Pen Name: lxpetrik

Amazing poem! I love it. thedailywhat: Poem of the Day Dubbed...

Sat, 02 Feb 2013 19:39:49 -0600

Amazing poem! I love it.

Poem of the Day

Dubbed the “BEST CAT POEM EVER,” Spencer Madsen’s poem about his sad cat has been getting a lot of love on Tumblr and Twitter.

"No one is “good” at yoga in the way that no one is “good” at working out or lifting weights. It’s..."

Sat, 02 Feb 2013 19:29:00 -0600

“No one is “good” at yoga in the way that no one is “good” at working out or lifting weights. It’s all about personal progress toward your body’s natural health. The poses aren’t goals, they are ways of aligning your body and building the kinds of muscles you haven’t used since childhood. Yoga is not performance art. It is Health.”

- lazyyogi

Amazing water color!

Sat, 02 Feb 2013 19:26:47 -0600

Amazing water color!

"It was our fault, and our very great fault— and now we must turn it to use. We have forty..."

Sat, 02 Feb 2013 19:22:00 -0600

“It was our fault, and our very great fault—
and now we must turn it to use.
We have forty million reasons for failure,
but not a single excuse.
So the more we work and the less we talk
the better results we shall get …”

- Rudyard Kipling, “The Lesson,” 1901

jimdubois: Celebrate, Blackout Poem. I’m gonna do one of...

Thu, 08 Nov 2012 21:27:14 -0600

jimdubois:

Celebrate, Blackout Poem.

I’m gonna do one of these some time! Neat-o!

kokoshgam: Subjective Ahem.

Wed, 07 Nov 2012 15:55:21 -0600

kokoshgam:

Subjective

Ahem.

theworldwelivein: by Agustin Rafael Reyes

Sun, 29 Apr 2012 11:21:03 -0500

theworldwelivein:

by Agustin Rafael Reyes

Photo

Mon, 23 Apr 2012 13:03:56 -0500

theworldwelivein: (via Landscapes on Photography Served)

Sun, 22 Apr 2012 13:03:17 -0500

theworldwelivein:

(via Landscapes on Photography Served)

Photo

Sat, 21 Apr 2012 13:05:25 -0500

Hamlet, 1996.

Fri, 20 Apr 2012 23:15:42 -0500

Hamlet, 1996.

To Dwell on a Friend, wanting to tell you that things that are...

Tue, 17 Apr 2012 10:01:08 -0500

To Dwell on a Friend,

wanting to tell you that things that are happening in my life. As we grow, as

we age and I don’t know how to make the words flow. How to explain

my sadness or the remorse. Because, there are no obvious answers. No immediate explanations. Only snap

judgments and unhappiness. Even when I

bask lonely in the lime light of accomplishment, I still can’t feel any elation in my heart

unable to admit what bit of faith and fact are equivalent. The acute angles, long and broad like the side

of your cheek. Like the finely sculpted eyebrow and the thin layer of powder beneath your exterior. It all sits

heavy in my heart. Even though I know them to be judgments. Even though I recognize my own

obvious faults. I still can’t let go to find

a wind turbine swarming out in the field. The birds nesting neatly below. Finding the undisturbed patches of land. Searching out

the places undisturbed

by bitter hands

and the rages of limitless ends

and smile-less friends.

Ourselves lost,

in the connections of sonic wave to the

ever lasting cosmic chatter. And sometimes, even fathers cry. When their daughters grow up

and buy houses and get married. Have husbands and leave all their artwork in the crawl space, for the mice

love to run through the house in little tumbler balls. Plastic clear and stinking of hamster cage,

pine bedding and cat litter. And

sometimes I drink for no other reason than because I am a bad person. Which makes me wonder

when we all became so adult and so

morbid in this lived life - this other manifestation of the spirit realm- as misty bodies and cloudy

men always step in. As we pick up the pieces of our

love. Though we never felt it was fallen, only a bit scattered. And tattered.

And torn. Blown up,

high above the trees. Like a white cinema screen. A drive in movie before

they went extinct. As though there were a reason

for that conversation we had out on the grass, dog in hand. And I may or

may not remember the contents of this drink. Of this opressive depression and obvious discourse.

A browning ‘round the edges, though I found no explanation. Though I sought no substitute.

I took only and gave only and acknowledged only that psychic thread all people have. Like when

your ears burn, not from rage, but from the utter delight of being dwelled upon. A meditation on

life and all that there is looking out into an open sea. Not a writer, but a sailor instead

keeping a caption’s log. An-adventure-a-day, though we all fell asleep in the end, it’s merely a matter

of defining the verse. Of taking hold and chopping the segments of everyday into clearly focused, ponder-less,

pointless words, which create the minor brush strokes in the mural of life.

