Created •
...NEBRASKA, USA
...for once, I'm not sure!
playlist.com/Once [playlist.com/Once]
- Stumble >
-
Once
Last seen: 2 hours ago
Once is a 64 year old guy from Once By The Pacific. . ., Nebraska, USA
For once, I'm not sure...
-
Once
is a 64-year-old guy, once by the Pacific...
...NEBRASKA, USA
...for once, I'm not sure!
playlist.com/Once [playlist.com/Once]
-
http://www.bahai-education.org/data/haifaviews/0088.jpg
Rated • 1 review • adult education, poetry, baha i faith • bahai-education.org
Today at sundown marks the beginning of the Anniversary of the Birth of Bahá'u'lláh, Whom Bahá'ís of the World regard as the Manifestation of God for this Day, the Promised One of all religions, the Prophet-Founder of their Faith. The Birth of Bahá'u'lláh is one of nine holy days in the Bahá'í Calendar that is celebrated by Bahá'ís and during which work is suspended. The Holy Day celebrates the birth of Bahá'u'lláh, the Prophet-Founder of the Bahá'í Faith.
"The World Will Soon Enough Unite"
The world will soon enough unite, but not for love
Nor money, no, nor for the sake of progress, peace
Or brotherhood or rich religious truths; nor will hatred cease
Because egregious monthly recipes, the weekly treasure trove
Of convenient disaster pleases those whose cry is doom
That drowns all reason and deafens ears with prophetic lazzis.
Innocence and ignorance of owlish audacity
In nightly death tolls seals the thinly clad veracity
Of migrant militants whose creative zeal leaves little room
For doubt that they mean business. No. The whole
Will come into its own, the tribes unite, the tears
Of mothers cease, the nations lose their fears,
And peace descend to every valley
as the Prophets have foretold,
And all because it is His to will it so.
The Temple is this day reborn,
And while they part His robes and trash the Holy Catacomb,
slightly to the north the Truth has found Its Sacred Palindrome.
-
http://th08.deviantart.net/fs5/300W/i/2004/319/3/d/Give_A...
Rated • 1 review • painting, poetry • deviantart.net
"No One Asks"
No one asks for recognition,
nothing is required;
She casts her bones, the minor frugal fingerprints of days
Long past that no one longs to see. Somewhere in the sea a cold dismay
Combines with suffocating ecstasy. Hardened clay, florid glazes fired,
Mirrored in the mortal stare of whiter gloss and saffron etched in blue,
She summons kamikaze comments blown through eternity
and come at last to rest a while,
Some time or two--delicacies of too little risk, an avalanche in her smile.
Awkward blessings, ablutions in a fingerbowl, veils to block the view;
From time to time, a message lands to set the record straight:
Reset the clocks and watches, address the shibboleths with proper nouns
--The while that foot placed squarely in the door!--these cosmic clowns,
These plenipotentiary passions casting longer shadows on the floor
while she, of course, is always late,
The last to hear the call. Other lessers stroll; she tends to sprint,
And just behind her fools knit patchwork prophecies gathered from the lint.
-
growabrain: Modern Art Archives
Rated • 1 review • poetry, arts • typepad.com
"The Body's Built for Stretch Marks"
The body's built for stretch marks, indictments along perfected lines
Undisturbed by bruises, ancient scars received at childhood,
Slightnesses and differences in the artificer's sketches--would
Be blind catastrophe to a child--on reflection etchings, fine
Byzantine rites of passage through a maze of noxious nuptials
Between spasms in the testacies that spawn a noble sacrifice and death
Thereafter. Pride of station, booty, brazen badges pinned to what is left
Of that old shirt or those old pants. The glass is raised to fools
And litigants of Alma Maters. Yes, she said, "You'll lose that baby fat,"
But then again she lied and sliced another quarter pound of butter
For the fry, dairies churned to proven grounds for utter
Joy at dinnertime, unction for the stomach and hardening heart,
and then some for the cat.
All in vain if clutching at the straws of life and luck and liberty to boot
Provide a light bravado to hopes that render all finite questions moot.
Catwalks in life's pavilions, sidewalks in a decent neighbourhood,
And nursing homes on the either side. "The Devil made me do it!"
