Wisdom Wednesdays – Search & Destroy

2

image

Poetry Mondays – Hope is the Thing with Feathers by Emily Dickinson

5

b91fbd24df0fa6abc812f6f34e3fde70

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all.

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chilliest land

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

Silence – Saying Nothing Sometimes Says The Most – Emily Dickinson, 32×48 Canvas Giclée, Gallery Wrap, Office Size

This is your chance to Post on BLW!!! – Share your Thoughts, Stories & Ideas with us!!!

14

WE AT BE LIKE WATER BELIEVE THAT WE ARE ALL PART OF THE LEARNING EXPERIENCE, SO WE WANTED TO REACH OUT TO OUR FRIENDS & FANS TO SAY WE APPRECIATE YOUR SUPPORT

AND WE WANT TO GIVE BACK BY SHARING YOUR OWN THOUGHTS, STORIES OR IDEAS ON OUR SITE.

SO, IF YOU HAVE A STORY OR TOPIC YOU WANT TO SHARE WITH US, JUST LEAVE IT IN THE COMMENT SECTION WITH A LINK TO YOUR TOPIC AND WE WILL POST IT ON BLW,

OF COURSE THE TOPIC HAS TO BE SHARED WITH OUR OWN PHILOSOPHIES. THANK YOU AGAIN!

e988c3b75efa59f25783a11c000d6682 copy

Poetry Mondays – One Year ago, jots what? (Emily Dickinson)

girl-lying-in-a-wheat-field-summer

One Year ago — jots what?

God — spell the word! I — can’t 

Was’t Grace? Not that 

Was’t Glory? That — will do 

Spell slower — Glory 

Such Anniversary shall be 

Sometimes — not often — in Eternity 

When farther Parted, than the Common Woe 

Look — feed upon each other’s faces — so 

In doubtful meal, if it be possible

Their Banquet’s true 

I tasted — careless — then 

I did not know the Wine

Came once a World — Did you?

Oh, had you told me so 

This Thirst would blister — easier — now 

You said it hurt you — most 

Mine — was an Acorn’s Breast 

And could not know how fondness grew

In Shaggier Vest 

Perhaps — I couldn’t 

But, had you looked in 

A Giant — eye to eye with you, had been 

No Acorn — then 

So — Twelve months ago 

We breathed 

Then dropped the Air 

Which bore it best?

Was this — the patientest 

Because it was a Child, you know 

And could not value — Air?

If to be “Elder” — mean most pain 

I’m old enough, today, I’m certain — then 

As old as thee — how soon?

One — Birthday more — or Ten?

Let me — choose!

Ah, Sir, None!

Emily Dickinson Canvas Print / Canvas Art – Artist Everett

Poetry Mondays – Bluebird by Charles Bukowski

7

image

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the ****s and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire

Poetry Mondays – Howl (Allen Ginsberg)

1

black-friday-buy-more-stufftheres-nothing-quite-like-black-friday-at-macys-gigantic-flagship-store

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by

             madness, starving hysterical naked,

       dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn

             looking for an angry fix,

       angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly

             connection to the starry dynamo in the

machinery of night,

       who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat

             up smoking in the supernatural darkness of

              cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities

             contemplating jazz,

       who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and

             saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-

             ment roofs illuminated,

       who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes

             hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy

             among the scholars of war,

       who were expelled from the academies for crazy &

             publishing obscene odes on the windows of the

             skull,

       who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-

             ing their money in wastebaskets and listening

             to the Terror through the wall,

       who got busted in their pubic beards returning through

             Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

       who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in

             Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their

             torsos night after night

       with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-

             cohol and cock and endless balls,

       incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and

             lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of

             Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the

motionless world of Time.

Collected Poems 1947-1997

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening By Robert Frost

4
328069869_a8f7fb3e22
Whose woods these are I think I know.   
His house is in the village though;   
He will not see me stopping here   
To watch his woods fill up with snow.   
My little horse must think it queer   
To stop without a farmhouse near   
Between the woods and frozen lake   
The darkest evening of the year.   
He gives his harness bells a shake   
To ask if there is some mistake.   
The only other sound’s the sweep   
Of easy wind and downy flake.   
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
But I have promises to keep,   
And miles to go before I sleep,   
And miles to go before I sleep.

The Poetry of Robert Frost: The Collected Poems, Complete and Unabridged

Poetry Mondays – Twas just this time last year I died. (Emily Dickinson)

12fed6c880da1c511a40d71fbd03a873

‘Twas just this time, last year, I died.

I know I heard the Corn,

When I was carried by the Farms 

It had the Tassels on 

I thought how yellow it would look 

When Richard went to mill 

And then, I wanted to get out,

But something held my will. 

I thought just how Red — Apples wedged

The Stubble’s joints between 

And the Carts stooping round the fields

To take the Pumpkins in 

I wondered which would miss me, least,

And when Thanksgiving, came,

If Father’d multiply the plates 

To make an even Sum 

And would it blur the Christmas glee

My Stocking hang too high

For any Santa Claus to reach

The Altitude of me 

But this sort, grieved myself,

And so, I thought the other way,

How just this time, some perfect year 

Themself, should come to me 

The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson

Poetry Mondays – Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night (Dylan Thomas)

7

When Worlds Collide

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Author Notes

DT’s father was going blind when DT wrote this poem. The dying of the light is a reference to darkness and being blind.

Photo Credit: http://www.davemorrowphotography.com

The Poems of Dylan Thomas, New Revised Edition [with CD]

Poetry Mondays – Easy A by Ryan Fu from The Hated Ones

3

rs_560x415-141106144301-1024-amanda-bynes-sleeping-beverly-center.ls.11614_copy

There’s something magical

watching someone self-destruct,

there’s a beauty and honesty

about the downward spiral.

You can’t turn away from it

like an oncoming car crash or an F5 tornado,

terrorizing and destroying

everything around it.

You wish them the best but secretly,

you want to see how far the rabbit hole

they can fall and stumble

past the point of no return. 

It’s all our fault.

We did this to them.

We gave them the magic carpet,

then pulled it underneath them. 

We put them on the highest pedestal

because we’re scared of heights.

So we make them stars

then wait til gravity does its job.

A nation of vultures

waiting for the next falling star.

Welcome the New Roman Colosseum,

where we crucify our heroes.

Photo Credit: Owen Beiny/ WENN

Easy A