Raining Fairy Lights

can you see the colours falling?

[alecsgrg]

By: Joence

[vaacuum]

[llbwwb]

Moraine Lake (by Hank888)

[rainingfairylights]

This Morning Raymond Carver

This morning was something. A little snow lay on the ground. The sun floated in a clear blue sky. The sea was blue, and blue-green, as far as the eye could see. Scarcely a ripple. Calm. I dressed and went for a walk — determined not to return until I took in what Nature had to offer. I passed close to some old, bent-over trees. Crossed a field strewn with rocks where snow had drifted. Kept going until I reached the bluff. Where I gazed at the sea, and the sky, and the gulls wheeling over the white beach far below. All lovely. All bathed in a pure cold light. But, as usual, my thoughts began to wander. I had to will myself to see what I was seeing and nothing else. I had to tell myself this is what mattered, not the other. (And I did see it, for a minute or two!) For a minute or two it crowded out the usual musings on what was right, and what was wrong — duty, tender memories, thoughts of death, how I should treat with my former wife. All the things I hoped would go away this morning. The stuff I live with every day. What I’ve trampled on in order to stay alive. But for a minute or two I did forget myself and everything else. I know I did. For when I turned back i didn’t know where I was. Until some birds rose up from the gnarled trees. And flew in the direction I needed to be going.

[opcion]

[rainingfairylights]

Absence Jeffrey McDaniel

On the scales of desire, your absence weighs more than someone else’s presence, so I say no thanks

to the woman who throws her girdle at my feet, as I drop a postcard in the mailbox and watch it

throb like a blue heart in the dark. Your eyes are so green – one of your parents must be

part traffic light. We’re both self-centered, but the world revolves around us at the same speed.

Last night I tossed and turned inside a thundercloud. This morning my sheets were covered in pollen.

I remember the long division of Saturday’s pomegranate, a thousand nebulae in your hair,

as soldiers marched by, dragging big army bags filled with water balloons, and we passed a lit match,

back and forth, between our lips, under an oak tree I had absolutely nothing to do with.

[theloyal-deactivated20170208]

[mysmilestillstayson-deactivated]

Bird in a cage in Hanoi’s Old Quarter, Vietnam by Adam Cathro on Flickr.

[sundaisily-deactivated20200321]

[rainingfairylights]

Walking Around  Pablo Neruda It so happens I am sick of being a man. And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes. The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs. The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool. The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens, no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators. It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails and my hair and my shadow. It so happens I am sick of being a man. Still it would be marvelous to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily, or kill a nun with a blow on the ear. It would be great to go through the streets with a green knife letting out yells until I died of the cold. I don't want to go on being a root in the dark, insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep, going on down, into the moist guts of the earth, taking in and thinking, eating every day. I don't want so much misery. I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb, alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses, half frozen, dying of grief. That's why Monday, when it sees me coming with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline, and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel, and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night. And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses, into hospitals where the bones fly out the window, into shoeshops that smell like vinegar, and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin. There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines hanging over the doors of houses that I hate, and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot, there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and terror, there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords. I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line: underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling.

[orionfalls]

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[auroraw0lf]

[rainingfairylights]

Burning the Old Year Naomi Shihab Nye

Letters swallow themselves in seconds. Notes friends tied to the doorknob, transparent scarlet paper, sizzle like moth wings, marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable, lists of vegetables, partial poems. Orange swirling flame of days, so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t, an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space. I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves, only the things I didn’t do crackle after the blazing dies.

[hydrotoxicity]

[ianbarrar-deactivated20170331]

Men on a mission.

[bloodanalyst-blog]