People Watching
copyright RedRCS of course
“Behold the Sea,
The opaline, the plentiful and strong,
Yet beautiful as is the rose in June,
Fresh as the trickling rainbow of July;
Sea full of food, the nourisher of kinds,
Purger of earth, and medicine of men;
Creating a sweet climate by my breath,
Washing out harms and griefs from memory,
And, in my mathematic ebb and flow,
Giving a hint of that which changes not.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson, Sea Shore.
the kiss was like
biting
into
a fruit that was out of print
and
i put my
hand right above your
ass,
on your hip.movies can’t get it right
we got it right
or just about as close as
you can getwe
were nature,
science,
the odds,we
were somethingThis makes me think about J…
reposted from: windyblue:
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh…And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new
| — | Walt Whitman (via ohlonelily) |
1.
O Blush not so! O blush not so!
Or I shall think you knowing;
And if you smile the blushing while,
Then maidenheads are going.
2.
There’s a blush for want, and a blush for shan’t,
And a blush for having done it;
There’s a blush for thought, and a blush for nought,
And a blush for just begun it.
3.
O sigh not so! O sigh not so!
For it sounds of Eve’s sweet pippin;
By these loosen’d lips you have tasted the pips
And fought in an amorous nipping.
4.
Will you play once more at nice-cut-core,
For it only will last our youth out,
And we have the prime of the kissing time,
We have not one sweet tooth out.
5.
There’s a sigh for aye, and a sigh for nay,
And a sigh for ‘I can’t bear it!’
O what can be done, shall we stay or run?
O cut the sweet apple and share it!
John Keats
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
| — | Snow-flakes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (via growing-orbits) |
reposted from: masochisticbeauty:
I pluck the dandelion from the cool hard earth.
Making a wish as I twirl it around. Would
the gods of wishes hear my plea. Could
they feel my need for this wish to be
granted.I didn’t wish for riches and material things. It
was a simple wish; A day wrapped in your
arms. To feel your smile as you looked at me with
loving eyes. One day to hold your hand, to know the
strength in your arms as they held me tight. How
could such a wish not be granted.We were lovers fated. This journey beginning not
so long ago and yet the feeling was that you had
always been a part of me.eyes closing tight to wish again. To wish with all
my might..MB.
Wild Nights—Wild Nights!
Wild nights—wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
our luxury!
Futile the winds
To heart in port—
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart!
Rowing in Eden—
As the sea!
Might I moor, tonight,
In thee!
- Emily Dickinson
| — | Edna St. Vincent Millay (American 1892 - 1950) |
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkn’d ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
‘Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.
John Keats
