulsed around the shuttered window.

A breeze of scents from her herb garden brought sage, motherwort and lovage to cleanse the confined air, what remained of his visit, those rare aromatic oils from a body freed from its robes. Turning her head into the pillow that odour of him embraced her once more as in the deepest and most prolonged kiss , when with no space to breathe passion displaces reason in the mind.

She has submitted herself to enter yet again that persona of the young concubine taken from her family to serve that community from which there seems no escape. I was born in a humble, isolated, thatched house, And was never well-versed in writing. I never saw the marvellous pictures of books, Nor had I heard of the classics of ancient sages.

I am dim-witted, humble and ignorant, But was mistakenly placed in the Purple Palace. He kneels beside her, gradually opening his ringed hand wide on her gowned thigh, then closing, then opening. A habit: an affectation.

His head is bent in an obeisance he has no need to make, only, as he desires her he does this, so she knows this is so. She is prepared, as always, to act the part, or be this self she has opened to him, in all innocence at first, then in quiet delight that this is so and no more. The rhapsody is a fork in the road.

It pictures appearance with a brilliance akin to sculpture or painting. It depicts the commonplace with unbounded charm. as you are, dearest poet.

Over the years since he took her maidenhead, brusquely, with the impatience of his station, and she, on their second encounter deflowered him in turn with her poem about the pleasure due to woman, they had become as one branch on the same tree.

She sought to be, and was, his equal in the prowess of scholastic memory. She had honed such facility with the word: years of training from her father in the palace archives and later in the mind games invented by and played with her brother.

She listened and transcribed, then gradually drew the Emperor into a web of new experience to which he readily succumbed, and the like of which he could have hardly imagined. He wished to promote her to the first lady of his Purple Chamber.

She declined, insisting he provide her with a court distant from his palace rooms, yet close to the Zu-lin gardens, a place of quiet, meditation and the study of astronomy.

She expected due recognition for one whose days moved closer to that age when a birthday is traditionally and lavishly celebrated. Her maid Mei-Lim would have already prepared the egg dishes associated with this special day. Her brother Zuo-Si may have penned a celebratory ode, and later would visit her with his lute to caress his subtle words of invention.

Your green eyes reflect a world apart Where into silence words are formed dew-like, Glistening as the sun rises on this precious day. As a stony spring washes over precious jade, delicate fishes swim in its depths dancing to your reflection on the cool surface.

No need of strings, or bamboo instruments When mountains and waters give forth their pure notes. Meanwhile Xi-Lu stirred on the coverlet reminding Zuo Fen that the day was advancing and he had received no attention or conversation.

It was whispered abroad that this lady spoke with her cat whom each afternoon would accompany his mistress on a walk through the adjacent gardens.

Now returned they had worked in ever secret ways to serve their Emperor in his conflict against the war-lord Tang. She would remove herself and her maid to a forest cabin: to lie in the dry mottled grass of summer and listen to the rustle of leaves, the chatter of birds, the sounds of insects and the creak-crack of the forest in the summer heat.

She would plan a new chapter in her work as a poet and writer: she would be the pale girl no longer but a woman of strength and confidence made beautiful by good fortune, wise management and a generosity of spirit.

She would study the ways of the old. This short story with poetry introduces the world of Zuo Fen, one of the first female poets of Chinese antiquity. Clay Face Feb Fictional Fixedness. My leg hurts The jaws of this inhumane trap engulf my lower shin I have the tool to disarm it and free myself But I muttle in my adolescent egocentric pain Caught within monotonous routine and self interest I rot like my peers I've sunk to a level of self loathing, that I enjoy pulling myself down I Am Disgusting.

I Need Help. I cry for things I can give myself but alas I withhold it to feel sorry for myself Me and my fellow youth Equally as useful, equally as useless Although I am free of the crowd I am still blinded by my adolescence Purpose Interest Intellect Great-fullness Peacefulness Gen­erosity Love PURPOSE all I've know is I am here to be a vessel for knowledge and indoctrination I am here to have an opinion I voice, but does not matter.

