Just a Girl Lost 2

Just a girl lost~ Here I share bits & pieces of me, in poetry, prose, music & posts from writers who inspire me.


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I’m New

 

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I’ve changed

the old me is in the rearview

I’ve changed

the new me drags no chains

my heart ~ my thoughts

my decisions rearranged

I’m new

everyday,

from this day thru

I’m new

~

©justagirllost2

A new song I love and I hope you will love it as much as I do ~ xo

~


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marigold

a mind aglow in dreams

carousel spinning skeins

lemonflash  rubyslash

spinning scenes

chinacrash

of marigold bled yellow red

horses bellow

fires flash

beneath  trip

falling

leaves

~

©justagirllost2

image ~ https://www.viator.com/photos/Las-Vegas-tours/Le-Reve-The-Dream-at-Wynn-Las-Vegas/2269247


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National Poetry Month : Quotes about Poetry

In poetry and in eloquence the beautiful and grand must spring from the commonplace…. All that remains for us is to be new while repeating the old, and to be ourselves in becoming the echo of the whole world.

~Alexandre Vinet (1797–1847)

 

Poetry,—the language of the Imagination and the Passions,—the oldest and most beauteous offspring of Literature.

~Frederick Hinde, Poetry, a lecture delivered in London on the evening of April 8, 1858

 

The courage of the poet is to keep ajar the door that leads to madness.

~Christopher Morley, Inward Ho!

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It is vain for the sober man to knock at poesy’s door.

~Plato

 

No poems can please for long or live that are written by water-drinkers.

~Horace, Satires

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The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.

~W.B. Yeats

A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music… and then people crowd about the poet and say to him: “Sing for us soon again;” that is as much as to say, “May new sufferings torment your soul.”

~ Søren Kierkegaard

 

Poetry is the revelation of a feeling that the poet believes to be interior and personal which the reader recognizes as his own.

~Salvatore Quasimodo

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To have great poets there must be great audiences too.

~Walt Whitman

 

The sublimity of poetry, you see, lies in the fact that it does not take an educated person to understand it and to love it. On the contrary. The educated do not understand it, and generally they despise it, because they have too much pride. To love poetry it is enough to have a soul,—a little soul, naked, like a flower. Poets speak to the souls of the simple, of the sad, of the sick. And that is why they are eternal. Do you know that, when one has sensibility, one is always something of a poet?

~Octave Mirbeau, A Chambermaid’s Diary / Le Journal d’une Femme de Chambre, 1900, translated from the French by Benjamin R. Tucker

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No man was ever yet a great poet, without being at the same time a profound philosopher. For poetry is the blossom and the fragrancy of all human knowledge, human thoughts, human passions, emotions, language.

~S.T. Coleridge (1772–1834), Biographia Literaria, 1817

~

 


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He Is

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He loves me with strong, calloused hands.

He pushes aside wisps of hair to gently kiss my forehead.

His way to wordlessly say, “It’s still ok, you grumpy, unloving, selfish girl . I love every bit and piece of you. I still do.  It’s just me and you and WE will always be ok.”

He laughs when I won’t.

He likes music I don’t, he likes mine too, he never has to choose. He’s an Eclectic demigod of tunes.  A firestorm of moods. He can be as crazy, raunchy, crude, irreverent, lewd, uncontrolled, wild and wicked as the music he listens to.

He is undone watching sad movies, the ones where sports heroes die in the arms of a best friend.

He loves books as if they somehow help him breathe. He reads to me the things that touch him most deeply. He hides nothing of what he’s feeling or thinking. He knows I never judge him & though I may disagree I respect him and always try to see though his eyes.

His openness, trust and complete honesty are the greatest gifts of Love anyone has ever given me.  He allows me to reciprocate. His uncaged heart frees me.

Everything about him screams sexy.  His mind is my Aphrodisiac.  His body is my home. There is no part of me he hasn’t seen. There is nothing I keep from him. To Him only do I belong.

He can split logs and carry them in rain.  He is made of hardest muscle and beard. He is not soft. I love the rugged length of him. The smell of sweat and skin. The way his hands engulf mine. The way his body shields and protects. He makes me feel strong, yet delicate.

He isn’t afraid to Pray, in his own way.

He seeks beyond this world for the greater good and greater Truth.

He Respects all creatures, all life. He lets butterflies rest upon his thumb and never kills bumblebees or fireflies.

His takes no delight in cruelty or another man’s downfall

He is strength with tenderness. A gentle upheaval. A fascinating contradiction.

He is Bold as knights of old. He Protects the innocent, the weak, the bullied, the meek.

He is slow to anger or take offense. He sees all, the bad, the good in those he calls friend.

He does what is right and honorable with courage and strength of conviction.

He is a man of action, a Warrior

He is a Seeker of peace

Hypocrisy he never tolerates. Ignorance he won’t excuse. He never suffers fools.

He has no need for the approval of men. He’s no sheep to be led by irrational emotion. He’s not influenced by the latest trends among politicians, philosophers or the masses.

He is a realist, a pragmatist who sees with the eyes of wisdom and reason.

