That Thing Called Trust|what’s love, that gypsy wanderer |Oh!The Irony

One thought that lasts

10000 Spoons, Sometimes too soon…

10000-spoons

"It's like ten thousand spoons
when all you need is a knife
It's meeting the man of my dreams
And then meeting his beautiful wife
And isn't it ironic...don't you think
A little too ironic...and, yeah, I really do think..."_Alanis Morisette 

Oh! The Irony

So you want to know what is love

What’s love…Oh! The Ironic

Oh! Love, That gypsy wanderer

When some people talk about love,
_I don’t talk about poets, swan, and dove,
Of chimeric thoughts that hover
over a dream-catcher net, when it’s over

_But we, like ordinary people,
at wee hours, they daydream
of that day the  get caught,
like a wisp on a stream,

And Of which they never talk,
and again, she never thought
But only longing sometimes, of that night
as if they were_ him a tenebrous Latin lover
and her, Ô my fair lady of one night!
He came by, singing under her balcony,
thither, hither and yon,
Knights, castle, and beyond
have they ever met. Oh! The Irony
What’s love…that thing out of reach,
Oh! That was the only way of which_

Like a thief,  that robbed,you and left
with your valuables, walked away
then left you, with a broken heart alas!
He never came back, anyway

A Gentleman burglar, like The Saint,
You may thought… But no worry!
And it makes you sometimes  feel lonely,
With a quantum of solace, to linger
at a simple note of sorry,
left on a table, at reach of your finger

or was it simply a hungry burglar
That had eaten your diner,
one night while you went for a walk,
and of which you never talk.

For years you lived on a whisper_
a word that he uttered to you
like to a young spouse,
the day they just wed, Whose_
she has a sailor husband,
he said to her the morning he left,
and sailed away

_ and Her, she stands at the window,
peering at things, that might peep
on the offings, Him, The only, the while, the ship,
the first sole mariner coming.

Waiting for days, like a widow
the day they’ll return to the safe harbor,
Will find her there, at the moors,  like the other wives
With Anguish cutting their guts, and tore like hands cut with knives

Then, Oh Happiness
they’ll be living for a week or two
As they often do
on lobster they’ll dine,
with hot bread and wine,

On Fresh water and d’ Amour
Like always, and come toujours
and then, on left-overs, like everyone.
They go sitting there sometimes,
at the dock of the bay, wasting time.

Just having small talks, mamours and caresses,
wasting time, until the next day going at sea
Watching their hearts glowing low like embers,
Under the ashes of a bonfire, on a golden shore.
at the sole thought, of departing encore.

kissing goodbye  in such no sweet sorrow
That sailing in the morning tomorrow
When the birds will be leaving the nest

I am, sitting here, like dog on the bay,
The while, the only thing, waiting for his master to return home
Do you return home someday! my love
Oh! I am too nostalgic to remembrances,

Sorry, guys, What a mess! I’m drunk of love, I have to go anyway

 “Sittin’ here  resting my bones,

And this loneliness won’t leave me alone, yes”

“Now I’m just go sittin’ there
at the dock of the bay Watching the tide roll away, ooh Wasting time” _Otis  Redding-_(Sitting on) The Dock of the Bay, lyrics

©what’s love_Kalimelo

She's in Prison

That Thing Called Trust  I opened my heart to it, relinquishing power into your volition, touching my palm to yours  and memorizing the comfort of unrestrained connection, allowing the circle around my fear to bend  for you. I liked the way it felt, to grant you access to my sealed chest, leaving the door a little ajar, the nightlight always shining just in case you wanted to come in, even in the dark hours, in my dreams, the recesses of my head. I found faith there, faith that I was safe, that as long as I trusted without doubt this taken chance couldn’t hurt. I never expected you’d force me to flicker the light, that you’d be the one to swallow my love like whiskey, with a wince.

It’s a new week and I’m pumped to be back. I’m ready to write and so blessed to have you all here to listen. Thank you for standing by my side on this poetic journey.

