Nice Where Can I Get Love Poems photos
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Where are you? [Tribute to Thekra]
Image by radiant guy
My beloved, can you see where did you end up and where did I?
My beloved one; you’ve left me alone and I am lost since then!
My beloved one, everything about me was changed..
Everybody knew about it; I used to say love does not exist but now I admit it…LOVE DO EXIST!
My wishes and youth were extinguished…
I am weak as a skinny tree standing against a great storm…
Sigh…If a kid listen to my depressing story he will have a grey hair instantly!
My beloved one, I wish when you left; you took "my longing" with you to comfort both of us!
But instead you left me with depression and wounds.
Exactly three years ago (on 28th of November 2003), she was murdered by her
husband MAY HE BURN IN HELL, NO MATTER HOW MUCH I HATE I CAN NOT HATE HIM ENOUGH.
I am still denying the fact that her little heart is not pulsing anymore.
I know you might think "What a shallow guy?!" he feel sorry for a singer, despite the fact that she is one of my favorite ones all time but she left this world in a drastic way murdered with 16 bullets using a machine gun 
I really wish I could do anything to get her back, but that’s her destiny…
And it’s my destiny to feel bad for her lost…
People always said "Life goes on" but that doesn’t work with me specially with the cruel way she left, I might need more time If not forever to get over it
I loved her since the first time I heard her in the early 1990s.
People didn’t know her value and what a great voice she had until she passed away.
May her soul rest in heaven.
Her last album released only 3 days before her death, in her last music video of the song "Youm Alaik" (Translation: "A Day against you" or "A rainy day" ) she seemed like she knew her future and what’s her destiny; she almost sound like she was singing the very last days of her life!
You can find some of her songs translated by me in my MUSIC BLOG:
radiantguysongs.blogspot.com/search/label/Thekra
I just wrote a small biography of her in both English and Arabic as a tribute to her, you can read it following this link:
الفاتحة على روحها
Blueberry love
Image by Mink
A poem that suits you blueberries!
Blueberries
By Robert Frost
1874-1963
"You ought to have seen what I saw on my way
To the village, through Mortenson’s pasture to-day:
Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb,
Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum
In the cavernous pail of the first one to come!
And all ripe together, not some of them green
And some of them ripe! You ought to have seen!"
"I don’t know what part of the pasture you mean."
"You know where they cut off the woods–let me see–
It was two years ago–or no!–can it be
No longer than that?–and the following fall
The fire ran and burned it all up but the wall."
"Why, there hasn’t been time for the bushes to grow.
That’s always the way with the blueberries, though:
There may not have been the ghost of a sign
Of them anywhere under the shade of the pine,
But get the pine out of the way, you may burn
The pasture all over until not a fern
Or grass-blade is left, not to mention a stick,
And presto, they’re up all around you as thick
And hard to explain as a conjuror’s trick."
"It must be on charcoal they fatten their fruit.
I taste in them sometimes the flavour of soot.
And after all really they’re ebony skinned:
The blue’s but a mist from the breath of the wind,
A tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand,
And less than the tan with which pickers are tanned."
"Does Mortenson know what he has, do you think?"
"He may and not care and so leave the chewink
To gather them for him–you know what he is.
He won’t make the fact that they’re rightfully his
An excuse for keeping us other folk out."
"I wonder you didn’t see Loren about."
"The best of it was that I did. Do you know,
I was just getting through what the field had to show
And over the wall and into the road,
When who should come by, with a democrat-load
Of all the young chattering Lorens alive,
But Loren, the fatherly, out for a drive."
"He saw you, then? What did he do? Did he frown?"
"He just kept nodding his head up and down.
You know how politely he always goes by.
But he thought a big thought–I could tell by his eye–
Which being expressed, might be this in effect:
‘I have left those there berries, I shrewdly suspect,
To ripen too long. I am greatly to blame.’"
"He’s a thriftier person than some I could name."
"He seems to be thrifty; and hasn’t he need,
With the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed?
He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say,
Like birds. They store a great many away.
They eat them the year round, and those they don’t eat
They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet."
"Who cares what they say? It’s a nice way to live,
Just taking what Nature is willing to give,
Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow."
"I wish you had seen his perpetual bow–
And the air of the youngsters! Not one of them turned,
And they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned."
"I wish I knew half what the flock of them know
Of where all the berries and other things grow,
Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top
Of the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop.
I met them one day and each had a flower
Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower;
Some strange kind–they told me it hadn’t a name."
"I’ve told you how once not long after we came,
I almost provoked poor Loren to mirth
By going to him of all people on earth
To ask if he knew any fruit to be had
For the picking. The rascal, he said he’d be glad
To tell if he knew. But the year had been bad.
There had been some berries–but those were all gone.