I do not matter. This function is welded to me However The voice of destiny reasons with me again and I hear: Seek what's within Garrot it.

Place yourself into the walls of meaning and the murals upon't Serve others in selflessness. Share with others in selflessness. Learn from others in selflessness. Teach others in selflessness. Your a pawn in the samsara. Do your duty within its game.

Gain higher consciousness so you can share the path to it. Become a giver, not a taker. Interest Intellect Great-fullness Peacefulness Genero­sity Love Six lessons left, define yourself within them. Or perish within your self indulgent pitiful hole. Got a Tool lyric in there for those who like Tool Anyway This is the firt lesson of my ascension After more than some self reflection I thought I was ready to post a kind of collection of what I've found so far.

Obviously I haven't reached ascension yet. So it's kind of unfit to call this collection ascension. It's more of some lessons I've learned in self reflection and my path to ascension I want to pursue throughout my life.

Hope you take something away from this or be influence to write poetry yourself. Maybe do some of your own self reflection I don't know. Thanks for reading if you got this far. Sorry I am a quite person IRL so everything I vent here is pretty long. selflessness ego selfish selfloathing hatred learning learn intellect ascension purpose.

Walter W Hoelbling Dec generosity in hard times. in hard times especially those of us who can afford it should be generous unless we want to have tanks in our streets again soon. hardship generosity dictatorship. Peartini Feb For You Yes.

Thank you for the gift of saying yes to me today. It is an excess of generosity that you acquiesce to my request. But as soon as I would have you bound to my passion's content I would look to free you. As I feel so deeply for you, that a moment of your bind would be an eternity of concern for me.

You were not born to be bound a true Alpha. You: Confiner of my affection. Master of my body. Premier in my mind. North of my compass. Just know that appreciate your generosity toward me and have never taken your interest for granted.

bound master generosity. TOD HOWARD HAWKS Aug A CHILD FOR AMARANTH. I hope you enjoy A CHILD FOR AMARANTH. Chapter 1 Amaranth Anderson née Christensen was sitting in her chair at the kitchen table because she could feel another poem welling up inside her.

So she picked up her pen, turned to the next empty page in her notebook, and began to record. WE HAVE MINED OUR MOUNTAINS We have mined our mountains, we have fished our seas, we have felled our forests, we have gathered our grains, but we have not yet embraced the infinite energy of our souls, which is love.

Fitts, who was a renowned poet, literary critic, translator of Greek plays, and at that time, judge of the Yale Series of Younger Poets competition, assigned everyone in the class to write a poem that would be due the next day.

That night she had tried to write a poem. The poem she wrote was awful. The next day, she handed in her poem. When Mr. Fitts handed back the poems several days later to her and her 11 classmates, she looked at the piece of paper. At the top of it was the number 50, a failing grade for sure, circled many times with red ink.

If this is yourself, be someone else. Amaranth had gone to law school after graduating from Columbia College, Columbia University where she and Ty, the man who was to become her husband, had met their first year there and seemed as if, almost instantly, had fallen in love.

So she dropped out, an act for which her father, an attorney himself, would never forgive her. Nonetheless, she returned to Sedona, Arizona, where she had grown up, and because her sleeplessness had not gotten any better, but, in fact, had gotten much worse, entered psychotherapy.

The problem was that she was slowly dying inside. Chronic insomnia was the first overt sign that she needed to begin to live her own life, and therapy was the catalyst to that end. She learned, in time, that she had her own dreams, her own needs, her own desires, her own wishes to be fulfilled.

In short, she had her own life to live. And that realization was when she became a poet. Her own feelings, which had been buried for years, began to emerge.

And Amaranth found that when she married her feelings with her intellect, a poem would well up inside her, and, quite literally, pop out of her.

An unrecorded poem would evaporate virtually instantly. It would enter the ether, lost forever. After recording the poem, she put her pen on the notebook, got out of her chair, put on her light jacket, walked to the kitchen door, opened it, walked down the few stairs, then walked down the slight hill toward the creek that flowed behind her house.

