We Must Be Still and Still Moving

Breakfast of champions

Wed, 28 Nov 2012 10:12:52 -0500

Breakfast of champions

parahsalmer: wowfunniestposts: Susie Q (1996) Wish Upon A Star...

Wed, 21 Nov 2012 11:08:52 -0500

wowfunniestposts:

Susie Q (1996)

Wish Upon A Star (1996)

Tower of Terror (1997)

Halloweentown (1998)

My Date With The President’s Daughter (1998)

Zenon: Girl of the 21st Century (1999)

Horse Sense (1999)

The Thirteenth Year (1999)

Smart House (1999)

Johnny Tsunami (1999)

Seventeen Again (2000)

The Other Me (2000)

Up, Up, and Away (2000)

Life Size (2000)

Model Behavior (2000)

The Color of Friendship (2000)

Rip Girls (2000)

Quints (2000)

Mom’s Got a Date with a Vampire (2000)

Phantom of the Megaplex (2000)

The Ultimate Christmas Present (2000)

Jumping Ship (2001)

Halloweentown II: Kalabar’s Revenge (2001)

The Luck of the Irish (2001)

Double Teamed (2002)

Cadet Kelly (2002)

Tru Confessions (2002)

Get a Clue (2002)

Gotta Kick It Up! (2002)

A Ring of Endless Nights (2002)

The Even Stevens Movie (2003)

Eddie’s Million Dollar Cook-Off (2003)

You Wish (2003)

Right On Track (2003)

The Cheetah Girls (2003)

Pixel Perfect (2004)

Zenon: Z3 (2004)

Stuck in the Suburbs (2004)

Tiger Cruise (2004)

Halloweentown High (2004)

Go Figure (2005)

now i know what i’m doing every night for the rest of forever..

the-danimal: ok this is brilliant.

Thu, 15 Nov 2012 21:36:57 -0500

the-danimal:

ok this is brilliant.

When Death Comes by Mary Oliver

Wed, 14 Nov 2012 15:12:13 -0500

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom; taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

Photo

Mon, 12 Nov 2012 11:40:03 -0500

Opal by Amy Lowell

Mon, 12 Nov 2012 11:39:26 -0500

You are ice and fire,

The touch of you burns my hands like snow.

You are cold and flame.

You are the crimson of amaryllis,

The silver of moon-touched magnolias.

When I am with you,

My heart is a frozen pond

Gleaming with agitated torches.

triangletriangle: Benoit Paillé

Thu, 08 Nov 2012 21:23:44 -0500

triangletriangle:

Benoit Paillé

Giving by Kahlil Gibran

Wed, 07 Nov 2012 13:28:07 -0500

You often say, “I would give, but only to the deserving.”
The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture.
They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.
Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights, is worthy of all else from you.
And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream.
And what desert greater shall there be, than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving?
And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their wealth naked and their pride unabashed?
See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and and instrument of giving.
For in truth it is life that gives unto life — while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.

Photo

Sun, 04 Nov 2012 20:06:29 -0500

November Night by Adelaide Crapsey

Fri, 02 Nov 2012 10:02:02 -0400

Listen…

With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
And fall.

The Hurricane by William Carlos Williams

Tue, 30 Oct 2012 09:44:00 -0400

The tree lay down
on the garage roof
and stretched, You
have your heaven,
it said, go to it.

Lines on a Skull by Ravi Shankar

Mon, 29 Oct 2012 09:08:18 -0400

Start spirit; behold

the skull. A living head loved
earth. My bones resign

the worm, lips to hold
sparkling grape’s slimy circle,
shape of reptile’s food.

Where wit shone of shine,
when our brains are substitute,
like me, with the dead,

life’s little, our heads
sad. Redeemed and wasting clay
this chance. Be of use.

Sonnetesque by Lynn Emanuel

Fri, 26 Oct 2012 14:54:29 -0400

I love its smallness: as though our whole town
were a picture postcard and our feelings
were on vacation: ourselves in mini-
ature, shopping at tiny sales, buying
the newspapers—small and pale and square
as sugar cubes—at the fragile, little curb.
The way the streetlight is really a table
lamp where now we sit and where real
night, (which is very tall and black and
at our backs), where for a moment
the night is forced to bend down and look
through these tiny windows, forced to come
closer and put its hand on our shoulder
and stoop over the book to read the fine print.

Curve of Pursuit by Bin Ramke

Wed, 24 Oct 2012 10:18:20 -0400

A point, a line, alignment. Lovely

the lingering lights along the shore

as the century lays itself out for observation:

hunger and the youthful indiscretion.

I am one of many, or not even one,

but am of many one who watches the waves

and allows the particulate sand its say, say,

its sound, susurrant. Of many one

engaging the ear as if the Pacific

meant its name, as if the edge of

continent contented us with boundary.

Draw a line from A to B. Live there.

Waifs and Strays by Arthur Rimbaud

Sat, 20 Oct 2012 15:06:25 -0400

Black in the fog and in the snow,
Where the great air-hole windows glow,
With rounded rumps,

Upon their knees five urchins squat,
Looking down where the baker, hot,
The thick dough thumps.

They watch his white arm turn the bread,
Ere through an opening flaming red
The loaf he flings.

They hear the good bread baking, while
The chubby baker with a smile
An old tune sings.

Breathing the warmth into their soul,
They squat around the red air-hole,
As a breast warm.

And when, for feasters’ midnight bout,
The ready bread is taken out,
In a cake’s form;

And while beneath the blackened beams,
Sings every crust of golden gleams,
While the cricket brags,

The hole breathes warmth into the night,
And into them life and delight,
Under their rags,

And the urchins covered with hoar-frost,
On billows of enchantment tossed
Their little souls,

Glue to the grate their little rosy
Noses, singing through the cosy
Glowing holes,

But with low voices like a prayer,
Bending down to the light down there,
Where heaven gleams.

—So eager that they burst their breeches,
And in the winter wind that screeches
Their linen streams.

Laura Gibson – Milk-Heavy, Pollen-Eyed

Wed, 10 Oct 2012 10:44:28 -0400

Try as I may to carve my path
I cannot keep myself from stumbling back to you

And you’ll say “Don’t you ever lose you heat”
“Don’t you ever be caught shedding your skin too soon”

Find me with a milk-heavy heart
And I would clear the pollen from your eyes
I would, I would

For love has got you hanging on my hips
Like a worn-out dress with my skin showing through

Can’t we forget about the truth?
It never called to me like it called to you

And if salvation never takes our hands
We’ll dance around the wreckage
Nonetheless

Just as sure as every parting word
Comes stuttering off every parting tongue
I cannot keep myself from stumbling back to you

Artless BY BRENDA SHAUGHNESSY

Wed, 10 Oct 2012 10:40:06 -0400

is my heart. A stranger

berry there never was,

tartless.

Gone sour in the sun,

in the sunroom or moonroof,

roofless.

No poetry. Plain. No

fresh, special recipe

to bless.

All I’ve ever made

with these hands

and life, less

substance, more rind.

Mostly rim and trim,

meatless

but making much smoke

in the old smokehouse,

no less.

Fatted from the day,

overripe and even

toxic at eve. Nonetheless,

in the end, if you must

know, if I must bend,

waistless,

to that excruciation.

No marvel, no harvest

left me speechless,

yet I find myself

somehow with heart,

aloneless.

With heart,

fighting fire with fire,

fightless.

That loud hub of us,

meat stub of us, beating us

senseless.

Spectacular in its way,

its way of not seeing,

congealing dayless

but in everydayness.

In that hopeful haunting

(a lesser

way of saying

in darkness) there is

silencelessness

for the pressing question.

Heart, what art you?

War, star, part? Or less:

playing a part, staying apart

from the one who loves,

loveless.

And death shall have no dominion by Dylan Thomas

Mon, 08 Oct 2012 13:05:56 -0400

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

A Season in Hell by Arthur Rimbaud

Wed, 03 Oct 2012 13:52:25 -0400

A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing.

One night, I sat Beauty down on my lap.—And I found her galling.—And I roughed her up.

I armed myself against justice.

I ran away. O witches, O misery, O hatred, my treasure’s been turned over to you!

I managed to make every trace of human hope vanish from my mind. I pounced on every joy like a ferocious animal eager to strangle it.

I called for executioners so that, while dying, I could bite the butts of their rifles. I called for plagues to choke me with sand, with blood. Bad luck was my god. I stretched out in the muck. I dried myself in the air of crime. And I played tricks on insanity.

And Spring brought me the frightening laugh of the idiot.

So, just recently, when I found myself on the brink of the final squawk! it dawned on me to look again for the key to that ancient party where I might find my appetite once more.

Charity is that key.

The Dead by Mina Loy

Wed, 03 Oct 2012 13:49:28 -0400

We have flowed out of ourselves	
Beginning on the outside	
That shrivable skin	
Where you leave off	
 
Of infinite elastic	        
Walking the ceiling	
Our eyelashes polish stars	
 
Curled close in the youngest corpuscle	
Of a descendant	
We spit up our passions in our grand-dams	        
 
Fixing the extension of your reactions	
Our shadow lengthens	
In your fear	

You are so old	
Born in our immortality	        
Stuck fast as Life	
In one impalpable	
Omniprevalent Dimension	
 
We are turned inside out	
Your cities lie digesting in our stomachs	        
Street lights footle in our ocular darkness	
 
Having swallowed your irate hungers	
Satisfied before bread-breaking	
To your dissolution	
We splinter into Wholes	        
Stirring the remorses of your tomorrow	
Among the refuse of your unborn centuries	
In our busy ashbins	
Stink the melodies	
Of your	        
So easily reducible	
Adolescences	
 
Our tissue is of that which escapes you	
Birth-Breaths and orgasms	
The shattering tremor of the static	        
The far-shore of an instant	
The unsurpassable openness of the circle	
Legerdemain of God	
 
Only in the segregated angles of Lunatic Asylums	
Do those who have strained to exceeding themselves	        
Break on our edgeless contours	
 
The mouthed echoes of what	
has exuded to our companionship	
Is horrible to the ear	
Of the half that is left inside them.