#ppoem

J: Qual é a coisa mais importante que aprendeu como pessoa?

B: mano, mto difícil viu

acho q eu te respondo amanhã se tu n importar kkkkk

preciso pensar

Frank Oakley II

This is an aerial view of Atlanta Botanical Gardens and the skyline of Atlanta. It’s an awesome photo. 

* * *

I am running into a New Year and the old years blow back like a wind that I catch in my hair like strong fingers, like all my old promises and it will be hard to let go of what I said to myself about myself when I was sixteen and twenty six and thirty six but I am running into a New Year and I beg what I love and I leave to forgive me ~ Lucille Clifton "I Am Running Into A New Year"

I take a cup of coffee

With sugar and cream

When I look

At my cup I realize there is night scenery

In it instead of coffee

I think I remember it being the kind where you barely remember falling asleep, Just knowing that at some point, Those thoughts you let pass coalesced into their own little world. 

And eventually, You accepted the wonder that immersed you. 

This is the story of that dream. 

I think I remember it being the kind where you somehow slowly realize that you are dreaming, And begin to doubt the things you once understood.

  But then you also begin to understand that if it's indeed a dream, It's your dream to create, And your dream to unravel.

  This is the story of that dream. 

But this is also another story, A far more important one to tell. 

This is the story of waking up after, Slowly but surely, And waking up to a more complicated reality that at least you know is there.

This is the story of realizing that just like a dream, You can change it. 

But unlike a dream, You will have to survive first, And you will have to carry on even if you cannot wake up and start again. 

You will have to hope. 

You will have to change 

You will have to give up on destiny, Give up on purpose and fate. 

You will have to embrace upheaval, Embrace revolution, Embrace the future for what it is and then burn it all down. 

After all, The world will change one day or another. 

And this time, I will not be dreaming. 

Exile - A random blog picked from LitHub provided the inspiration for today's Poetry Daily. I think it speaks to a universal condition.

The Cailleach had other plans for us yesterday. The workshop and reading is postponed until tomorrow, which is St. Brigid’s Day. Living where we do, when we make plans at this time of year, we have a Plan B. We know that the Cailleach often unleashes the worst of the winter right at this point of the year. Yesterday, I enjoyed the snow in a way that you can take the girl out of PA, but you will…

Mira hacia dentro de la recamara, las horas se pasan deprisa bajo el uniforme, no sabe como definir al "cansancio", no sabe si callar en vez de brindar.

Las manos pesan el doble por el horario, mañana es otro día de trabajo, se convence que no hay empleo malo, se sorprende al no ver su rostro en el mercado.

¿Que habrá de comer hoy? Con tanto atraso no hay para mercado; ¿Que habrá entonces para beber? En este suelo solo llueve sobre mojado.

Postrado y rendido enciende un cigarrillo, cierra sus ojos tirando de sus hilos, buscando en el momento el destino partido, cuando los títeres dejaron de ser divertidos.

Al tiempo le prometió otro sitio, pero los giros no dejan de ser giros, quizás las vísceras para esto fueron hechas, un disfraz y el oxigeno encendido.

Deja caer al suelo su día feriado, rogando para un amanecer no tan nublado.

Slow Rain ~ Gabriela Mistral Translated from the Spanish by Gunda Kaiser and James Tipton

This water, sad and fearful, like a child who suffers, before touching the Earth, fades away.

Calm the wind, calm the tree— but in the tremendous silence, this lean, bitter song is falling.

The sky is like a heart, immense, opening up, bitter, it is not rain; it is a bleeding, long, and slow.

Men in houses do not feel this bitterness, this sad flow of water out of the heavens.

This long and tiring descent of conquered water, towards Earth, recumbent, and paralysed!

It is raining . . . . and like a tragic jackal the night watches over the land. What is going to spring up, in the shadow, out of Mother Earth?