It was soon to be spring and she wanted to see if the crocuses had begun to crack the earth that had been hardened by the cold winter. When Amaranth saw the burgeoning crocuses, she said hello to them.

They were her friends, her confidants. So spring was on its way, she thought. Pleased by that realization, Amaranth then turned around, walked back up the hill, and entered the house.

Ty and Amaranth had gotten married in Sedona. Both had once visited Boulder, Colorado and vacationed in the mountains for two weeks. As a result, they wound up going to a small town near Boulder called Niwot one evening to have dinner at a fine restaurant there.

The next day, they returned to Niwot to look around. They both really liked Niwot, cozy and unpretentious as it was. They made another visit there, and after much deliberation, decided to buy a house in Niwot and make it their home. Ty had secured a position at Fairview High School in Boulder as a teacher of American history, which had been his major at Columbia.

Both were 32 years old. Both Ty and Amaranth wanted to have a family, but though they had tried innumerable times to get Amaranth pregnant, they had not succeeded. Amaranth, too, had gone to several doctors to see if it were she who had a problem, but the doctors could find nothing wrong with her.

This dilemma perplexed both of them. And, in truth, Amaranth had begun to experience some low-level anxiety and depression over the situation. Chapter 2 Ty got home about He walked up behind Amaranth, who was standing in front of the kitchen sink, and gave her a kiss on her nape and a big hug.

He was no fan of Trump. She knew how Ty felt and how outspoken he had always been. She was actually proud of Ty for having the courage to speak his mind in all situations.

Amaranth finished preparing dinner and brought the food to the dining room table. She had prepared one of her favorite vegetarian meals.

Both were vegetarians. It had been a most difficult year for Ty, having Trump every day lying and cheating. He remembered vividly watching on live, worldwide TV the Charlottesville riots, watching and listening to the neo-Nazis and the white supremacists screaming terrible chants at Jews and blacks, as well as hearing that some crazy racist had run over with his vehicle and killed a nonviolent female protester who favored love over hate.

These grotesque incidents sent Ty to bed for almost two days, he was so emotionally wrought. out of the Paris Agreement angered Ty, too.

And to top it all off, Ty thought he was just flat-out dumb. I love you dearly. That night Ty and Amaranth made passionate love, then fell asleep peacefully.

That would be great. Thank you for your help. Rosenstein about her situation. She found she was not nervous telling Dr. Rosenstein everything about her situation. The more she told Dr. Rosenstein, the more she relaxed. She spoke for a long time, virtually the entire fifty minutes, the usual length of a therapy session.

If you begin to feel worse, tell me. If your anxiety and depression begin to worsen, I will prescribe for you the appropriate medications.

Is that OK? She got out of her chair and turned toward the door. Amaranth had called her best friend, Julie, the night before, asking her if she would like to have lunch today. Julie had said yes, so Amaranth got into her car and drove to Parkway Diner.

When Amaranth opened the door at the entrance to the Parkway Diner, she saw Julie sitting in a booth to the right. Amaranth, even though she was not conscious of it, was very excited about her session with Dr. How are you doing after seeing a psychiatrist for an hour?

I told him everything. I feel so much better than I did last night. I take him to the public library every week. He just finished Tom Sawyer. Now he wants to read Huckleberry Finn.

Tommy likes to play outdoors. Julie felt uncomfortable to talk to Am about having kids for fear of making Am feel even worse about her predicament. They were best friends, so they could talk about anything, and did.

Amaranth still lay in bed half asleep. What had happened last night while she was asleep? Amaranth asked herself. That voice, that sound. What was that about? Amaranth lifted her head off her pillow, then sat on the edge of the bed. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before.

The voice. She got out of bed and went into the bathroom. She took off her nightgown and took a shower. The voice in her sleep, what was it trying to say to me?

she thought. She brushed her teeth, combed her hair, then came back into the bedroom. But it was, in its own way, real. One sentence. That was all it was. Amaranth got dressed and made her way into the kitchen.

