How many slams in an old screen door? Depends how loud you shut it. How many slices in a bread? Depends how thin you cut it. How much good inside a day? Depends how good you live ‘em. How much love inside a friend? Depends how much you give ‘em.
(via lajoiedevivre)
Source: larmoyante
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Mary Oliver, “The Summer Day” (via technicoloring)
I’ve always liked this poem a lot.
(via sylvysparrow)
(via sylvysparrow)
Source: technicoloring
Unrequited Love Poem
You will be out with friends
when the news of her existence
will be accidentally spilled all over
your bar stool. Respond calmly
as if it was only a change in weather,
a punch line you saw coming.
After your fourth shot of cheap liquor,
leave the image of him kissing another woman
in the toilet.
In the morning, her name will be
in every headline: car crash, robbery, flood.
When he calls you, ignore the hundreds of ropes
untangling themselves in your stomach.
You are the best friend again. He invites
you over for dinner and you say yes
too easily. Remind yourself this isn’t special,
it’s only dinner, everyone has to eat.
When he greets you at the door, do not think
for one second you are the reason
he wore cologne tonight.
In his kitchen, he will hand-feed you
a piece of red pepper. His laugh
will be low and warm and it will make you
feel like candlelight. Do not think this is special.
Do not count on your fingers the number
of freckles you could kiss too easily.
Try to think of pilot lights and olive oil,
not everything you have ever loved about him,
or it will suddenly feel boiling and possible
and so close. You will find her bobby pins
laying innocently on his bathroom sink.
Her bobby pins. They look like the wiry legs
of spiders, splinters of her undressing
in his bed. Do not say anything.
Think of stealing them, wearing them
home in your hair. When he hugs you goodbye,
let him kiss you on the forehead.
Settle for target practice.
At home, you will picture her across town
pressing her fingers into his back
like wet cement. You will wonder
if she looks like you, if you are two bedrooms
in the same house. Did he fall for her features
like rearranged furniture? When he kisses her,
does she taste like wet paint?
You will want to call him.
You will go as far as holding the phone
in your hand, imagine telling him
unimaginable things like “You are always
ticking inside of me and I dream of you
more often than I don’t.
My body is a dead language
and you pronounce
each word perfectly.”
Do not call him.
Fall asleep to the hum of the VCR.
She must make him happy.
She must be his favorite place in Minneapolis.
You are a souvenir shop, where he goes
to remember how much people miss him
when he is gone.
by Sierra DeMulder
(via 52hearts)
Source: sleepingtigers
“message in a bottle”
i love rome. not as much as you, but i love rome.
i want to take you to the tango bar on the tiber and finish our evening on the carousel.
i want to feel your awe while we hold each others hands.
i want to walk beside you all dressed up and be reminded of the sacred.
which for us happens indoors, while we are so close i no longer have any words.
(Found on the “Missed Connection” section of the Rome craigstlist)
You Fit Into Me
by Margaret Atwood
You fit into me
like a hook into an eye
a fish hook
an open eye
I’m attempting to do a series of watercolor pieces based on this poem:
A Man Young and Old: III. The Mermaid
W.B. Yeats
A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.
…and am finding that I really, really suck at drawing hands. They look like blown up gloves. HELP.
Song: To Celia
“Drink to me, only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine ;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst, that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not wither’d be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent’st it back to me
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.”
By Ben Jonson
Suicide’s Note
The calm,
Cool face of the river
Asked me for a kiss.Langston Hughes
(via douce--amere)
I Loved You
I loved you; and perhaps I love you still,
The flame, perhaps, is not extinguished; yet
It burns so quietly within my soul,
No longer should you feel distressed by it.
Silently and hopelessly I loved you,
At times too jealous and at times too shy.
God grant you find another who will love you
As tenderly and truthfully as I.-Alexander Pushkin
There are many translations of this poem but this is my favorite.
(via desiderates)
Source: livmylife
I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed and that necessary.
(via alliphant)
Source: atomiclanterns