Who denies the processes of thought, the fine idyllic conduits
From "Why not me?" to "All I am is what I should
Be," whispered whistling down the alleys and paper routes, the avenues
Of images and constructs preserved in bas reliefs in two dimensions,
Melting icecaps in the oceans of invention and intervention at the mention
Of a third. "To whom and what for?" He wonders at the news
Of deadlines, final laps and tallies, and reams of "Things to Do"
Before the door is closed and locked,
keys returned to the office wickets.
And who's to say that winter's haze might raise the need to buy a ticket
To some gilded paradise notorious on the frig, or a cruise for two
Along the coasts or on the belly of the nation
As I remain at home inured from all such thought and aggravation?
So wide the miles to peace and pompous reconciliation
Through the narrowed Brandenburg, so prominent the Temple Mount;
And in the malls of Washington and London the body count
No longer matters to the kids at dinner while the recapitulation
Of the days' take in decisive news receives no rapt attention?
But for clandestine gatherings, loved ones, sorrow's "single spies"
In all "battalions", there is no word or photo from the skies
Above or up from city gutters, the catacombs of mention
Along the Tigris, the Congo, the hills and highlands of the African Horn.
They know their losses simmer silently in the chambers of the heart;
They know their worth in sovereignties of soils apart
From what is said of them on newscasts, and in the unborn
Born again processions, inocculation lines braying gospels
of long and short on littered leaves strewn in canyons of market floors
Just as surely as the autumn leaves of God's bounty, patent warnings nailed at the head of every cross and every second church door.
-
Priska C. Juschka Fine Art
Rated • 1 review • drawing, poetry • priskajuschkafineart.com
"In a Rush"
In a rush to see the end
While someone sees that challenges are rife
Along the desperate incision sutured with the signs of strife,
The price for impatience with what Nemesis must send,
Concuspience by no matter what the post or messenger;
Fine intentions snatched by posses ranges in clouds
That promise folly before the end of urgencies. Sound
Advice is not the issue in a world adrift
From virtue both in usury and programmed gratitude;
The plough will do what must be done,
The melody and rhythm in the closing bells are rung, the one
And only multiplied by addiction to kinetic irony. Rectitude
Of conduct, and the pruning of the prototype provides
The perfect recipe for what can only be consumed
with fingers and a side of fries.
The stereotypes abound as future founding fathers still arrive
From other shores, the other shore, the other side
Of bold imagination in the tide of 1844! Slide
The rule but inches to the right or left and strive
To understand the ratio or face the consequences:
Though we took the land from startled natives,
We now tout these varied lists (the case is dative)
In the fray lain wanting in the codex, lost in nuances
That not so long ago applied to Dublin, Roma, gay Paris,
And even Shanghai, Saigon, and private cooperate empires--cheques to be
Post dated as the years fly by while those in congress in a sea
Of interests debate just who'll exploit, for whom the shopping spree,
And who'll be the referee! O beautiful for spacious skies beyond horizons
Not yet colonized, nor bound or found in protocol or fixed orisons.
-
Jerub-Baal Studio - Iconoclastic Realism
Rated • 1 review • art history, poetry • jerub-baal.com
"The Splice"
The splice, the thinnest notion
Separates the light from fire, determination from desire
Without from within and willingly admires
The undertow, the swelling of the ocean
As it seeks the moon--no hope of union--
There, above, the evergrowth of mitigation, mists
And darkest moulds in what the sky insists
Is yesterday's relevance, contaminating fusion
Of the present with the past: we must move forward.
Notwithstanding, neither more nor less, in spite
Of evidences and well beside the point, insight
Dictates needs to lean towards and leave behind; rewards
The known in futures veiled, obscured, preferred at last
Above the sanctions of the status quo and residue of the past.
-
LETTA MBULU MANY RAINS AGO OLUWA
Rated • 1 review • africa, video • youtube.com
The images are unbearable, but the song is one of the most beautiful I have ever heard...
