Ever Thine. Ever Mine. Ever Ours...

I know I'm not the only one who swooooooooned throughout the first Sex and the City movie. Love. Drama. Friendship...there was just so much awesome. Yes...Big revealed what an immature jerk he could really be, but he redeemed himself and made it up to Carrie with some bling and the shoe closet of her dreams. haha. I would have forgiven him too :)

Anyways...just found the full words to the poem Carrie used in her vows...double swoon! Beethoven was one romantic guy!!

When I Became A Man

BY Phil Allen

"...Before I became a man

I was much shorter
Not just in height but in spiritual insight
Because I never had a picture
Nor did Pixar ever have a film
Showing me what God’s man really looked like

But when I became man
Oh, When I became a man
I learned how to love Father God right back
Even though I’m good at falling short of the glory
I reflect on my story
Through my praise I’ll self publish a testimony..."

Want to know more about Phil? Click here!

93 Million Miles

Mraz is oh so good! His lyrics always read like poetry and always come exactly when I need to hear them! If you havent gotten his new CD, please please please do!

93 Million Miles
BY Jason Mraz

93 million miles from the Sun, people get ready get ready,
'cause here it comes
it’s a light, a beautiful light,
over the horizon into our eyes
Oh, my my how beautiful,
oh my beautiful mother
She told me, "Son in life you’re gonna go far, and if you do it right you’ll love where you are
Just know,
that wherever you go,
you can always come back home"

Tuesday Nights

Tuesday Nights Outside The Church of Gustavo Adolphus
BY Taylor Mali

An odd assortment of men  

Stands outside the church  

(every Tuesday nights)smoking,  

Their common addiction  

Stronger than Jesus

I want to ask what they come for 

And whether they find it  

But am afraid, perhaps,  

That having once been told,  

I will need it too.

From his collection The Last Time as We Are

Run Through these Streets with Me

Milos 
BY Anis Mojgani

Be a river with me;
Be the storm;
the bend in the path;
the front porch; the heat in the south;
be a boot full of banjo strings;
a fist full of written songs;
a mouth full of chocolate dust.
When they come to take us,
stab them between the eyes.
Do not take your hand from around mine.
Make a fist with the other, and punch spines like guilds, spit, sweat, kiss them like a grandmother. How will open mouthed terror love filled?
And when they come to cut out hair and ask to hear penance come from inside us,
say with me loud and trembling,
but loud and clear that:
"i have already emptied myself. I kissed regret goodbye, took the hands of another backwards angel, and rode backwards into the rain"

Full words here!

Happy Resurrection Sunday!

Easter says you can put truth in a grave, but it won't stay there.  ~Clarence W. Hall





Image Source: http://resurrection-brentwood.org/

Why does the caged bird sing?

From the Depths

Last night, instead of sleeping, I re-read Oscar Wilde's de Profundis. For those who don't know, its the letter a heartbroken Wilde wrote to the lover who denied him, betrayed him and got him thrown in prison for two years for gross indecency. Not the most upbeat book choice, but misery loves company. It's crazy how much it can hurt, even when you know it's the right move. All I know is that love is one messy thing. Ask poor Oscar. Love landed him in jail...

Anyway...After a nearly sleepless night, waking up to a tear-stained pillowcase and finally putting myself together enough to say "Amen," I have decided to focus on the task of getting reacquainted with myself... Who was I before? A fiery, brazen woman, I think. Or maybe a hopeless fawn looking for exactly what I eventually found? Was I ever an entity of my own? Or have I always been so weak, a simple echo of someone else's song?

The sun is starting to come out now and I'm starting to feel a little bit lighter. The sky has not fallen yet. I am still alive. Friday's hailstorm didn't blow away this tired body of dust and bones...and I still have poetry!

Rachel McKibbens. le sigh. Her writing is perfection and this two year old poem spoke all the way to my soul this morning. It feels a fitting welcome back to the world of the creative, the emotive, the single...


Happy National Poetry Month!

Last Love

BY Rachel McKibbens

To my daughters, I need to say:

Go with the one who loves you biblically.
The one whose love lifts its head to you despite its broken neck.
Whose body bursts sixteen arms electric to carry you, gentle, the way
old grief is gentle.

Love the love that is messy in all its too much,

The body that rides best your body, whose mouth saddles the naked salt
of your far gone hips, whose tongue translates the rock language of
all your elegant scars.

Go with the one who cries out for his tragic sisters as he chops the winter’s wood, the one whose skin
Triggers your heart into a heaven of blood waltzes.
Go with the one who resembles most your father. Not the father you can
point out on a map,
But the father who is here. Is your home. Is the key to your front door. Know that your first love will only

Be the first. And the second and third and even fourth will unprepare you for the most important:
The Blessed. The Beast. The Last love. Which is, of course, the most terrifying kind.

Because which of us wants to go with what can murder us? Can reveal to us our true heart’s end and its thirty years spent in poverty?
Can mimic the sound of our bird-throated mothers, replicate the warmth of our brothers' tempers? Can pull us out of ourselves until

We are no longer sisters or daughters or sword swallowers but, instead,

Women. Who give. And lead. And take and want

And want

And want

And want

Because there is no shame in wanting.

And you will hear yourself say: Last Love, I wish to die so I may come back to you new and never tasted by any other mouth but yours.
And I want to be the hands that pull your children out of you and tuck them deep inside myself until they are
Ready to be the children of such a royal and staggering love. Or you
will say:

Last Love,
I am old, and have spent myself on the courageless, have wasted too many clocks on less-deserving men, so I hurl myself at the throne of you
And lie humbly at your feet.

Last Love, let me never roll out of this heavy dream of you.
Let the day I was born mean my life will end where you end.
Let the man behind the church do what he did if it brings me to you.
Let the girls in the locker room corner me again if it brings me to you.
Let the wrong beds find me if it brings me to you.
Let this wild depression throw me beneath its hooves if it brings me to you.
Let me pronounce my hoarded joy if it brings me to you.
Let my father break me again and again if it brings me to you.

Last love, I let other men borrow your children. Forgive me.
Last love, I vowed my heart to another. Forgive me.
Last Love, I have let my blind and anxious hands wander into a room and come out empty. Forgive me.

Last Love, I have cursed the women you loved before me. Forgive me.
Last Love, I envy your mother’s body where you resided first. Forgive me.
Last Love, I am all that is left. Forgive me.
Last Love, I did not see you coming. Forgive me.

Last Love, every day without you was a life I crawled out of. Amen.
Last Love, you are my Last Love. Amen.
Last Love, I am all that is left. Amen.

I am all that is left.

Amen.

thx to Jaha's World for the words!

So I Slowly Whisper I Love you 32 and a 3rd Times

My love is halfway across the world this Valentine's Day, so I can especially relate to this super sweet poem. It speaks of long distance love in a world where people are only allotted 167 words, each day. Tweet Tweet :)

It's in one of my fav poetry compilations - The Last American Valentine from Write Bloody Books. Perfect VDay present for yourself!!

The Quite World
BY Jeffrey McDaniel

In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
the government has decided to allot
each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it
to my ear without saying hello.
In the restaurant I point
at chicken noodle soup. I am
adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long
distance lover and proudly say
I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn’t respond, I know
she’s used up all her words
so I slowly whisper I love you,
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.