She looked out the window above the kitchen sink. It was a beautiful day, the sun shining on everything. The sky was blue, the grass was green. The sunshine reflected off the water in the creek. She made some coffee and sat down in her kitchen chair and slowly took a sip.

She took another sip of coffee. The voice was not threatening, but it was sincere, earnest, she thought. She took another sip.

Amaranth sat a long time at the kitchen table thinking about the voice and what it said, yes, what it said directly to her, it seemed. Finally, she got up from the table, put on her light jacket, then opened the kitchen door, went down the few steps, and walked toward the crocuses and the creek.

It was, indeed, a beautiful day. She sat down on the grass next to the burgeoning crocuses. She began to tell the crocuses what had happened last night. As the sun rose higher in the sky, it got warmer. What a beautiful morning, she thought.

She was half inclined to go back into the house and call him up to see if she might be able to see him that afternoon, but, no, she would wait until next Thursday, she decided. She started to think about the world and all of its problems.

What awful things to have to think about, she thought. But the whole world had to think about all these awful things, and correct them, otherwise Earth, and all the living creations on it, would die. Amaranth had to stop thinking about all these awful things herself. It was too much for her, so she said good-bye to the crocuses and the creek, stood up, walked up the hill, and went inside her love-filled home.

Chapter 5 Ty had already gotten out of bed, showered, got dressed, ate something for breakfast, and headed for Fairview High School where he had been teaching American history for ten years.

Chapter 6 Ty Anderson grew up in Knoxville, Tennessee. He was valedictorian of his high school graduating class and a National Merit Scholar. And he was charming and very handsome. Ty chose to attend Columbia over Yale for two reasons, simply: the Core Curriculum and New York City.

It was a start, a magnificent beginning, to a life of continual learning. New York City was the veritable capital of the world. Living in and exploring New York City for four years made each student a citizen of the world for life, even if one decided to reside somewhere else, as Amaranth and Ty had decided to do.

Ty majored in American history. Public high schools across the nation were infamous because the vast majority of them did an execrable job of teaching that subject.

Ty knew this. He himself had to augment his studies of that subject. Both the entrepreneurs of the North and the slave owners of the South became incredibly rich. Ty came to admire the abolitionists who fervently advocated against slavery. Ty learned that virtually every treaty signed between indigenous nations and the United States government, over time, had been broken by the United States government.

Chapter 7 Amaranth sat beside the crocuses. It was May now and the crocuses were fully grown. I wish the whole world was filled with beautiful crocuses. There would be no room for all these problems. She thought of Patty from her elementary school days. Patty was different from the other kids in the way she looked and in the way she acted.

Every day at school, it seemed, Patty would begin to scratch her calves and not stop, and because she always wore long, white socks to school, blood would begin to seep through them, staining them red.

The other kids would laugh at her. In eighth grade of junior high, Amaranth had been elected president of student council, and in the winter, Roosevelt Junior High would put on the Snow Ball. The Snow Ball was held on the basketball court.

All the boys stood together in one corner, all the girls were in another corner, and in the third corner stood Patty, alone, ostracized. The music had not yet begun and Amaranth was appalled by seeing Patty standing alone in her own corner, so when the music did start to play, Amaranth, without thinking about it, began to walk away from her group diagonally across the basketball court toward Patty.

Everyone was looking at Amaranth. When Amaranth reached Patty, she asked her if she would like to dance. Patty said she would, so Amaranth and Patty walked to the center of the basketball court and began to dance all by themselves.

When the first song ended, Amaranth asked Patty if he would like to dance again, and Patty again said yes, so the two of them danced again while the rest of the class looked on. And he is dumb as hell. The soup they had just finished was Chickpea Noodle Soup. Amaranth loved this time of day.

She loved the ambiance of a real candle lit in the center of the dining room table that was always covered with a clean, white linen tablecloth. I knew instantly that whoever this guy was, he should have been immediately disqualified from holding any political office, at any level, anywhere in the United States.

