Save the Algerian goldfinch!

In #RememberanceDayforLostSpecies  I dedicated this blog, some 5 years, in an attempt to bring to attention of readers in Algeria in particular, where the Algerian Goldfinch is endangered.
I launched an SOS , like a message in a bottle into the sea:

Save the Algerian goldfinch!

The Goldfinch, https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carel_Fabritius

Witness
When you write, who is watching you?
It’s true, that for a poet, he has his own muse, Erato, a musician his own muse it’s Melpomene, but Calliope, the muse for a writer, she never shows up when he needs her the most, she is whimsical at times. So we are always fascinated, in our quest, by the blanc of a page, waiting for the moment when inspiration strikes, and we forget to look around, to things that we treasures for the longest, they are witnesses of our moments in life, or some we lost, that is_

“Somewhere, those poor things must still be knocking about”__Constantine Cavafy

It has been in the traditions of  to many countries, and their cultures as well , for the longest as we can go back in to the past, in the history of literature, in humanities, we find that people has an intimated affection for the goldfinch, in particular, either through the religious interpretation of icons, in Arts, like in Christianity, referring to biblical scriptures, or for the profane, in the folklore, and artisanal arts and crafts,   in poetry, and in writing prose.

I had a photo of a pet, a Bird, The Goldfinch, that I took while I was in Algiers, I framed it and put it on top of a corner of the TV furniture, just facing me, on the spot, usually where I use to sit to write. It had a sad look, it seemed like, it wanted to tell me something, like bagging me, for a plea, each time I look at it.
I couldn’t bring a caged bird with me, on board the airplane, 5 years ago, when I returned home because, simply it’s insane, for, imagine having a cage bird inside the cabine, or put in the belly of the plane with the luggage, for 10 to 14 hours, it’ll be dead at the arrival. Secondo, not only its prohibited and a protected species, but with all hustle of authorised documents, and vaccines, and with the flu bird, forget it. I resigned one’s mind and gave the bird as a souvenir from me to cousin, then.

So I gave up after that on the breeding thing. And the very idea to have a pet bird.

I get inspired by two WordPress prompts, “Witness, and Last Call! commenting Boot camp.”
Here, with the same post below, that I posted 4 years ago, it was my fist blog, the story is:
It all started, more or less, like this_

Dear readers, يا اللاحبا ب ، و ىا لولاد ,       
Chers amis , l'heure est grave, time is running out,         
El_Mackeen, The Goldfinch, the Elegant Chardoneret Parva est en voie de disparition,         
the bird is endangered, and in its way of disappearance, do you know that?       
Dear friends in Algeria , let's  do it, let's make it happens!       
Let's make the first day of spring un event, let it be the day of  El Mackneen

At first glance, five years ago, it’s looked like gibberish, for anyone who has stumbled upon my blog, accidentally, or in purpose, he got there by chance, looking for some kind of, a matter of inspiration, he might said, “what is this!”, and passed on in a click, to the next blog.
Continue reading Save the Algerian goldfinch!

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There You Are, And Here I Am

Source: There You Are 

“a dying language regressing
to your origin regressing
to the rib whittling yourself
down to a single bone to be
allowed another chance”

“Eden, nobody will be screaming
to harvest you in the new
Eden there will be birds
but no mirrors or dew
to reflect you back like a star
and force you to stare into
your own furred face and cry
there you are
again.”

_An excerpt of a poem by Isabelle Doyle, a former student at Emma Willard School.

Mackneen, The Algerian Goldfinch

And sill here I am.
_The Cry of birds_Grew from the ramage of birds to the hurry of wind_Hugh McCrae

