Here is a symbol in which
Many high tragic thoughts
Watch their own eyes.
This gray rock, standing tall
On the headland, where the seawind
Lets no tree grow,
Earthquake-proved, and signatured
By ages of storms: on its peak
A falcon has perched.
I think, here is your emblem
To hang in the future sky;
Not the cross, not the hive,
But this; bright power, dark peace;
Fierce consciousness joined with final
Life with calm death; the falcon's
Realist eyes and act
Married to the massive
Mysticism of stone,
Which failure cannot cast down
Nor success make proud.
Scraps of moon
bobbing discarded on broken water
Here she seems
to be talking to herself about
the shape of a life:
All which, because it was
flame and song and granted us
joy, we thought we'd do, be, revisit,
turns out to have been what it was
that once, only;
Every invitation did not begin
a series, a build-up: the marvelous
did not happen in our lives, our stories
are not drab with its absence: but don't
expect to return for more.
there will be will be
unique as those were unique.
Try to acknowledge the next
song in its body-halo of flames as utterly
present, as now or never.
“There Are Angels Among Us”
Since: Mar 12
We All Have One
One small crack does not mean you are broken,it means that you were put to the test and you didnt fall apart!!!
His wand of light awakens
as a star birthed in a new world
her sacred temple door opens
like a flower receiving
the springtime sun
My heart is struck like a bell
when I first see you
I am moved by your beauty
My body flexes like a bow
My heart aims for you like an arrow
My arrow disappears into the infinite
Misty, your example of courage
grace and friendship
will inspire me
Eyes of the huntress flash at me
Heart of the huntress sparkles light
Radiating glorious love into each other
Body of the huntress embraces me
We are free
to be ourselves.
Not hiding or shrinking,
being present in our sexual bodies.
We bring truth to each other
I am in awe, adoration and admiration
that there is such a woman
with the courage to dare to be alive
and who wants me to awaken with her.
I am dreaming of a stunning goddess
walking on rose petals to my bed.
I dream of joy so real and so great that
all we can do is cry
great tears of gratitude together.
Can I allow myself a dream this big?
Am I awakened?
I’ve hiked alone in rugged country
Climbed 1,000-foot cliffs
To feel clarity
Now, I am shiva breathing joy and fire
In the presence of the goddess
Since: Apr 12
One small crack does not mean you are broken,it means that you were put to the test and you didnt fall apart!!!
You are very brainy.
“There Are Angels Among Us”
Since: Mar 12
We All Have One
What did I do,To deserve your stare,Deserve your heart,Deserve your soul,What did I do,To make you love me<The way you do,What did i do,To make you whisper the words every girl wants to hear, and though the answer isnt there,I see it in your eyes ,your kiss and you love..(native americian)
When you get nervous, it's so hard not to.
When you're expected to cum in something
other than your ordinary way, to
take pleasure in the new way, lost, not knowing
how to drive it back to sureness... where are
the thousand thousand flowers I always pass,
the violet flannel, then the sharpness?
You can't, you can't ... extinguish the star
in a burst. It goes on glowing. That head
between your legs so long. Could it really
want to be there? One whimpers as though ...
then gets mad. One could smash the other's valiant head.
"You didn't cum, did you?" Naturally, she knows.
Although I try to lie, the truth escapes me
almost like an orgasm itself. Then the "No"
that should crack a world, but doesn't, slips free.
Forgiveness is not an abstraction for
it needs a body to feel its relief.
Knees, shoulders, spine are required to adore
the lightness of a burden removed.
Grief, like a journey over water completed,
slides its keel in the packed sand reef.
Forgiveness is contact with the belief
that your only life must now be lived.
Knees once sank into the leather of the pew with all the weight of created hell, of whom you did not ease, or what you did not seize.
Now the shortfall that crippled your posture finds sudden peace in the muscular, physical brightness
of a day alive:
the felt lightness of existence self-created, forgiveness.
When I asked her about her sadness she said....
"I love desire, the state of want and thought
of how to get;
building a kingdom in a soul requires desire.
I love the things I've sought-
you in your beltless bathrobe, tongues of cash that loll from my billfold- and love what I want: clothes, houses, redemption.
Can a new mauve suit equal God?
Oh no, desire is ranked.
To lose a loved pen is not like losing faith.
Acute desire for nut gateau is driven out by death, but the cake on its plate has meaning,
even when love is endangered and nothing matters.
For my mother, health; for my sister, bereft,
But why is desire suffering?
Because want leaves a world in tatters?
How else but in tatters should a world be?
A columned porch set high above a lake.
Here, take my money.
A loved face in agony, the spirit gone.
Here, use my rags of love."
I was in here reading
I almost left a note
Decided against it and
then when I looked again
there you were and now I
wished I had said hello
I see you there.
I can see you hiding, beneath all that refactored code and all those unflatteringly optimized routines.