Then, again on worldwide TV, Trump mocked a disabled New York Times reporter. Ever since, whenever Trump appears on TV, I quickly press the mute button on the remote control and turn my face away from the TV screen. I cannot bear to look at, or hear the voice of this extremely sick human being.

How are things? Rosenstein, things are basically OK. My anxiety and depression are not as bad as they were. I think seeing and talking with you made me feel more relaxed and more hopeful. It was not a scary voice.

In fact, as I think back on it, it was a kind voice, almost the voice of wisdom. What do you think? Rosenstein paused for a few moments before he responded. You say the voice did not scare you. And you said the voice was kind and wise.

Rosenstein continued their session, talking about her writing poetry, her friendship with Julie, and her deep love for Ty, among other things. When it came time to leave Dr. Amaranth smiled as she took the elevator to the main floor. Steamboat Springs has been our favorite for quite some time.

We can stay in that old hotel downtown, The Bristol, away from the stifling commercial areas. We can leave Friday afternoon, go biking Saturday morning, go tubing on the Yampa in the afternoon, then sit in the hot springs as long as we want.

We can eat at Rootz. They have vegetarian dishes. That sounds wonderful! We can eat breakfast Sunday at the Creekside Cafe and take our time coming home. Amaranth and Ty, indeed, had a wonderful time in Steamboat Springs. They arrived there about Friday evening, decided to eat breakfast at the Creekside Cafe Saturday morning, as well as on Sunday.

Then they biked the many trails in and around Steamboat Springs, went tubing on the Yampa River in the afternoon, ate dinner at the Rootz, then enjoyed beautiful music at the Strings Music Festival.

It had been a beautiful day in the Rocky Mountains. Both Amaranth and Ty had fallen asleep soon after making love. But while Amaranth slept, that voice came to her again. The voice had a caring tone to it, a beneficent tone to it. She thought it best to tell only Dr. Rosenstein if and until she and he could figure out its meaning.

Chapter 11 Amaranth sat in her chair at her table in the kitchen. The summer sun was shining brightly through the kitchen windows. She picked up her pen and began to write in her notebook. THE WORDS GIVE ME THEIR POETRY The words give me their poetry; their melodies play in my heart; their musicality rings in my ear.

I reach for nothing; they come to me of their own volition, making gifts of their inherent grace. The place they dwell is sacred; their provenance sacro- sanct. I am but the blessed receiver of their beauty. Amaranth put her pen down and took a sip of coffee.

She wanted to be a mother so much, but what could she do? She had gone to doctors who had checked her out, but they could not find anything wrong. Amaranth got up from the table and went outside to say hello to the crocuses, which, by now, were full grown.

Then, in two weeks, the perfume was gone. The beauty of life is seemingly transient, but death can leave a reservoir of beautiful memories, and we can treasure them for the rest of our lives. Of course, as an American history major, Ty knew about the Great Depression thoroughly.

The Dust Bowl, the soup lines, the staggering poverty, the pervasive unemployment, the New Deal, all the alphabet government agencies, Woody Guthrie.

Ty wondered how much better life was now in than it had been in the s. Ferguson with the landmark case in of Brown v. Board of Education, but look where we are now, thought Ty. Trump, Ty felt, personified racism in America. He had given tacit permission to millions of Americans to evince again their racist proclivities.

Ty never could forget what he had seen on worldwide TV that night in Charlottesville. How are you doing today? Rosenstein, I had the voice again, but it had a different message. It keeps me from getting overwhelmed. Rosenstein continued talking the rest of the session about the trip to Steamboat Springs and other things going on in her life.

She even read him the poems she had recently written. EVENING It will get dark soon. The white, yellow, and pink houses will turn grey, then black. The cacophony of car horns will turn into the chorus of locusts. Soporific silhouettes will soften the cityscape, allowing us to escape the frazzle of the hot day, exchanging the frenetic for the peaceful, the welter for a sense of well-being.