He is an Idealist, an optimist, a philosopher.

Compelling, passionate, brilliant and fascinating. He challenges my mind, and he delights when mine challenges his.

He is gentility and class. He is confident and secure with his manhood, his place in the world. He is nobility of thought. Justice and honesty are ingrained in his heart.

More than generous, he seeks no adulation or glory for kindnesses

He sacrifices without complaint for those he loves

He gazes into each sun’s rising and setting with wonder and awe. He knows all nature is a masterpiece, a treasure to protect and respect

He shows me reality in colors unseen

He sees beyond what the eyes perceive

In every season he finds hope, no matter how stark the horizon or chilling the breeze

He teaches me unending ways to discover the Beauty in me

Like a rare flower he treasures and cherishes me with every breath

He delights as I bloom beneath his care. He is never threatened by my strength. He could crush me in an instant, I trust him completely. I am fearless and free within the fortress of him

He is my Protector, my Avenger

He is my Savior, my soulmate, my biggest fan, my most ardent, attentive Lover

He is my best friend

He found me when I was alone, unguarded, unmasked. He SAW into me and still stayed around. I know it’s meant to last

He is Man ~ He is my Love

He walks this earth

My Soul’s Mate known and expected

since before time began

I will wait a lifetime

to walk beside him once again

Hand in Hand

~

 

©justagirllost2


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I am a poet

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They say

that all poets

at some point in time

possess and express

in overabundance

one or two or three or four

of the traits listed below:

Moodiness

Instability

Insanity

Eccentricty

and are very

Selfish

Idealistic

Intense

Impulsive

Cynical

Morose

Emotional

and

LoveWithEveryFiberOfTheirBeingNoMatterTheConsequenceComeHellOrHighWater

and

if it’s true

you have these traits

and all poets have these traits

you might be a poet

Depending upon

the interpretation,

it’s not a bad thing

and

I might be a poet, too

though

I live in the same world as you

Poetry is my favorite addiction/meditation/recreation/Re-Creation

I adore exploring every beautiful place

in a poet’s universe

I am a poet,

but only in spirit

I’m not like you

You are one of the chosen few

Whose words speak to my heart’s most hidden parts

I cannot pen my adoration to the ones I adore

as elegantly as you do

So, I carry you with me

I invite you into my most secret place

beneath an ancient oak

whose massive branches hang like arms

forming a cradle covered by a canopy of leaves

It’s my secret room I want to share with you

I gently lay you down on a bed of of grass

next to me as I sit in the sacred silence

I open your pages

I read your poems

Your magic is who you are

You paint in colors

that never existed before

Yes, you are a poet

You often lie between the pages

of Sylvia Plath

and Rossetti

or Robert Frost,

as Bukowski

flutters in the wind,

waiting impatiently

for me to finish

I read your last word

I let you slip away into the pages of places

I can only see in the dreams you write for me

I wait to once again taste your poetry

for I am a poet too, in spirit

and

I’m in love

with every poet and poem

whose kindred words

have touched my shore

~

©justagirllost2


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Not Sweating the Small Stuff

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My youngest daughter, whom I sit next to right now in a hospital room, has much to complain about when it comes to my mothering skills.

I more often than not set a bad example when it comes to housekeeping.  Procrastination is my middle name, unless company is coming over and then it’s “Haul ASS and GET TO WORK, EVERYBODY… NOW!”

My children have seen my worst sides of my being a daughter in the clashes I’ve had with my own mother.  I always feel I’ve let them down and wonder what happened to all my self-control and noble promises of being a perfect example of motherhood.  It’s humiliating to admit my faults and flaws to them, especially since I grew up believing my mother to be the saint of self-control and perfection.

I can be grumpy and short with my children.  I always apologize and ask them to forgive my shortcomings and my selfishness.

The only time I don’t feel like the poster child for horrible and inadequate mothers is when I don’t sweat the small stuff, the stuff that many adults consider mountains, I consider molehills.

The spills, messes, broken glass/dishes/windows, lost jewelry, ruined shirts, boots, dresses, brand new cameras not meant to be put in ziploc bags & take underwater pictures in swimming pools, the holes in walls, the wet beds, the needing to vent without being told how to feel, not feel or ‘fix’ it… all things that make us human.

The latest one, my daughter stepping on my closed laptop as she leaned over to kiss me the other morning.  My prized laptop went “CRACK” and we both went “Oh NOOO!”.  I wanted to cry when I saw the screen, but all I said was, “Oh no, Chloe, I think it’s cracked, but it’s ok it wasn’t your fault.  No worries.”  And that was that.   That’s my one redeeming quality as a mother, to not sweat the small stuff.  My children’s dignity and self-esteem is more important to me than my own disappointment and angst.

There is never any shame in making mistakes and there never should be.  That’s part of life. My mother never made me feel less than when I messed up as a child, my father did.  I NEVER  went to my father for ANYTHING, I never wanted to feel like an imposition.  I went to my mother instead.  That was the greatest lesson I learned about being a parent.  I always want my children to know that they are loved, just because.

~

 

©justagirllost2   

*image from Pinterest