Poet n’ troubadour|Soul-of-my guitar

http://poetreecreations.org/2014/06/23/passing-time-square-promote-yourself/

Thanks to http://poetreecreations.org/author/poetreecreations/, Gillian Sim, by them I get published my poem above,

The poem must resist the intelligence, Almost successfully.

_http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wallace_Stevense

 “Companionable.”

Soul-of-My Guitar

 Sometimes, when you get the Blues
 or The Nana of yours, she is jalous.
 That whe You feel lonely, to-night
 and in your heart, insides, it tears

 I harken to the Soul-of-my guitar,
 I hugged that Old'-companion of mine

 It's my Pêché-Mignion, my glass of wine
 My-bread-and-butter, my Duchess
 It's My guitar, my Gitane*, my muse.
 
 Keep your laughers, and your tears,
 and your sarcasm, and also please
 Doesn't matters if my sorrow that's ye amuse

 we had, an _á peut-prêt, this small talk
 T'was two o'clock in morning, I suppose
 This kind of a language, I propose,
 and a lit'le of your time, I may dispose
 if you please, and I will take
 
 I said to her: "Longtime no-see, dear"
 She said: " I was just  sitting here,
 already set, with all my frets
 Longing for your fingers,
 on my neck to linger
 I was all the time Resting on a chair,"
 I was "Just gathering some dust_
 And you were always  at a hast,"
 "You fled for a woman,and her hair,"
 Now, that you come back to me,
 with heart-broken, at last
 And for my hard strings always to press_
 At seventeen, I know L'Amour, ç'a blesse."
 I'm longing for your caress,
 I am weeping, Can't you see it?"
 with some reproach in her voice,
 She said: "can You believe it?"
 I said: " Ain't  got no choice"
 "mais encore", she said
 I said, "Strike a chord"
 "It doesn't mean a thing," I plaid
 "Seise the thing,"  she said,
 "and let it go"
 Grate the strings,
 just add a touch,
 some Sol La Si and the such
 And Say it low
 And the words will follow
 And put some rhymes.
 It works sometimes
 Then, there you get the Blues,
 And you'll be at ease"
 I said: "tonight.
 " I have to write,
 she  said:" and it's will be alright,
 just get it right."
 "And you are done with that beautiful mess"
 
__At a wee hour, I felt like my soul of a poet, and a troubadour, I ceise my companionable guitar 
so  I just gave it a try, and see what happens, like bonjour, it's five morning
_Kalimelo

*Gitannes, a trademark of French cigarettes, and it means also, a gypsy woman fortune-teller

*gitane, a gypsy woman_ Frensh Dictionaries

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/strike-a-chord/

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The Sound of Silence| The curve of the bell

Silence is at the begging of every movement, as there is no music without silence; as it is true as the curve of the bell.

_ Maurice Ravel
I would say: anything else added is of pure noise, but I refrain a second, from saying it, to let the quote speak by itself, and let you indulge the moment.
But then, when it starts, it creates momentum, then you have to finish it, to the last note; then, Silence…
If you want to listen to the sound of Silence, then just put a porcelain shellfish to your ear, that is, if you still have the child in you, and you’ll hear the waves of the ocean crushing on the seashore, at your feet _” I miss you like the ocean miss the seashore, and the desert miss the rain”_ Guns&Roses, if my memories are good, or “Dance with me, sway with me”… I still have their name on the tip of my tongue, but just can’t remember.

Speak, memories, and Silence, speak as true as the curve of the bell.

When I go home, to pay tribute to the lost one’s, each time I managed to pass first by the small cemetery of the village, the small town where I grew up, which  cemetery is situated on the main street that leads to my parents house. Since fading ages, the gate was always kept open. For, each Friday, women  elderly and young used to gather there, to visit the lost and beloved ones. It happened that the grave of my father was just near the to the wall entrance, so that I just have to stand by the wall for a moment to pay tribute to him and to the people who rest there in peace, without walking on the soil, for respect to them, and not to profane the holiness of the whereabouts.

After I have read the Fatihah,_the first opening Surat of the Quran, I squatted  to put a flower on the grave, and poor some water in the little bowl, that someone probably my mother, had put it there at the head, and in front of it, with the geraniums that she planted aside.
Then, when you stand up in the shade of the pine trees, you listen to the sound of the wind, to the shipping of goldfinches, and sparrows, for a moment.