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Parchment, a rare medium

_In memory, to Sam

A walk to remember

I had a friend, he passed away few years ago.

I used to visit him in Paris, the time I was a traveler of the world.

He was a tenant of an underground resto ( a restaurant, in French), one of the Caves-basements,  in the environs of St Germain Des Prés, that had the name of La Commanderie, at la Rue Du Four. It was a drop-by heaven, after-hours show, for artists, playwrights,  poets and celebrities, friends to the owner, a lady that had some highness blue blood in her veins. Hence the name of the restaurant.

He was the cook, the chief, maitre d’ho, and the entertainer, all in one at the same time, he was also poet and artist, (à-ses-heures, at times) or when inspiration strikes. It was no surprise that you might encounter a celebrity or just have a glimpse of him or her, hanging out at a table in a corner with friends. The same as you see a celebrity dropping her laundry at Soho, New York, but much more closer. In that, the tables was just a few, and the place was exiguous; that what gave it an air of intimacy, a convivial atmosphere,  a continuous feast, where big laughers burst, now and then and cheers, of glasses of vine tinkling,  and you are part of it; you have to squeeze yourself a bit to Elbow between chair and table, without protocol.

The tables and chairs-benches were rustic, well-worn by the time patina, the stuff you find usual at Pottery Barns, and Gracious Homes. There was a fresco on one of the walls of the Cave-basement  that represented an a charge of cavalry, or knights, that he drew with a twig of charcoal he picked up from the standingstone oven of the  tiny kitchen, at a corner of the resto.

The menu, was handwritten on a parchment paper, aged artistically. You can read : http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/memory-menu/

Memory on the menu

À la carte

œufs Du Berry.

Soupe  à l’onignion.

Plat du jour: very simple, just ask sam

dessert: pick yours

Price: (priceless..)

The seat-Guru

So, in that time, when I swung by, before I went to the airport, I used to pass by La Pécherie, the fish market wholesale, at the harbor of Algiers, at dawn, just when the fishermen returned with their barks full to the rims  from a night sortie asea, to pickup  a ( Boruche,) a wooden round crate of shrimps, on my way  before I embarked for Paris. That is, without forgetting the indispensable bottles of wines; a red, Côteaux-De-Medea, a wine rosé, Cuvée Du President, a white wine blanc Sidi_ Brahim, and that would be the  Plat – du – Jour menu for that night, after my arrival to Paris.

Then just as I stepped in, still at the doors threshold with my packet of chock-full of shrimps in my hands, while the word was already spread, and  like by charm wand, du Beau-Monde was gathering at your table, at La Commanderie, without warning. The way I was familiar with those people of arts, and from divers horizons, it was moments of wonders, your  never expect them happening in your life. In that honor, I was given the place of a the seat guru.  I have  sat at a table with Atahualpa Yupanki, and Idir with his guitar at hand, improvising songs just for us,  and many others artists, poets and singers I had forgotten their names, but not their  friendliness, and simplicity.

later in the night, we used go for a  walk in the streets of Paris, after closing,  to end up at Les-Deux-Magots Café, Le Village, or La Sorbonne, to finish the soirée. Paris was then, the gathering of all the diaspora of all the artists in exile.

One night, we walked up to the Seines River, which was not too far from the resto, to drop a bottle within it a message. He told me that it is a romantic way to sent a message since it was too far, for a pigeon-voyageur to cross the Mediterranean Sea, then as the River goes to the sea, it carries the bottle, and with the help of the currants of waters,  and some favorable winds it would end up someday in good hands, of friends  I have out there. The paper,  It is said: (Ya R’ayeh, to Paris  don’t forget to pass by…the address…) It means (you, traveler to Paris… and so on)

I was an angler then, a hobby for passing time stress-free, after fight. I went one day fishing  on the rocky coast of Algiers…. Sometimes, I had a good catch at the end of lines, and most of the time, I return home without, but at my surprise, that day I had a good one; the mailman delivered me a letter with a parchment in it.