The susurrus of the evening breeze blows the exhaust of our polluted lives into a distant day. Children play in yards back and front and laughter wafts through neighborhoods like the sweet smell of barbecue, not the fetid odor of finance and foreclosures.

There is a sense of closure to this day. As the sun sets, our eyelids close, and we pray for the soft rain of forgiveness. TELL ME TRULY WHO YOU ARE Tell me truly who you are, not from afar, but to my ear.

Do not fear: I shall not castigate, excoriate. Dissemble not: No equivocation, prevarication. Is terror there, or guilt? Rage ablaze from needs unmet? Do unhealed hurts leave you reeling in a maelstrom of doubt?

Open up your heart and let your agonies fly out. In gentle ways let us discuss dark places and shame, give name to those moments when mistreated, wanton cruelty misconstrued with worth of self.

Let light penetrate hate, mollify madness, assuage pain. Let your forthcoming, my love for your realness, heal us both. THERE ARE REASONS WHY There are reasons why some men are shy and women too, when wearing silk, lie on their beds alone and cry.

The rule first is to beware, when wearing silk, of men who stare or fingers touch; this much we know. WE EXPORT WHAT IS OF NO IMPORT Arms reach out to us from other continents and our own. Would we need not be so preoccupied by an arms race that we might embrace these children of different races with love?

I see faces laced with tears, fraught with fears; I cannot countenance the human hate that abets, not abates, this terror. Is it simply human error that we are more concerned with pork belly futures than the future of children with inflated bellies in distant and not-so-distant places?

Or do we mean to be mean? It disgraces me that this misery flourishes. We nourish our inflated sense of self-importance; and we export what is of no import. I think your writing is a nice counterbalance to help you deal, even if unconsciously, with these cryptic messages you are receiving occasionally.

Chapter 14 Ty wrote often on his Facebook page. He was terribly smart, articulate, and unabashed — outspoken, to the max, if you will. A democracy, right?

Our democracy is being taken for a long, long ride by Trump in the diametrically wrong direction, toward totalitarianism — fascism, if you like — not the democracy which we love.

During her 8th-grade year, she had applied to Phillips Academy, otherwise known as Andover. George Washington had sent his nephew to Phillips Academy. For a long time, Andover has provided the best secondary school education in the nation.

It is interesting to note that Humphrey Bogart had been a student at Andover, but had been kicked out, an act that did not seem to affect adversely his rise to stardom in Hollywood.

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. George H. Bush and his son, George W. Bush, had graduated from Andover, then later, both were elected president of the United States. In , Andover, a high school, albeit a sui generis high school, had an endowment of one billion dollars.

Amaranth was editor of the Phillipian, the student newspaper, her senior year. There were 20 different sports played at Andover. Amaranth played soccer in the fall, swam in the winter, and played tennis in the spring.

In , Andover enrolled 1, students from 44 states and 49 countries. Andover offered courses and electives. The average number of students in any given class was Andover offered study in eight foreign languages. In his Upper year 11th grade , a student would take English, history, math, another science course or an elective e.

In the Senior year 12th grade , a student must take any remaining courses needed to meet diploma requirements. Among the many courses Amaranth took at Andover, among the many subjects she studied, English was by far her favorite.

Every student had to take English all four years. Amaranth read and studied the following poets and their poems in her Junior year: Death of a Naturalist, in Poems: — by Heaney; Selected Poems by Brooks; From the Box Marked Some Are Missing by Pratt; Selected Poems by Stafford; Domestic Work by Trethewey; Songs of Innocence and of Experience by Blake; The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge; New and Selected Poems by Collins; The Yellow House on the Corner by Dove; Gilgamesh translation by Ferry; New and Selected Poems by Harjo; New and Selected Poems by Hass; The Iliad by Homer; The Odyssey by Homer; You and Yours by Nye; Twelve Moons by Oliver; and The Penguin Book of First World War Poetry.