The shape your indents make sends shivers up my spine.
Everything is cordoned off, with rows of commented dashes and named, explained sections.
The code itself is beauteous, the while loops and function calls each requiring the other, holistically, elegantly. The curly braces nest in myriad ways, but never too far down.
I see you compiling so silently and warninglessly, the compiler reading you, writing you, making you whole, powerful.
The fleetness of your execution is unrivaled, the handling of your arguments as perfect as to be intuitive. And as your invocation sends off a spark of API related calls, as your binary turns into a resultation, your commands are read and obeyed faithfully by a minute CPU off in a lovely frozen shelled plate of green and warm and solder.
The electric currents ebb and flow, the main CPU of silicon calculating your algorithms.
And oh, the algorithms! The coroutines were a nice touch, for the iterators. And the simplicity of handling of the queues and the stacks you use was pure elegance.
The banality of a name like IReasonablyI is meant for far less magnificent algorithms than you.
Here is a list of fetishes and other weirdness so far compiled:
In the next twelve months I will be covering these sexual subjects in poetry.....
The Woman With Her Legs Apart lives in the apartment complex next to mine. I think she likes me.
She sits on her couch at night and reads paperback books. She sits with her legs apart, which is why I gave her that name. Sometimes, I catch her peeking over the top of her book, out the one window in her living room, into the one window in my bedroom, across the alley that separates our apartment buildings.
I think she's looking to see if I'm looking. I'm pretty sure she saw me one time, even though I keep my bedroom pretty dark when I'm watching her. She probably just saw some figure moving in the darkness, which could be a scary sort of thing for someone who lives alone, like she does.
But she didn't seem scared. She squinted a little, trying to see further into the darkness of my bedroom. But I knew enough to stay still, so as not to give myself away further, and eventually, she just smiled and went back to reading her book.
She didn't close her legs, though.
Ever since then, she's developed a tendency to wear more and more revealing clothes when she sits down to read. She used to wear sweatpants and jeans and stuff. Comfortable stuff. But ever since she got a sense someone was watching her, she's been trying out different wardrobes.
I've seen her sit down to read in a bathrobe, a kimono, a pale yellow sundress, a miniskirt, bike shorts, running shorts, and black lace panties. I wanted to tell her that I really liked the panties and the bike shorts on her, but I think that communicating with her would ruin a good thing that both of us have going.
One night, she sat down wearing just a tattered college sweatshirt, and nothing else, legs apart as usual. I think she spent more time looking towards my window than at her book that night. She seemed nervous-- fidgeting and biting her lip as she read.
I think she envisioned that evening as the culmination of a seduction; that she had shown me every aspect of herself, and that it was now time for me to either accept or reject her.
I didn't do anything, though. We sat there, about thirty-five feet apart from each other, for almost an hour. Then, the Woman With Her Legs Apart got a sad look on her face, stood up, pulling her sweatshirt down over her hips, and went off to bed.
That was about two months ago. She still sits with her legs apart, but she's usually back to wearing jeans and sweatpants again. She doesn't look up at my window as much as she did before, but she still looks up sometimes.
And once, but only once, she wore panties.
In the rapidly shrinking world of softcore porn, the split beaver pic is the closest thing to the money shot. It's fairly simple to take, as it requires nothing more than a woman lying on her back (or sitting with her knees up) and spreading her legs. As she moves her legs apart, the outer lips of her vulva slowly open, revealing the intricate folds of her inner lips. The inner lips may part as well, exposing the small dark mouth of her vagina. Zoom in, push the shutter, and you've got it--a lifesize picture of a woman's secret parts.
I can clearly remember when I saw my first split beaver shot. I was 12 years old, almost into puberty, when I finally scraped up the courage to try purchasing a Penthouse from the local bookstand..... I picked the magazine off the rack and, heart pounding, went up to the cashier (who must've been either blind or very understanding--I certainly didn't look 18). I forked over the mag and two weeks' allowance; he handed me a brown bag and my change. I tucked it into the inside pocket of my trench coat, and headed for a secure location. I flipped to a random page, where a woman with her legs apart gazed back at me with a faint, sultry smile.
My first reaction was not arousal, not fascination, but shock--I didn't know they could show that! Then I was entranced--it was so beautiful, so wonderfully detailed.(My third reaction need not be made public.)
It's hard to say when the first split beaver pictures appeared in the world. No doubt Urk the Caveman sketched a crotch shot on the wall of his cave, though somehow I doubt you'll ever see National Geographic do a story on it. As for more modern times, the history of porn is a bit muddy, but I'm sure you could find what you were looking for if you found the right back alley in Paris; civilization's good like that. In fact, the Rotenberg Collection contains any number of pictures that are just as explicit as the stuff on the racks today.