The bottle, I still have it on the mantel of my chimney, a gift from him: the one he didn’t drop in the waters that night we walked to the Seines River…The things we treasure, among others.

 

Echoes of Sinbad the sailor: The Calling

Echoes of Sinbad the sailor: Flickr photo

“The novel speaks to us quietly and stays with us”

“You were your voice all along.”

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/author/michelleweber/

That is all about: A Cap Jib: in the brisk

  1. a jib set on a stay to a bowsprit cap, astern.

Have you ever felt the wind on you face,
And the sun burning your skin,
the specks of sea-salt in your hair,
and it’s zesty taste, on your cracked lips

Of the Grand Large, a boat;
From the offing, she is calling, did you hear it?
It’s like a faint blow of a toot
That came from afar, miles away across the fog,

a whisper, from the deep throat of the sea
To your ear, makes you longing for lost horizons
And there, a thousand  islands waiting for you to see                                                                                           “And wish you were there, you were you voice all along”


“So throw off the bowlines, and Sail away from the safe harbor.” _Mark Twain

Tow Readers

Image
Courtesy to
http://stevemccurry.wordpress.com/2014/04/24/to-read-is-to-fly

The Two readers

The two of them, they are both mind-readers, as you see them seated side by side, totally absorbed on their readings, and deep meditation. And the two are storytellers also. At hours, both of them, they can tell you something you want to know more about it, each one on his own way. Both are mediums, in a singular  way or some sort, but they  read something, before telling you a story.

That is, before to write, you have to read, and then when you are writing, you are talking to someone; your reader.

To read is to fly, and that is, it’s  just  so true, that when I saw the photos seen above, and in scrolling the Blog, it flew me back to the 60’s, to those years of Golden; the Retro Era: Decades before, it was it was Rag Time, Swing, Blues then, now  it’s the Rock N’ Roll Time, and the Beat Generation. I had  then just turn twelve years old, an age, it was the same age  as of  the youth of the  post-Independence of Algeria,  the  Algerian state,  which it happened that it just comes to live, with its kinder no-worries in mind youth at that age of ours, sweet sixteen and having plenty of years to live, ahead of us, life yet to be grab as it comes  and to  just enjoy the happiness, rediscovered  after having lived “the hell at 10 years old.”

If you look at both  the Magician Zoltar glass-paneled box, aside the seat where the Writer is sitting on, the shoe-shining seat-booth; those sets  belong to that retro era, how dear they are to the boomers generation, for remembrance, born at that epoch, and now is looking for it’s lost bearings among the  tumult of modernism

It was the time of tender and sweet Thursdays-afternoons, we had reassess in that time. The elders, the generation  above, preceding the age of our, them they had their ballrooms, with Mambo, Cha-cha-cha, and passo-dobble, Twist and Rock n’ Roll; ours has dances(parties) after-noon, in your house; with your parents consents

Nonetheless, we used to go to the movie theaters,  besides the day when we didn’t party. Which  movie theaters, were most of them located in Algiers-Center, the Capital, like to say, Times-Square, in New  York.

At the end of the lines transportation,  Place Audin, where the bus-stops, we stepped out from the shuttle that we took to get there. Going downstairs, there  is a criss-cross underground passages for pedestrians,  with shops, cafeterias, and a shoes-repair shop, and an automate fate-reader at its entrance. Before further do, I had to confess to you, reader, that I was credulous enough to believe in magic, at that age, and with a 5 cents, you can get a fate reader card from the automate fortune-teller deck, Zoltan, inside the glass-paneled box,  that you  followed the hands gestures, in visu, the process of reading in the crystal ball, and the delivery of your card through a process  worth of a fine clock mechanism, to finish out of the slot in your hand. Until that day,  where the charm was broken, when I saw a  handyman, opening a panel on one side of the booth , and putting a large stack of  printed fate cards in a deck-like of  playing cards casino. Suddenly, The magic was gone, then. I think,  from that day I ceased to believe in tooth-fairies, and something of cool skepticism belief had slipped inside me since then, the spell was broken. Tell no one, trust nobody in New York, like the saying goes, or elsewhere something the same.