Amaranth read and studied the following non-fiction books her Junior year: Behind the Beautiful Forevers by Boo; Black Ice by Cary; A Small Place by Kincaid; Citizen by Okubo; Night by Wiesel; and Black Boy by Wright. Amaranth read and studied the following short stories her Junior year: Women Hollering Creek and Other Stories by Cisneros; The Summer Book by Jansson; and Leaving Home by Rochman and McCampbell.

by Jen; The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner by Sillitoe; I Am One of You Forever by Chappell; Silas Marner by Eliot; The Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway; Annie John by Kincaid; The Bean Trees by Kingsolver; Rumors of Peace by Leffland; When the Emperor Was Divine by Otsuka; The Catcher in the Rye by Salinger; Persepolis by Satrapi; The Fall of Rome by Southgate; The Once and Future King by White; Salvage the Bones by Ward; Eathan Frome by Wharton; Jane Eyre by C.

Brontë; A Month in the Country by Carr; A Lost Lady by Cather; Oliver Twist by Dickens; My Ántonia by Cather; The Go-Between by Hartley; A Farewell to Arms by Hemingway; Mister Pip by Jones; Chronicle of a Death Foretold by Márquez; So Long, See You Tomorrow by Maxwell; The Member of the Wedding by McCullers; Everything I Never Told You by Ng; Girl at War by Novič; My Name Is Asher Lev by Potok; All Quiet on the Western Front by Remarque; Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Rushdie; One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Solzhenitsyn; Dr.

Jekyll and Mr Hyde by Stevenson; Montana by Watson; and Kitchen by Yoshimoto. Thomas; Selected Poems by E. Merwin; and Prelude by Wordsworth. Amaranth read and studied the following non-fiction books her Lower year: Into the Wild by Krakauer; Dust Tracks on a Road by Hurston; and Essays by White.

Shelley; and Maus by Spiegelman. Amaranth read and studied the following poets and their poems in her Upper year: Final Harvest by Dickinson; The Hollow Men by Eliot; The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by Eliot; Selected Poems by Jeffers; The Complete Poems by D.

by Albee; Translations by Friel; Measure for Measure by Shakespeare; and The Tempest by Shakespeare. Amaranth read and studied these non-fiction works her Upper year: Slouching Towards Bethlehem by Didion; Selected Essays by Emerson; A Long Way Gone by Beah; A Collection of Essays by Orwell; John McPhee Reader by McPhee; The Paradise of Bombs by Sanders; Selected Essays by Lawrence; Medusa and the Snail by Thomas; and Walden by Thoreau.

Amaranth read and studied the following short stories her Upper year: The Collected Stories by Cheever; In Our Time by Hemingway; The Nick Adams Stories by Hemingway; Interpreter of Maladies by Lahiri; In the Bedroom by Dubus; Selected Short Stories by Hawthorne; Dubliners by Joyce; Islands by McLeod; In Other Rooms, Other Wonders by Mueenuddin; After the Quake by Murakami; and St.

Amaranth read and studied the following novels her Upper year: The Sense of an Ending by Barnes; Wuthering Heights by E. Amaranth read and studied the following poets and their poems her Senior year: The Waste Land by Eliot; Omeros by Walcott; and Selected Poems by Yeats.

Amaranth read and studied the following plays in her Senior year: Humble Boy by Jones; Hamlet by Shakespeare; King Lear by Shakespeare; and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by Stoppard.

Amaranth read and studied the following novels her Senior year: On the Road by Kerouac; Disgrace by Coetzee; Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky; Invisible Man by Ellison; A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by Joyce; Sula by Morrison; Austerlitz by Sebald; and To the Lighthouse by Woolf.

Andover had an arts museum on campus, the Addison Gallery of Arts. This art museum had one of the most important collections of American art. Addison Gallery had 8, photographs by such luminaries as Lewis Baltz, Walker Evans another Andover graduate , Robert Frank, and Eadweard Muybridge.

The Addison Gallery had more than 20, works in all media — painting, sculpture, photography, drawings, prints, and decorative arts — from the 18th century to the present.

