Mandatory training and Joelle Taylor throw back

 

Running from Renee ( and everyone else)

Ditch those one-sided friends, it's for the best

Connect with those who truly invest

Life's too short to spend it on those who only take

Embrace the ones who always give and never fake.

Marty

G max five for six/banning the Beaumonts/emotion jammed Nevadaism

 My grandmother once gave me a tip:

In difficult times, move forward in small steps.

Do what you have to do, but little by little.

Don’t think about the future

or what may happen tomorrow.

Wash the dishes.

Remove the dust.

Write a letter.

Make a soup.

You see?

Advance step by step.

Take a step and stop.

Rest a little.

Praise yourself.

Take another step.

And then another.

You won’t notice, but your steps will grow more and more.

And the time will come when you can think about the future without crying.

Author: Elena Mikhalkova

Photo Artist: Whang-Od

Patrick Dougher

Poundland primark conjunction

 “She sat at the back and they said she was shy.

She led from the front and they hated her pride.

They asked her advice and then questioned her guidance.

They branded her loud, then were shocked by her silence.

When she shared no ambition they said it was sad.

So she told them her dreams and they said she was mad.

They told her they'd listen, then covered their ears,

And gave her a hug while they laughed at her fears,

And she listened to all of it thinking she should,

Be the girl they told her to be best as she could.

But one day she asked what was best for herself,

Instead of trying to please everyone else,

So she walked to the forest and stood with the trees,

She heard the wind whisper and dance with the leaves.

She spoke to the willow, the elm and the pine,

And she told them what she'd been told time after time.

She told them she felt she was never enough,

She was either too little or far far too much,

Too loud or too quiet, too fierce or too weak,

Too wise or too foolish, too bold or too meek,

Then she found a small clearing surrounded by firs,

And she stopped...and she heard what the trees said to her.

And she sat there for hours not wanting to leave.

For the forest said nothing, it just let her breathe.”

Credits...

The author of the poem is Becky Helmsley.

The artist for the photo creation is Yulia Ostinova.

RIP David. A forever Icon

 "Listen to me, your body is not a temple. Temples can be destroyed and desecrated. Your body is a forest ~ thick canopies of maple trees and sweet scented wildflowers sprouting in the underwood. You will grow back, over and over, no matter how badly you are devastated."

~ Beau Taplin

. I think I've reached that point. I will only be here for myself. I will disappoint everybody.

 

Nikita Gill : wild embers

Twitter poems

 Out of the night that covers me black as the pit from pole to pole. I thank whatever gods may be. For my unconquerable soul. - Henley

Rage. Rage against the dying of the light.

John Donne No man is an island, Entire of itself; Every man is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. ... Any man's death diminishes me, Because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

"If you can make one heap of all your winnings     And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings     And never breathe a word about your loss;"

The long necked twins of blue.

 black women breathe flowers, too.

just because

we are taught to grow them in the lining of our quiet (our grandmothers secret)

does not mean

we do not swelter with wild tenderness.

we soft swim.

we petal.

we scent limbs and love.

we just have been too long a garden for sharp and deadly teeth.

so we

have

grown

ourselves into

greenhouses.

— nayyirah waheed

Thank you Mr tax man/trying not to count those chickens.

 "If men understood the value of a well fucked woman they would have no choice but to prioritise their sexual evolution.

If you understood that having a well fucked woman on your side was the formula to succeeding in life, in every realm and every kingdom it would become your religion.

Religiously giving her everything you’ve got, on your knees thrusting in prayer, hymns flowing from her hips to her lips a gospel choir conducted by your conductor, symphonies as sweet as an angels breath written by your caress.

Taking her deeper than the material, the mundane, the physical, undressing her body mind and soul, she is your ticket to success.

The most valuable asset you could ever invest in, your embodied evolution, your sexual consciousness.

She will ooze all over your existence , lusciously dripping warm and melting, lubricating your life, the ease within your flow, the lakshmi to your abundance, the magic behind your power.

A moisturised life, gleaming in the glory of her erotically charged radiance,

The remedy to your everything, a slathered on saviour, the coconut oil of the human variety.

Apply liberally.

Her creative energy that you have assisted in its activation, stirred up within her cauldron, will birth your every dream into reality.

