I've got a little black book (@Occams_Beard)

Some find my death beautiful

in all the colours of autumn

bringing joy to grey days.

Others find it sad -

the sign of long nights in winter's embrace.

The fall banished fear out of my pores.

The feeling of helplessness

while being carried by the wind

opened my mind for a different reality.

Acceptance is not giving in

or giving up

it's choosing another path

where my heart's longing

and my peace of mind will be found.

The decay commands all,

and that fact cannot be denied or ignored.

I will become dust sooner than some,

and when the wind will cradle me in its arms

I will be reaching for the stars.

I have to leave it all behind -

the chattering of the birds,

and the warm kiss of sunshine -

the tender touch of a ladybird,

and a wet sensation of a raindrop -

the joy of a sunrise

and sadness of a cloudy night

denying me the magic of starlight.

I have to let it all go

for it was never mine to own.

I am ready now to say goodbye,

welcoming the last sleep

and the darkness that will turn into light

~ Iva

For this reading I am going to read two poems the first is typical of the period and the second for comparison is by Shakespeare.

I will pass no judgment but let you decide which you prefer.

My ladies hair

By Bartholomew Griffin. Published 1596 

My Lady's hair is threads of beaten gold;

  Her front the purest crystal eye hath seen;

Her eyes the brightest stars the heavens hold;

  Her cheeks, red roses, such as seld have been;

Her pretty lips of red vermilion dye;

  Her hand of ivory the purest white;

Her blush AURORA, or the morning sky.

  Her breast displays two silver fountains bright;

The spheres, her voice; her grace, the Graces three;   

  Her body is the saint that I adore;

Her smiles and favours, sweet as honey be.

  Her feet, fair THETIS praiseth evermore.

But Ah, the worst and last is yet behind :

For of a griffon she doth bear the mind!

Sonnet 130 - My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun

William Shakespeare

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red, than her lips red:

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound:

I grant I never saw a goddess go,

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

   And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,

   As any she belied with false compare.

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,

The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;

But then begins a journey in my head

To work my mind, when body's work's expired:

For then my thoughts--from far where I abide--

Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,

And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,

Looking on darkness which the blind do see:

Save that my soul's imaginary sight

Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,

Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,

Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.

   Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,

   For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself, and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,

Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;

   For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings

   That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Touch

Iva Hotko

You feel me

Not in the light of day

Or in the summers rain

But in the depths of your being

Where you hide all

That is not to be seen

I tickle you mind

I scratch on your heart

I'm retracing your steps

Lost in time

From the shadows of you soul

I speak to you

From the deepest of your desire

I comfort you

From this dance of passion and despair

We lustfully take all that we can

You hide from the truth

Which you laid so bare for me to see

And yet you are begging me

to set you free.

If I could tell you.

WH Auden

Time will say nothing but I told you so,

Time only knows the price we have to pay;

If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,

If we should stumble when musicians play,

Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,

Because I love you more than I can say,

If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,

There must be reasons why the leaves decay;

Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,

The vision seriously intends to stay;

If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,

And all the brooks and soldiers run away;

Will Time say nothing but I told you so?

If I could tell you I would let you know.

Pablo Neruda

Tonight I can write (The Saddest Lines)

For Jane a true friend, from Madelaine

Milesha Appavoo

A friend is a gift

A friend is

A gift full of strength

That comes with a hug

And wrapped in a smile,

Giving that extra ounce of comfort

We need it every once in a while.