-
MYTH*ING LINKS / Asia: China
Rated • 1 review • poetry, china • mythinglinks.org
"A Dime"
A dime, a nickel, some few pennies,
Mementos gleaned from scenes within the arcade,
Trinkets from the boardwalk and what is always made
In the China of the Nimble-Fingered Children ignored by destiny,
Abhorred and reproduced by millions; Luddite transformations
Will transfix and fascinate the silent seekers of the moment,
Momentary movers of supposed wealth and worth foment
Profundity and shifts of circumspection, quakes and admonitions
Break with all tradition to take care, hold back, withdraw a pace
To take a second look. How facile laughter
At the child that chides the system: "After
English, learn Chinese, my son!" and so the race
Is on to turn the tawdry into excellence and circumstantial skill
That marries slavery and child abuse, and cold dictation of the will.
The manifesto ministers to millions, and who is it stands
As witness, national pride and glory, who the peoples' folly,
Who the fitness in the valley of coincidence, the volley
Of inventions by the score, the copper's light wires' strands
That span the globe uniting yet dividing worlds beyond
The surfaces of forest meadows, lakes, and oceans,
Highest cliffs and even to the Holy Mountain? Notions
In the cascade from the peaks to every sinkhole; bonds,
Investments, hedge funds, ponzis mounted to deflect the future's
Slight surprise: "Please," he says, "no more!" Too great the innuendo,
Too cumbersome the gain, too little left in the crescendo
Between what's desired and what cannot be sustained by cultures
Hidden in the streets and buried bayous of the brokerage: virtual powers.
They take comfort in the syllogism, fear, and profit
in the latest Book of Hours.
-
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Image:Carl_Spitzweg_017...
Rated • 1 review • painting, poetry • wikimedia.org
"Of Yesterday"
Of yesterday, the cinders linger still, the greeting on the lips
Of fine bovine acquaintances and many-frenzied friends;
What turns and consequences, what means to ends,
What sins begot so long ago? The icy tips
Became but sirens to the boys on frozen fences built
To keep the snow bank from the doors, and something to explore,
Or so it seemed. So many thoughts of fond Novembers were for
Distant reasons more the stuff of puerile purposes; quilts
That never made it to the couch, and even if they had
No need to make the bed nor turn the covers down.
He sleeps alone tonight as he did then; no need to frown
On cold December days and nights when as it happened he was glad
To be his own best friend and knew whose kin and friendship nearer
Came to roost when just before each sleep he gazed into the mirror.
-
Yvetta Bartos | Gallery | Paintings
Rated • 1 review • painting, poetry • yvettabartos.com
...Faith will wither gracelessly
in the face of gentle certitude
Just as knowledge falters helplessly
in the presence of wisdom's rectitude...
"To Think On It"
To think on it millions, treble double billion
On the planet strive each day to breathe, to strike a balance
Between tendered moments and despair, the trip from phallus
To the womb and back again suffices sirens' close collusion
In some myth of progress here―a world fixed among the countless there
―And while we stare, we hear no greater melody than our
Own while to the inner ear such songs exceed the number of the hours.
We know no better than symphonies in the air;
We're told to breathe what affirmations satisfy the moments left to us
In some sweet hour knowing no delay, no passing seconds; lust
Is less for having nothing so concrete, no lasting trust
To occupy the heart and mind, and while the engines thrust
To send us from God knows where to nowhere near where we began
Stations crystalise as the gems of hopelessness and life's élan.
-
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/d9/Meltin...
Rated • 1 review • poetry • wikimedia.org
Bahá'ís throughout the world gather this evening and tomorrow to celebrate the First Day of the Month of Qudrat [Power]
"Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Qudrat
or `Power'"
Powers are exposed in the end through fire:
Gold is tested in the crucible at egregious cost
In greatest trial through heat and separation; dross
Allowed to stray leaving certitude, purities that never tire.
Mastery within the living plant is weighed in lust for light,
The rose is brought to bud--growth allied
With metamorphosis to shape, to realise
A brief but glorious reign for but a day or two,
it hubris weathered in flux and flight.
The third and last of elemental natural earthbound soup
Is mobile, sees, and hears, and feels its height and gain through
Outrageous energies of light where fires reign
Supreme throughout both land and sea in troops.
These powers--plaited strands of immortality defined
In death where nothing is--declare that nothing lasts beyond its time.