Your conscious cock is like a wizards wand, interacting with her magic to manifest, co-creating a new world with every breath, pulse and moan.

You have the power to be the god she calls her own. Taking her to heights most holy upon sweaty sheets.

You can be the moon to her tides, eclipsing her preoccupation with the mind.

You can blow the wind into her sails and lift her up high to explore the oceans of the skies, the power in your body vibrating, attuned, refined.

Divorcing her from unconsciousness & reuniting her with the divine, helping her become clarified.

Taking her into timeless trance states where her body lay beneath your own, yet her psyche is in another dimensional time zone, reciting the lyrics straight from gods kiss, a lyrical psychic physicist, delivering wisdom straight from creations mind back in her body for dinner time.

You can be a part of miracles like that on the daily if you desire.

When you heal one of us you heal us all.

Conscious sex is medicine and we are all suffering from our unfilled prescriptions.

We have become diseased from a lack of connection, from ourselves, from each other, from the earth, from the feminine.

Now is time for our reclamation.

If you are into transformation and ignoring your sexuality you are sorely mistaken, our evolution relies on our full bodied and soul integration."

~ Alana Louise May ~

A good sunday prayer.

 "Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved."  William Shakespeare Sonnet 116

Prepping for air migration

 If you are silent about your pain,

they’ll kill you

and say

you enjoyed it.

Zora Neale Hurston

" Glad she's not my GP"

 "One heart is not connected to another through harmony alone. They are, instead, linked deeply through their wounds. Pain linked to pain, fragility to fragility. There is no silence without a cry of grief, no forgiveness without bloodshed, no acceptance without a passage through acute loss. That is what lies at the root of true harmony."

~ Haruki Murakami#UbuntuPoetryPortal

Sorba in the afternoon.( well night)

 

My friend

They don’t care

If you’re an individualist

A leftist a rightist

A shithead or a snake

They will try to exploit you

Absorb you confine you

Disconnect you isolate you

Or kill you

And you will disappear into your own rage

Into your own insanity

Into you own poverty

Into a word a phrase a slogan a cartoon

And then ashes

The ruling class will tell you that

There is no ruling class

As they organize their liberal supporters into

White supremacist lynch mobs

Organize their children into

Ku Klux Klan gangs

Organize their children into

Killer cops

Organize their propaganda into

A device to ossify us with angel dust

Pre-occupy us with western symbols in

African hair styles

Inoculate us with hate

Institutionalize us with ignorance

Hypnotize us with a monotonous sound designed

To make us evade reality and stomp our lives away

And we are programmed to self destruct

To fragment

To get buried under covert intelligence operations of

Unintelligent committees impulsed toward death

And there it is

The enemies polishing their penises between

Oil wells at the pentagon

The bulldozers leaping into demolition dances

The old folks dying of starvation

The informers wearing out shoes looking for crumbs

The life blood of the earth almost dead in

The greedy mouth of imperialism

And my friend

They don’t care

If you’re an individualist

A leftist a rightist

A shithead or a snake

They will spray you with

A virus of legionnaires disease

Fill your nostrils with

The swine flu of their arrogance

Stuff your body into a tampon of

Toxic shock syndrome

Try to pump all the resources of the world

Into their own veins

And fly off into the wild blue yonder to

Pollute another planet

And if we don’t fight

If we don’t resist

If we don’t organize and unify and

Get the power to control our own lives

Then we will wear

The exaggerated look of captivity

The stylized look of submission

The bizarre look of suicide

The dehumanized look of fear

And the decomposed look of repression

Forever and ever and ever

And there it is.

~ Jayne Cortez#UbuntuPoetryPortal

Faith and Doualla

 There is a Languor of the Life

More imminent than Pain —
'Tis Pain's Successor — When the Soul
Has suffered all it can —

A Drowsiness — diffuses —
A Dimness like a Fog
Envelops Consciousness —
As Mists — obliterate a Crag.

The Surgeon — does not blanch — at pain
His Habit — is severe —
But tell him that it ceased to feel —
The Creature lying there —

And he will tell you — skill is late —
A Mightier than He —
Has ministered before Him —
There's no Vitality.

Emily Dickinson

Waiting for the Padron.

 There is no fruit. Just a nervous rattle from a mouth that works its self under foot. We are the looted. MB