He didn’t say where they had been. He went on:
‘I’m sure–I’m sure’–as polite as could be.
He spoke to his wife in the door, ‘Let me see,
Mame, we don’t know any good berrying place?’
It was all he could do to keep a straight face.
"If he thinks all the fruit that grows wild is for him,
He’ll find he’s mistaken. See here, for a whim,
We’ll pick in the Mortensons’ pasture this year.
We’ll go in the morning, that is, if it’s clear,
And the sun shines out warm: the vines must be wet.
It’s so long since I picked I almost forget
How we used to pick berries: we took one look round,
Then sank out of sight like trolls underground,
And saw nothing more of each other, or heard,
Unless when you said I was keeping a bird
Away from its nest, and I said it was you.
‘Well, one of us is.’ For complaining it flew
Around and around us. And then for a while
We picked, till I feared you had wandered a mile,
And I thought I had lost you. I lifted a shout
Too loud for the distance you were, it turned out,
For when you made answer, your voice was as low
As talking–you stood up beside me, you know."
"We sha’n’t have the place to ourselves to enjoy–
Not likely, when all the young Lorens deploy.
They’ll be there to-morrow, or even to-night.
They won’t be too friendly–they may be polite–
To people they look on as having no right
To pick where they’re picking. But we won’t complain.
You ought to have seen how it looked in the rain,
The fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves,
Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves."
Reverie for Unrequited Love, Long Forgotten
Image by gurdonark
Today I realized that this month will mark 9 years that I have been an eBay member. This is longer than the length of time I dated the first girl I ever dated, which relationship took place in dribs and drabs from the time I was 17 until the time I was, let’s see, 1982ish, which was less than six years later.
I was younger then than I am now, when this year will mark a wedding anniversary that is double the number of years I have been on eBay.
This is an era of milestones. Last year was my 30th year since I graduated high school, and the absence of any reunion invitations probably reminds me more than anything that my mother passed away almost three years ago, because had she been alive, someone would have called her and she’d have let me know.
It’s also 8 years since I published my little booklet of chess poems,
a healthy experience in self-directed fun. I have not ebayed a copy in years, but I should.
It’s been 26 years since the Summer evening in which I spent a very late evening rather chastely necking a Canadian girl who was the room-mate of the woman who would become a friend of mine’s second wife. She and I had one of those instant connections you get with people that you realize are somehow kindred with you, even if you’re never sure why and it’s just a surge of static electricity and speaking in low, familiar tones and just dropping the pretenses, if only for a moment. I wonder about her–I’ll never know what became of her. She’s a memory, not a longing.
For that matter, this year will be 30 years since I spent a Summer working in an industrial plant located in the rolling south Arkansas hills, where old wartime-era quonset huts buried under earthen mounds held secrets of security and industry nobody could unravel for sure. I have a deep love for that long-departed Summer job which has as much tang as the tingle of a tongue mid-kiss. I perhaps worked there for some 10 to 12 weeks, and yet I can tell 100 anecdotes.
They say that you need to live a long while to write your novel, but so many times your novel springs at you from the get-go, like James’ Beast in the Jungle inverted, and all you can do is wish you had a podcast to tell it to someone. "Rawr", you say, purring as you strike out at mice and people who love other people, "rawr".
It’s 5 years since I wrote a nanowrimo novel. It’s 30 years since I spent Christmas holdays planting pine trees and drinking hot cocoa from a Thermos. It’s 32 years since I spent another Christmas with a TV repairmen near Mustin Lake, sawing branches off a tree 50 feet in the air from a precarious ladder, so that an old-technology thing called a TV antenna could be installed.
It’s been 22 years since I tried my first lawsuit. It’s been 7 years + since I took (and passed) the patent bar. It’s been nearly 24 years since I first took the Texas bar examination. It’s been 35 years since I looked at moon craters in my first telescope. It’s been 40 years since I won 5 dollars from a Little Rock newspaper for writing the winning caption to a cartoon "what’s my line". My first poem in a literary magazine was published 25 years ago. It’s been at least two years since my most recent poem publication.
Tonight I heard talking heads on television excuse corporate greed and government neglect. It’s been 33 years since Nixon resigned, 27 years since a nutty guy shot John Lennon, 37 years since the moon walk.
Things I think of as yesterday now are decades old. Choices made, things done, things undone. The sound of birds singing on the Pines trail in the Angeles National Forest, 8 years ago. the aquarium
in Mrs. Welch’s 7th grade class–all guppies and a few white cloud mountain fish, the beginning of my love affair with feeder guppies.
Love affairs, these memories. The world never loves you back as much as you love your memories of living in the world. But that’s okay. That’s your job. Your job is to love the life you were blessed enough to have, and to let that love linger and carry you into latter days.
heard natural science museum, march 2007
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