The last time I went by, the gate was closed, with chain and a padlock _I glanced through the gate, at a distance, as far to my father’s tomb as I could, to see  that one shaft of marble was broken, to wonder:”certainly weathered by the effect of time? or _Perhaps, to prevent that the garden of their last rest from being disturb.” it was said around that there was some vandalism of some sort.
Birds chirping, Aeolus playing with the olive-tree branches, in a Greek mythology like, then Silence.

First Crush

First Crush or  “The Early Years” never die”

First crush o’ “The Early Years,” never dies

She  walked in a hurry, and passed side by side of both of us, me and him, her hair was long and dark that falling on her shoulders, like a shadow of a tree in a desert like looking for some freshness at noon, and she smiled to both of us, furtively as she continue walking and we following her behind.

We were kids of just  ten years old then,  or twelve my friend maybe, and stilI remember, that day; ‘t was a day like today, sunny and bright, like after a snowstorm, ‘t seemed like a brand-new day  just for us _at least it’s what  I believed, or maybe that was love, the first time. I grabbed a handful of snow and  threw it gently at her, mid-fearless, mid-brave, with a smile that just hidden  the swoony feeling in my guts.

She turned back, and look at him, but then at me, her eyes regard fallen oblic on my mitts wet by the snow , and then  she smiled at me, and contained her laughter within her hand to her mouth, oh! my. And I, standing shy with a penod and guilty air, I felt what a pity I was in, then suddenly, I felt my face red like a thousand suns had burned my checks, and my hearth; I would loved I could have died instantly, and would dived and hidden in the deepest of your black eyes, at that instant, to cool down the fire that she  just had started  ablaze in my heart.

I may have forgotten her name with time, and barely fathom the features of her face, but now and then, from time to time, as I cross a street,  it seems that I recognize you in the face of that beautiful woman who just  walked  to me, and passed, I looked behind over my shoulder, And  smile.

Time, and again

It reminds me a song of AbdelHaleem Hafiz, an Egyptian singer of the sixties, known also by the nickname of the Rosignol of the Middle-East

For Les Amis de Mackneen, The Algerian Goldfinch Blog

—Once in a while—
SOMETHING
AMAZING
Comes Along…
___….AND HERE IT IS!…___

Voila!

_Spring is here, Brooklyn is blooming.

Happy, but a lit’le upset, I would  be glad, and more if I had an Algerian Goldfinch “Makneen”, my pet caged bird, then I would put some music Chaabi, a Blues genre, open the window, have a cup of Algerian green tea mint, and just sit, and write.

My Aim, five years ago, it was an invitation to the people of Algiers for a plea,  a petition to make this day –the 21st of March– the Mackneen Day, an Emblem of Algiers City, the capital of Algeria, since it is a symbol of Freedom, for the Liberation of Algeria from the French colonization of the country during 132 years of occupation. The plea was in homage  to El Baji, who wrote the lyrics, and sung it for the first time, the El Ankis, another Algerian singer,  Dahmane El Harachi, El Hachemi, and all the other masters of Algerian Chaabi Music, a Blues genre,  whom they sung_ El Mackneen, afterward, the Chardonneret, or if you like, the Goldfinch.

It didn’t work all this time , so I persisted in blogging about small things, peculiar to the subject, like the environment in wich the bird is living, the anarchic breeding, the people who bird breed , and the disaster that the urbanization caused, the housing projects, pollution, and all these factors that concurred to endangered the very existence of the Goldfinch, because it is the first thing obvious and an alarming fact, that it became hard to find in nature, and I was brooding around as much as I can to acknowledge people about it, but, it was not in vain.

Dear Reader, guess what!

It’s amazing! Today, I have a five years Anniversary blogging with WordPress.com, and a congratulation reward. An  achievement, finally my blog got a name,” Mackneen,The Algerian Goldfinch

_ a “Name; though it seem a superficial and outward matter, yet it carrieth much impression and enchantment.”__ Francis Bacon

It’s a  consolation, about  the stats of the whole period of blogging, it’s a meager score: 2000 hits, 200 likes, and 100 followers, but I got comments, from writers, poets, photographers, and very nice people from all around the world.

Still I have a year to go untill the next Spring! Inch’ Allah, Isn’t it?

_You hold My achievements on your hands,

so please, don’t forget to click on the Like button, before you leave the page; it’s for a good cause, and a noble ideal: the protection of endangered species, among others, like the Goldfinch, and many others poor little things that still, they are knocking about

Have a nice day