Also on the Andover campus was the Peabody Institute of Archaeology founded in by Robert S. Peabody, an Andover graduate, Class of It contained more than , artifacts, photographs, and documents.

Chapter 16 Amaranth sat down beside the beautiful crocuses. I loved walking among the red rocks, through the canyons, along the rivers and streams.

One of my favorite hikes was Doe Mountain Trail. The trail was a slow and gradual ascent up to the top of a mesa where you could see Mescal Mountain, Courthouse Butte, Fay Canyon, and Bear Mountain.

Some days I would sit atop the mesa for several hours taking in all the beauty around me. I would see deer and rabbits. In time, I would feel I was a part of the red rocks and streams.

I had a backpack, and most often would bring a sandwich to eat, some green grapes, and always some water. I was alone often on top of the mesa, but at the same time, I was part of everything I saw and heard, so I never felt lonely.

Often I would bring a book to read. Sometimes I would take off my shoes and step into the creek. The water was ice-cold, of course, but I could feel the rushing water powering its way downstream. I wondered how the fish could keep from hitting the rocks in the creek. I felt, too, that the creek was alive, was having a wonderful time coursing through the red rocks.

The creek I had my feet in was alive too. She was thinking of her parents and how much they had loved each other. She had been, she thought, the recipient of their love, and, of course, she was. Now 32, Amaranth realized now that that love was still in her, and would always be.

That love she had received as a child, that love was the source of all her sensibilities and intuition. It was also the source of her poetry and her deep caring of others and all things living, of Earth itself and all the living creations on it.

No wonder she was so happy most of the time, and Ty — he was just a precious piece of her world of love. Bless him, she thought. She stood up then and spoke to the crocuses. Chapter 17 Ty was also a writer, but not of poetry. He wrote aphorisms. So when Amaranth saw sheets of paper with aphorisms on them lying on the computer desk, she knew they were his, so she picked them up, sat down on the blue sofa and read them.

We are more concerned with goods than goodness. May we be a servant to all others and masters of ourselves. Casinos abet gambling.

The mountain is deeper than it is high. In the finite, we are relative. In infinity, we are relatives. If you are going to err, err on the side of generosity. I knew a narrow-minded woman who did clerical work. She stereotyped. I open my heart so I may enter yours….

The poem is the sound, publication the echo. The sound is more important than the echo. Are you shocked to find out that I am human and therefore imperfect, or are you embarrassed to realize you are the same…?

One can only evoke it. The Second Coming will be the coming to the realization that each of us is sacred, that all things are divine.

The only thing our country really cycles well is pain. Take the high road. It is easier to find a publisher than to find your heart. To save Earth, you have to planet. Joy is hard for most people to enjoy. Out on a limbo… Bigotry is one of the worst forms of mental illness.

We used just to waste human lives. Now we turn lives into human waste. POPE FOR PRESIDENT: feed the poor, wash their feet, shelter them.

Labels are for ketchup bottles. All people live downstream. Gogh Van Lines The John F. Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe School of National, International, and Personal Affairs Edgar Allan Poet The new global politician: 1 I have a new agenda — humanity.

Danger has anger in it, and tragedy rage. The siren has become our national anthem. Do not confuse your pain with your worth. Anonymity vitiates worth.

There is still one more mega-merger to occur. Second, do no harm. Third, do no harm. There is a support group. Perception or projection? L ots O f V ital E nergy V oices O f T he E arth Statute of Lamentations Pills are our pillows.

The problem with the USA, Mexicans say, is that it has a borderline personality. He got a card. Might might, but will will. Be all you can be: Be yourself. All human beings are poets. I was charged with distributing the peace.

We reserve the right to be of service to anyone. An Archie Bunker mentality…. If you were truly my superior, you would sit beneath me.

All works are autobiographical. Knowledge sees that all are different. Wisdom sees that all are one. Every time you are true to yourself, you have written a poem.

By Zulabar

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