Always searching for

the divine. The sublime.

Beautiful,

to be exact and true.

I wish I could tell you more by meaning more. To unfurl my box of magazine

clippings like the caption of a schooner. To map and illustrate the twists

of fate. The utter nonsense. Bright, quiet nonsense to float away the pain on the harbor of innocence and purity.

For the puns like the finality of the death of a life half lived

and that otherwise mysterious relationship determined

before birth and played out passed the end of time and the symphony

of violins, cellos and guitars. The jacket of a bee drawn by life and thumb,

a personal reason that defines nothing, “Everything as something.” Though we feel, ultimately, alone beside the quietness

of the noise of chattering people as your ears ring with the sound of a phone that isn’t

because there is no spoon always so free to give out

a riverbed which came up empty

just like your hands when you stood before me with nothing good

to say.

Photo

Mon, 16 Apr 2012 12:42:20 -0500

"It is the stars, The stars above us, govern our conditions; Else one self mate and make could not..."

Sun, 15 Apr 2012 17:28:18 -0500

“It is the stars,
The stars above us, govern our conditions;
Else one self mate and make could not beget
Such different issues.”

- Kent in King Lear by W.S.

"My diaries are letters from my former self to my future self. My poems are replies to those letters."

Sun, 15 Apr 2012 15:07:58 -0500

“My diaries are letters from my former self to my future self. My poems are replies to those letters.”

- Vera Pavlova (tr. Steven Seymour), “Heaven Is Not Verbose: A Notebook” (Poetry, April 2012)

"A Chinaman of the T’ang dynasty- and by which definition a philosopher- dreamed he was a..."

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 13:01:06 -0500

“A Chinaman of the T’ang dynasty- and by which definition a philosopher- dreamed he was a butterfly, and from that moment he was never quite sure that he was not a butterfly dreaming it was a Chinese philosopher.”

- Guildenstern in Tom Stoppard’s play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead

"Whatever they say about time, life only moves in one direction, that’s a fact, mirroring..."

Fri, 13 Apr 2012 22:06:00 -0500

“Whatever they say about time, life only moves in one direction, that’s a fact, mirroring along.”

- Decreation by Anne Carson

soldieronpond: The Black Book of Colors by Menena Cottin I...

Fri, 13 Apr 2012 19:46:37 -0500

soldieronpond:

The Black Book of Colors by Menena Cottin

I stumbled across this while looking for a book for my cousin’s new baby. I was so intrigued by the whole idea. On each left page there was words written in braille and then again in white text. It was the description of colors, according to how a blind child would experience. On the right there were raised etchings of what each page was describing. It’s so beautiful.

One page in particular that really caught my attention was the one describing the color red. It talked about how red is how it feels to bite into a ripe strawberry, or the stinging on your knee after you fall down. Blue was the feeling of sunshine on your face.

It’s just so astounding that someone managed this, as the idea of how to describe a color to someone who has no reference has always fascinated and baffled me.

Picture source here

Available to purchase here

This is a very neat concept and one that i would like to experience. Who cares if I don’t know braille!

Chasing Daylight into Existence

Fri, 13 Apr 2012 18:39:00 -0500

Some times I don’t fell human

(not alive)

Sometimes clouds hang heavier,

thicker,

lower in the sky,

pregnant with a rage.

Another traditional airship fact for the caption of that ship.

Red hair bronze in the glowing horizon,

stands eating the salty waves between

shanks of biscuit slabs.

Chasing daylight away. Or

(into existence)

Sometimes I’m not attached to my body,

slowly floating in the afternoon sun

(not alive)

Sensing the ease of which things disappear

from us,

(facts & marriages)

(mortgages & renovations)

(burgulary & larceny) (immaculate & conception)

(not everyone is perfect)

(not each of us are right)

Some where, we got all grown up.

All (spiteful & adult)

correct

in the vicious sense.

Changing with a changeling’s name sake.

Becoming and changing for our own sake’s.

Anger breeds anger, so

(maybe)

take that golden sunset advice,

to admit,

“One day I may be real.”

"If everyone demanded peace instead of another television set, then there’d be peace."

Wed, 11 Apr 2012 21:06:33 -0500

“If everyone demanded peace instead of another television set, then there’d be peace.”

- John Lennon (via what-a-whale)