But if we're talking about mainstream--by which I mean a regular publication that was legal, that you could buy through normal channels--then the credit goes to the Scandinavians, as it so often does in matters of sex. According to Luke Ford's History of X, a Swedish car salesman by the name of Berth Milton founded Private magazine in 1965; the second issue contained a shot of a woman with her legs spread wide.(Milton, who was years ahead of his time and apparently quite a sicko, soon moved on to hardcore penetration and cumshots.)
So Private was the first magazine to legally publish a split beaver shot. That doesn't matter to Larry Flynt, of course, who thinks he deserves all the credit. You might recall a scene from the Movie "The People vs. Larry Flynt" in which a photographer is telling a model how he wants her to pose. When she opens her legs too wide, revealing her inner labia, he chuckles and tells her to pull her knees together.
Flynt, who has been watching the proceedings, jumps in. "No," he says, "that's just what we want." The photographer protests, saying that you just can't take such pictures. "Why not?" Flynt asks. "A girl's vagina has just as much personality as her face." The photographer shrugs his shoulders, the picture is taken, and eventually it appears in the magazine.
I am reasonably intelligent, by no means any more than that. I feel completely inferior near you. I read what you write and I enjoy much of it, though I struggle to comprehend all of it. I would like to say something witty and wise, but I don't like feeling inferior. I use your posts sometimes to speak for me, but not the complicated to understand.
It took me all this time to put these few words together and I caught your note five minutes after it was written. Thank you for acknowledging my hello. I thought you may perhaps miss it. It was a surprise to see your name up and down the board this evening.
Good Night Adrian
Geez, talking to me you shouldn't feel inferior, on the contrary I appreciate your imput here and I welcome your opinion....it is always nice to talk to a long lost friend....well perhaps not so "long lost."
The point I was making in my above post to you is that the subjunctive is classified by grammarians as a mood, not a tense.
Tense refers to what time a verb takes place, mood refers to the attitude of the speaker toward the action. The moods in (French for example) are the indicative, the infinitive, the subjunctive, the conditional, the participial, and the imperative.
The indicative mood, for example, refers to statements that refer to facts:
The subjunctive mood has two major uses: obligatory and optional.
The obligatory subjunctive is found in subordinate clauses which follow certain expressions, as in the example above. "Il est possible que..." is a phrase which requires the subjunctive clauses which follow it.
Some expressions, such as "je crois que..." require the subjunctive only when used in a negative or interrogative sense.
Merci….votre si doux
Great nights returning, midnight’s constellations
Gather from groundfrost that unnatural brilliance.
Night now transfigures, walking in the starred ways,
Tears from the living.
Earth now takes back the secret of her changes.
All the wood’s dropped leaves listen to your footfall,
Night has no tears, no sound among the branches;
Stopped in the swift stream.
Spirits were joined when hazel leaves were falling.
Then the stream hurrying told of separation
This is the fires’ world, and the voice of Autumn
Stilled by the death-wand.
Under your heels the icy breath of Winter
Hardens all roots. The Leonids are flying.
Now the crisp stars, the circle of beginning;
Death, birth, united.
Nothing declines here. Energy is fire-born.
Twigs catch like stars or serve for your divining.
Lean down and hear the subterranean water
Crossed by the quick dead.
Now the soul knows the fire that first composed it
Sinks not with time but is renewed hereafter.
Death cannot steal the light which love has kindled
Nor the years change it.
There was a graven image of Desire
Painted with red blood on a ground of gold
Passing between the young men and the old,
And by him Pain, whose body shone like fire,
And Pleasure with gaunt hands that grasped their hire.
Of his left wrist, with fingers clenched and cold,
The insatiable Satiety kept hold,
Walking with feet unshod that pashed the mire.
The senses and the sorrows and the sins,
And the strange loves that suck the breasts of hate
Till lips and teeth bite in their sharp indenture,
Followed like beasts with flap of wings and fins.
Death stood aloof behind a gaping grate,
Upon whose lock was written peradventure.
Children’s voices in the orchard
Between the blossom – and the fruit-time;
Golden head, crimson head,
Between the green tip and root.
Black wing, brown wing, hover over;
Twenty years and the spring is over;
To-day grieves, to-morrow grieves,
Cover me over, light-in-leaves;
Golden head, black wing,
Swing up into the apple-tree.
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction:
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher:
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly:
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat:
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility:
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.
I imagine this midnight moment’s forest :
Something else is alive
Beside the clock’s loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.
Through the window I see no star :
Something more near
Though deeper within the darkness
Is entering the loneliness :
Cold, delicately as the dark snow
A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf ;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now
Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come
Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Coming about its own business
Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still ; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.
The mellow year is hastening to its close;
The little birds have almost sung their last,
Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast -
That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows;
The patient beauty of the scentless rose,
Oft with the morn’s hoar crystal quaintly glass’d
Hangs, a pale mourner of the summer past,
And makes a little summer where it grows;
In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day
The dusky waters shudder as they shine,
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way
Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define,
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array,
Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine.