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natural Art Nacht-October 30

Walpurgis festival was a dark night and a lot actvidad. The nine nights from 22 to 30 are held in remember the sacrifice of Odin in the world tree, Yggdrasil. It was in the ninth night (October 30, Walpurgisnacht) that received the runes took them and ritually died for an instant. At that time, all the Light in the 9 worlds became extinct, and the complete chaos ruled. In the final moment of midnight, the Light returns with a sparkling shine, and fires are lit. On the night of Walpurgis, death causes a total sway over the land, on the final night of the barbarian hordes. It is a time of great magic and visions.


"is hanging from the windswept tree nine whole nights, wounded by the spear, dedicated to Odin, myself to myself, of that tree that no one knows the origin of their roots. Pan did not give me or drinking horn, look down, seized the runes, screaming to take them, and then fell "

Hello

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Fear not

"Serenata?

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Back to poetry, to me, the sweet dream of the verb to say and no, in this time when many are reminded Miguel Hernandez and his " b goose drag my mouth" and other verses that are as carved into the skin and in the memory.

"Llanto de arena"

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For you, one of my latest poems , one that struck me to say through me, on a distaste for something on ... rather, read it.

TRANSFER (unborn baby)

pass without owner's wishes

at a time when nudity

gentle reflected in the mirror

pm starting

Some helplessness emerges

settles / socket / apoc

bleeds the joy ...

and there is an impassive

laughter that mocks

and threatens the sanity

there an escape from boredom

and to the complaint of oboes

softened the image

when some poems

are sad ...

not born

OHCNARF

11/X/2010

"Floral Explosion 2"

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To end this post, I want to tell that on one occasion, I wrote about me and my way of saying in this verse:

"That one I'm

going by my name, letter by letter,

making me sighs,

cleaves the night and then ... farewell

until awake,

again

; for me ...

what I am "

" Canto spring vegetable "

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A lover of dreams (Sherrilyn Kenyon)

friends!


The truth that had long been looking at my shelves and reread some book wondering if those who had because there was not anything that interested me for many laps to give him my library of siempre.Despues a long time and after leaving Northumbria on one side, reading the review of this book and from the recommendations of a friend, I I willing to start reading me this book and others to follow if I like.
If you like supernatural theme, this is your reading I think.

Synopsis: The strange curse on Julian of Macedonia 2,000 years ago has been sentenced to spend eternity trapped in a book until a woman claiming to satisfy their desires. Sex slave, as after all, Julian has had ample time to hone their skills and is able to fulfill the secret fantasies of every woman to give you unimaginable pleasure.

Later I will be saying if I like it: P

Irewen

Thanks! !

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phrases and thoughts to reflect

Faith Evans With Blonde Hair

Thanks

fevers plague my mind as a strong tide in the middle of the ocean. The waves go from side to side hitting the walls as possible and my imagination takes off in his sleep. Do not look nice, others if, it did not stop that ... dreams that might someday be fulfilled or not, but they seem so real ...
hear voices around me, but as if in a bubble I can not saying anything with them, I hear oh yes, I understand you and understand your concern, do not worry, I will soon return, for you, for the I started living by it.

He, the magma that keeps my heart warm, it does occasionally beat and pump up the pace of a nice children's song, a song which children play and laugh as the hours go by becoming company, enjoying the gift life has given them.
I could say it's a similar feeling here yet, lying on this cold bed not knowing if Odin will give me another day, I feel so close, I take the hand and leads her to his chest as if that might solve some . "It resolved

..- I think to myself and plus I can not esque if my lips do not meet the orders of my head ... it calms me ... thanks ..

say .. Thank you for that first greeting that first start that marked a before and after in my life, my arrows do not fly through the air and just as before, now I dance among the trees the same way if I follow you .. thanks for being a my side even when so far, thank you for continuing to be so bad here yet and especially thanks for not disappear.

Thanks ... is all I would say now and get porfin effort .. after long struggling with my own instincts to move the lips.

"Thanks ..

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Viva Unborn Chi-chi-chi-le-le-le! Viva Chile! Flashing

I have a heart full of joy Chile, its people, its temple, its mine, for this beautiful finish. Therefore, I present this poem I wrote today, keeping pace with the news of the successful rescue of these 33 miners.

BEYOND IN COPIAPÓ

"I came from northern Chile desert

copper and stone, silence (. ..)

Cordilleras (Pablo Neruda)

I remember a poem

talking to other geographies,

of desert mining

Copiapo and its inhabitants.

I remember a speech he struggled

because dignify life,

to work out something decent,

lived outside the verb,

that being there made sense.

I remember Neruda

with his gravelly voice and full

with his magic as dervish

talking to miners,

by reading his odes stormy

mining tempting their vocations.

And yesterday I saw, front,

life that was worthy

hoping to leave the tomb

to the same Copiapo mining,

and instead of tears

my mind reciting poems

with the joy invasive

I dictated the same tired voice,

the same voice that told me

the existence of a Chile

more than Santiago wanted,

closer to the forge,

forest closer to the cold,

more attached to the extreme desert.

Today I write compulsive

to celebrate, to my way

how life has been claimed

there in the mines of copper,

there in the south contradictory

in that space beyond the world

forgotten today.

Thank you Lord ...

by thousands of hardened

graves makers mineral

fund to rescue

to those thirty-three hearts broken

hope that today ...

bloom to life.

OHCNARF

13/X/2010

"As the tree Life

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PD: A hug and greet all my fellow poets, Rosy Marin , there in that James wanted, at that Rosa Chilensis that has accompanied me silently throughout this journey poet. I'm glad her heart, and through it all Chileans, especially those of this trance, and a hug "cyber" for themselves and their families.

From Colombia to Chile, with love.

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That little pale blue dot ... Fairytale

to reconsider is good we are compared to everything around us and become aware of what we have, which is no small ...

Why Does My Newborn Have Phlegm

I leave you with a story or you will not find any book or any web page just in my head and in my heart .. I guess it a more original way of expressing myself.

"Sometimes when someone does not know that small is small can do great things. "
This is the story of a girl who wanted to be a star. You will ask now, what kind of story is this? All girls dream of the same, rise to fame, being movie stars, music, theater ... But this is not, it wanted to be a star in the sky, felt that in this world was not happy, I could not help all the people who wanted to please everyone even. Tried by every means to reach all but sometimes it was impossible, so strongly wished to be a star, in this way, people watch from the sky with thousands of beautiful stars and brighten the world more or soften with light, because the best you can do is to shine a star ....
As he was growing up he saw that his desire is not waning, but that prevented him from leaving the balcony every night and watch their favorite star, as if this came out every night to see it merely imagined by his side for all eternity. That was what made him so far happy.
The star observed from space, waiting for that period of time for women to come out to see her and talk with the feeling that so many kilometers, or listen to him even would notice their presence, but it was not so, the girl was wrong, so was limited to trust her. "Relying on a star? It might be the best of friends, which always include you, soothe you with its brightness and give you heat.
The girl at the passing of the days felt the heat of the star and nesting in his chest, which had put everything in it was more of the vivid memory. "That crazy thought rolling around in bed - I'm falling in love ... is a star ... has thousands of partners to set up there in my ...-.
But one night in early summer the floor of the house shook, the doors opened and appeared, sitting at the foot of the bed the most beautiful dream she had ever seen. He rubbed his eyes several times thinking that would be dreaming, but this just simply smile and take the hand to get up.
- This is not your site ... I've been listening to you all this time I could not stop myself .. and more ..
She could not resist, was both the love you felt for this being, that star that made anything to be your half. Since that day, the two halves together and the star began to shine more strongly competing with the same star.

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Let's ...

Someone told me ... Once the flowers fade over time. But remember to have them last forever ...
This I received that sentence had a good time to reach my eyes and remembered every day I wake up to go to sleep and how lucky I was ... the dream where I was and in the cloud where in life .. never could get off.

always considered myself a person able to keep our feet on the ground at all times, on cold reason and keep the heart warm. But I can say that there were people who changed my life completely, gave a twist to my way of being, my modus vivendi and myself in general. A twist in my future that I suddenly saw with great clarity.

"dreams which to live begins,
and he who strives and aims
he who grieves and offends
and the world, in conclusion,
everyone dreams they are,
though no one understands. "

many years ago could only give this song a literary meaning, but now I understand moral and humane ... as the greatest good is that life is a dream, and dreams are dreams ..



Here comes my question:


What you give you meaning? :)

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Writing is life ...

plotted Writing for writing great stories, small pieces of dreams, bits of sleep, a spoonful of joy and a finger of reason is perfect formula for a new morning awakening, allowing the first rays impact on our retinas dazzled by the most beautiful light ever seen.

Right now, I write to write, write and let out a part of me under the glass shell torn apart that threatens to break at any time uncertain.

.. great writer Paulo Coelho wrote in his day "When all days are equal is because man has failed to notice the good things that come into your life every time the sun crosses the sky "and I add that the man ceases to receive a good day routine when he is unable to see beyond your nose and no new aspirations, however uncertain or impossible they may seem, a dream, every desire is enough to fuel the engine that pumped into the center of our chest and unfortunately ends connected to our mind, although they are in constant battle.

I tend to write in a comprehensible rarely, only when my letters can be perceived by that piece bombeante ours, not only for the eyes. If it is true also, as many others, dragged the soles on the asphalt for not stepping never the flight but that does not stop my mind fly wherever they walk.

"Not everything in life is of one color or another. Miren but the rainbow."

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letter to a brother today

Kjær bror:


Be that might surprise someone send a letter in this way, I miss receive it?


In my world, things are going well, my feet touch the ground and nothing has moved on site, everything remains the same except for some changes, although not proven and has never been given to show my feelings here among these letters so quiet I can confess.


know? the sound of rain helps me think, rings in small tears on the glass and I fear that cross this thin protection that protects me and splashed me as we woke small. And so many memories makes little revived, look back and remember everything that I could not live, all I would have liked and avoided what would have to go back.

I can not write, so many things on his mind was never good, but still I can not help waking up at night and imagine that show up at the door or das steps outside the room watching over me, my guardian, my protector and my guide, who sat next to Odin detailed look at everything I do and be proud of the road I have traveled though sometimes not doing the right thing and you'll understand what I mean.


I have no more to tell you that you do not know, mentally you do not already have a day job, but I tell you how healthy the urge to meet again some day with you, my soul mate , never better, you went to a part of me and you know what I mean.


My words end for the time being here, sitting in this cool leather chair I remember you in every passing second, because although sometimes curse you are my brother and I love you it.


Sincerely, your warrior.


Sarian.

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Wish You Well By David Baldacci Chapter Summaries

Ramblings from September to October 2010

"The place golden"

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From September 1927 , 2010

My life is just that sometimes life is like that one is paradigm of a poet. With sparks and decisions that poems from each of the pores, for periods of rapture to the many other verses that have left me, with or without your permission, but in most cases, at that time between the everyday unburied and the routine one agrees to this role is assumed to live, " have " (without quotation marks) as in the verb is built the way we live. That is why I dare to say that it is distant reality paradigm, at least in my case.

not "have" when making poems, but when laburar front of a screen and make transactions for or on behalf of the firm that we pay the wages. I was through here the meaning of the word. It comes from the salt with others traded their livelihood, when salt was "the spice of life." , was measured, the pattern of trade. For this reason " salarium " was coined in ancient Rome as "salt ration paid to someone's work, that meaning becomes synonymous to pay.

And that concept is that I spend my days working, living in this glass cage. However, there are loopholes of time, manner and place, which adverbs, which allow the flower blossom intromisa , the untimely color amid the monotony, called infant line called poem. Some will jump from your toes to some of the books furniture notes travel with me in my backpack . Others, quiet time, jump to the phosphorescence of the PC. Usually none of them ask for permission, it is obviously arrogant and irreverent. It rests in my soul, even when no one has called, and creates effective demand that can eventually lead to anxiety, and even in some cases to the frustration .

course and one with the weather being accepted, because in this "fight " has come to understand that although these extremes occur especially when it fails " be " never really therefore goes live skin day and night dreams, create arpeggios rebels jumping again, with other ways perhaps, but always with the same spirit of "being" not to die, living in leaf paper, and be established in a few lines, whether paired, excessive, extreme or musical cadence of cacophonous feelings or not. They (the poems) are not alone, because without that we notice are the tips that we feel we break something, and behind all the arrow with its attachments. Almost without realizing it, make blossom the poem. Is a tear, a calving. It is a give life to something that not even consciously knew we possessed. It is the fruit sublime though not finished material, required after the affection of the goldsmith of verses, the maker of beauty to polish their chips, their edges storm for home a few moans and even try to convert some cacophony and dissonance in music, but more than this, in rhythm at that time of movement. Thus the product that sometimes they offer in this blog is created, no matter if the primal mortar was on me, on my skin, my memories, my longing, as I imagine, does not matter, was in me and was ... and at that moment you can say, and "is" ... the rest is art, just as many writers have said to the hackneyed question: "How do you write?"

Blue Tone

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October 2010 postscript

Today, some few readers overlook the few letters which I share, as most is not only unpublished but unborn. Some, like everything else, they are indifferent, while others just say from bespoken with its own code of signals, their appreciation and celebration. However, there are those who dare (what which I appreciate) to publicly express (as thousands do not, I guess) that feeling that my letters are " a drivel," which nourish me and impels me to be getting better . The latter, I offer apologies and an invitation to return. I can only say that I still love the free will of personal taste, in a matter as subjective as poetry.

forbidden territory is the critical , is a land of shifting sands, as typical survivors avoid. So how do you know what write and publish has some literary value? In it, I go in this post that asks you regular visitors, abusing them and love that I have, to help me in this endeavor. I thought maybe there is no more way to delve into the labyrinthine intricacies of this "closed lodges" which are clubs reading, poetry writing workshops and the like, not that it fails to recognize the thousands of merits and some exceptions, to understand the hows and whys of poetry. Maybe it's for good, maybe it is to ml do not know. Who knows?

Footnote: Any similarity with reality is purely coincidental and frankly, that in no way compromises the author with assimilation or deductions to get the unsuspecting reader or cross is taken to analyze the written work, one that comes more from the desire to blog that something different.

"Explosion"

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Many thanks to all of you who read and visit me, but thanks thousand for those who feed me with your comments.

"Colorful 3D?"

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