Turn the Page

Every writer dips his brush into his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.

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A book is good company. It is full of conversation without loquacity. It comes to your longing with full instruction, but pursues you never. It is not offended at your absent-mindedness, nor jealous if you turn to other pleasures, of leaf, or dress, or mineral, or even of books. It silently serves the soul without recompense, not even for the hire of love. And yet more noble, it seems to pass from itself, and to enter the memory, and to hover in a silvery transfiguration there, until the outward book is but a body, and its soul and spirit are flown to you, and possess your memory like a spirit. And while some books, like steps, are left behind us by the very help which they yield us, and serve only our childhood, or early life, some others go with us in mute fidelity to the end of life, a recreation for fatigue, an instruction for our sober hours, and a solace for our sickness or sorrow. Except the great out-doors, nothing that has no life of its own gives so much life to you.38021435-open-book-vintage-effect-style-picture-processing

Henry Ward Beecher

 

Being Odd by Ruth Walters

They all exalt in normal
they do not like the weird,
they slander anybody
who’s slightly out of gear.

They all berate the odd ball
that stands out from the crowd.
You’ve seen odd balls at parties
hung loose, all odd and proud.

The odd ball talks excitedly
about his odd ball ways
The things that other people fear
or find a trifle strange.

They say that he’s not normal,
they snigger and they grin
but he’d rather be an odd ball
than normal, just like them.

poe 3

Still I Rise

Still I Rise  

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/maya-angelou

My Life or Yours?

 

I wake and see her everyday.  I do not tire of this.  As her movements emblazoned themselves in my memories.  All that is  around me?  Unimportant.

I have told my wife so often…I love you.  Soon, I love you, becomes commonplace and ill-fitting.  What is more fitting?  She is my life!  For living would hold no charm without her in it.

“One day you will ask me which is more important? My life or yours? I will say mine and you will walk away not knowing that you are my life.”
Kahlil Gibran

Yesterday’s Raven

It all seems as if the happening…just began yesterday.

Velcro’ d lifelines that came unhinged.

It is in the manner in which, strangers stare.

As if, they are aware time has been unfair.

 

There had been a raven visiting in a calm before the storm.

Turning over the moments in the pleasure of flight.

Possibly in search of something he may have lost.

His bravado unaware of the upcoming spring frost.

 

Yesterday,

such as an ice barge in a swollen river.

Nothing in life compares to…forgetfulness and getting on with the living.

Recollection can be a great…misgiving.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. Poe/the Raven

Recollection can be a great…misgiving.