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 The rich proud cost of outworn buried age; When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed, And brass eternal slave to mortal rage; When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the watery main, Increasing store with loss, and loss with store; When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded to decay; Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

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? Thou art more lovely and more temperate:  Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,  And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd;  But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;  Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,  When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st; So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

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)      Tonight I can write the saddest lines.      Write, for example, ‘The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.’      The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.      Tonight I can write the saddest lines.        I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.      Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.      I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.      She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.      How could one not have loved her great still eyes.      Tonight I can write the saddest lines.      To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.      To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.      And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.      What does it matter that my love could not keep her.      The night is starry and she is not with me.      This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.      My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.      My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.      My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.      The same night whitening the same trees.      We, of back then, are no longer the same.      I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.      My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.      Another’s. She will be another’s. As she was before my kisses.      Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.      I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.      Love is so short, forgetting is so long.      Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms      my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.      Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer      and these the last verses that I write for her.

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.