Could  you believe it? if the fortune-teller told me that you’ll cross the seven seas, and one day you could  read this blog on your reader(tablet)… May be I could dream of it only at that time, by then, it was still the time of Flash Gordon, and Superboy, Sputnik, Spaceman, on black-white TV, and 2015 was away too far in the future. Then, It was permitted to have a daydream.

Fellow commuter camaraderie|Why we write,when we write, are we right?|reflections|honey-vs-vinegar

It is difficult to immerse yourself in a place when your presence there is by design impermanent.

_Living Among Strangers

“I hoped he liked me as well as I liked him. But I also I knew that to retain my first impression of him I must not see him again; needless to say I never did see him again. One was always making contacts  of that kind making in Spain.”

_Homage to Catalonia, George Orwell

I was driven by an envy to finish the crosswords challenge  of the day, totally immersed in my thoughts, when  I hearted a voice  of one of fellow straphangers,  siting  near to me; telling me:” you should try this app, It’s the same as scrabble, but a thousand times better”, and showing me in the mean time, the game in his tablet, side by side with the crosswords on the newspaper I  was filling the cases, then he enchained without any waiting wisp ” do you have a smart phone?_ go to Game Center,  you should have it, and so on he went on eulogizing. Seeing that I became  suspicious, at his question _ generally, I don’t talk to people on the principle of; Trust nobody: don’t talk to strangers, mom’s advice that I adopted since ever in my whole life. Out of civilities, I responded that it looked like a Scrabble Games, of which, promptly, his said “Yes”, and without waiting,  he show me a demo of one  of assemblies of words connected with the prompt crisscross letters on display.

But then the tune of the conversation that  had took place in the train of thoughts  had dropped a little bit, to mingle with the tumultuous  sways of the car. After a moment, getting tired of the crosswords, I folded the newspaper, and pulled my sketchbook from the my bag and returned where of my drawings  in my sketchbook–usually, I  write some of my blogs, read or draw, to keep me busy, and  not to fall asleep in the train, for most of the times, I worked night-shifts. Then again, I felt in complete osmosis with the subject of my drawings, without paying attention to the fona and flora of the subway.

For sometimes, I didn’t notice that he was observing my drawing, from a distance, from a corner of his eye, when I heard a comment: “wow! Amazing, Can I see it.” So, without hesitation, this time, I tended my sketchbook to him. Then, sort of, comradely and as a casual pact settled between us, a small talk went on, in which we exchanged our experiences on respective jobs,  that was part of one’s own skills, hobbies, and the sort. It’s averred to be that he was a professional designer, in quest of new ideas, and so on.

Suddenly, as the voice train operator announced the next stop, reminding me that it’s time for me to jump out of the train, on this I kissed good-by to the small talk, and said see yeah to the stranger commuter, who did the same sign to me with a thumb up, as the stand-clear-on closing-doors announcement bulged from the speakers, before the clapped doors shut-like in shootings  of  a film clacked; “Action, Coupez!”. End of the story. Needless to say I didn’t ask him his name. Out of respect, we hold the door for the person behind us, and we leave the seat for the elderly, per courtesy, and  by rule of conducts. But we avoid eye-contact, and address talk to people,  of natural fear from the unknown stranger; a reflex of the sub-conscience, as  it happens often, we are brain-washed every moments by the bad news in the medias. But, inadvertently it happens also, that we break the wall of silence, and say hello, to a new comer neighbour, just for the sake of human kindness, feelings of compassion, or simply to a smile to the world. It’s  Honey vs vinegar, and or salt and peppa’ of life.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/05/11/the-kindness-of-strangers/