Here I am, for the nonce
Here I am in a cage
My cry grew from the ramage
Of birds, To the hurry of winds
Shall I  ever have a chance
To fly, fly, again, and drift away
Finally Home, I’ll cry and I’ll say
That’s, the one and only once
I need yes in deed, to be free
Thence, all I need is my wings
to spread in spree
Here I am, and always be
You put me one day in a cage
Can’t you see me today that I age?
Can’t you see me that I am bleeding?
Can’t you see me that I am weeping?
Like a violin bow, on its hair string
T’was the first day of Spring
That day going my way straight to my fate
That I used to be free before t’was too late
Then I was nattering in my joy and glee
With No motive for my killing spree
Spending my joy from tree to tree
Having no foe, nor a prey I was to be
Safe that a carol of joy betrayed me
I was caught In a dream-catcher net
It was a gloomy day, that’s Ô! My fate
Mother Nature comes to me, ready set for rejoice
Full of fun, laughing of plenty to hear my voice
For, You don’t know why I sing, ah! me
It was the first day of Spring, for me
It’s only but a prayer, from the bottom of my heart I sing
but a plea I wish you hear me, that upward to Heaven I fling
That one day  you may let me free, before it was too late
No more I can fly, nor my wings I can spread
It’s only Poetry, a lady
she knows toward me, she said

I know why The Caged Birds Sing

I know why The Caged Birds sing, ah me,
 when his wing is bruised and his bosom sore
 when he hit the bars, and would be free;
 it is not a carol of joy or glee,
 But a prayer that he sends from his hearth's deep core,
 but a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings
 I know why the caged bird sings_Maya Angelou

http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Know_Why_the_Caged_Bird_Sings

Let It Be
Paul McCartney
Lyrics
When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Let it be, let it be. Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

That’s my carol of joy and glee
Now that’s here I am, and free
_Homage to El Baji,an Algerian singer and songwriter of Algiers of Old, Kalimelo

Dust on the road

This your song
Father and son

“It’s not a time to make a change
Just relax and take it easy”

Diamonds, money, and gold
Ago a kid, I was told
Are just dust on the road,
Your soul you never sold
To the devil, a king or fiend
and bold You stay,

for a dime you swoop
Sweat and tears, Down the road
Make it’s  your  pocket your friend
And become rich one day you hope,
It’s a better man you are now
Poor, than being a million dollars man
Without goodness in your heart
Stay clean of all vices

Be kind to your man
That’s all my advises
Find a girl, settle down
If you want you can marry
Look at the me I am old but I am happy

Wanderer

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/the-wanderer/

I had become a souvenir,
I was an edelweiss, once_
a weathered bud, for the nonce
Flattered whim between the fold
Of a yellowed diary pages_ I was told
Now I have a place where I rest.
I wished  It were near to your heart
Yesterday, I was standing stress-free
Cleansed by the hilltop winds,
Reached only by, at eagle’s wings
None of a poet, did it  for his killing spree
That the snows, it was my nest.
Downhill the Mount Everest,
I picked it for you, my soul-mate
What can I do now to please you_
My dear, the summit that I climbed it.
That Life is already consumed,
Strewn by miracles, on our way.
We saw the day of wonders we met,
the birds at our knees, we knelt
I put a flower in your hair
That Spring was it, in the air
Our souls were we had melt.
Still do you remember, do you?

_Kalimelo

and I, the while, the sole, unbusy thing…

And I, the while, the sole, unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

_Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Broken-heart

_ T'was by a lovely morning
_ When the summertime came
_ and just before that school closed
_ Going my way, nice and easy, in deed
_ suddenly, I felt inside of me something bleed
_ making my day not so bright
_ a surge of tears, an urge to cry, in despair 
_ I had none, something to tell, or to whom to write, 
_ nor to recite, this piece of poetry, nor pair
_ that's when sometimes you got the blues
_ and you had the heart torn away, too loose.
_  I encarved our hearts into a trunk of a tree,
_ At the fork of two roads, I lingered as often, 
_ I decided, but to choose that day the one not taken, 
_ I stopped by, at the school of cutting classes,
    where you play hide, and seek, by the bushes
_ where you learnt the tools of the trades, arts and crafts, 
_ those small things of life, state-of-art, of everything,
_ things that people envy you for, gossip about and jibe, 
_ but silently wish to do, and dare never did. 
_ Sweet sixteen, smoking cigs, makes you feel not at ease, 
_ just because to show off, among friends, and but just to please. 
_ What had left, at last, of things that had to pass, 
  but then when there is no more of such sweet thing, 
_ of see you later, I love you and for forever, alas 
_ who fancy, to tell me how? It’s all fake
_  you, who knows, where and how to take
_ "and I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
_ Not honey to make, nor pair, no build or sing" 
_ It was all about love, and understanding.
_  Bitterly, this is it, C’est la vie, yes I learnt
_ By the road not always that people took,
_  I went to see the railroads men, and departing train.
_ with pain in my heart, and the day as it mights rain 
_ I will tell you such, and such where the joy 
_ tears, laughter, wounded limbs of a lit’l boy
_  If you please, take pain to listen to me
_ it's a nonsense, you may say
_  then you burst in laughers,
_ and that, also I know, and dare say
_  Oh, my heart, you still remember, do you?
_ When Marie went to draw water from the well
_  She was so pretty and jolly.
_ Then, Fatima, the brunette, oh! Holy molly, 
_ when I took her hand, it was so smooth 
_ ever than a step stone, where we sat,
_  at the threshold of a fountain
_ tearing off petals of daisy flowers, hours, and hours
_  we thought then, nights and days, that the world was ours
_ To please them both, I learnt poetry, De Musset, 
_ Baudelaire, et Rimbaud, Aragon, Hugo and La Fontaine. 
_ Love me, love me not, a love play 
_ Forget me not, Proust, the Swann's way. 
_ à L'ombre des Jeunes Filles en Fleurs. 
_ But I forgot love it's a leur
_ Cutting classes, The Fridays afternoon 
_ And Sweet Tuesdays, with moon 
_ For the love of a girl’smile
_  you can do anything, like walking  hundred and a mile
_ Many years, later on, I can’t help But still remember now and then 
_ Those were the days, my friend That seemed never end 
_ Please tell me where are they
_ When, eat, love and play 
_ Was a day of not worried

_Kalimelo

“The Early Years.” Childhood-revisited, still the child within

Childhood revisitedyoung at heart always

” Every child is an artist, the challenge is to remain an artist after you grow up
_Pablo Picasso

“On the Way.”

 Bohemian Honey”

_Have you ever tasted a “Bohemian Honey”?

                                Then, listen to Gypsy King

By the way…

going my way to work,
down the road, of the street, at the fork,
I spotted this image at the vitrine of a famous store,
by a beautiful morning of May, and more
I want to share with you this moment,                                               
 a treat, and the most;                                                                                          
a souvenir of the past;
A memorabilia; a toy I lost,                                                            
Longtemps, I wept.
A dream I kept,                                                                                                        
and it lasts in my mind.                                                                                                
I find hard, and it’s hard to find
In my soul, a child within,                                                                                    
I’m and still, young at heart,                                                                        
nothing to blame, a trait of mine
and enough of an artist                                                                                              
as I always been,  and remain_
to draw upon my imagination,                                                                              
and which for a moment I stand still…                                                                                

For all those kids that have no toys
girls and boys

By the way…

_ Was is  a coffee latte, or an ice cream?
Can’t member but only indulged that moment,                                            

 by the way…

on this time of chocolate
Give a hot chocolate for the needy passer-by, going your way…

Thank you for revisiting my blog

So, if I had a hammer…

“Ain’t such an easy thing. To make a dream comes true, nowadays. So then if I have a hummer,  after that, I did it, I  can still stay a dreamer, you may say that, but I am not the only one…” I said to my muse

“Imagine All the people…Poets, and_ you know, The Beatles

“Imagine all the people…
You may say I am a dreamer,
but I am not the only one.
I hope someday, you will join us”_ John Lennon

So If I had a hummer

If I have a hammer
I would be a carpenter,
I’ll build a boat,
A dream of a kid, a once I got

If I have a hammer
I would be a sailor,
and I would be an Art-painter
Then I’ll say, lo! and pray,Oh! Lord!

I have pain in my heart to soothe
I would have astrolabe,
sextant and compasses
I’ll trace my route
On maps, as hour passes

So, then I’ll throw off the bowlines, and go at sea,
and see people, and things I would never see
If I staid I would take root
But here I am, and where I stood

If I have a hammer
I would be a skipper,
I got urgent desire,
a heart on dire,

to see the seven seas_
“Les Îles Marquises, le ciel est bleu la mer est grise.

Cheers

 Then, I would reconcile my heart 
 with that old dream of mine,
 that I had once ago when I was a kid of nine.
 That is, it would be it, a state-of-mind, and art?
 Then there, I'll stand with sheer delight 
 with a glass of wine in my hand 
 Then I can sing Brel, and draw like Gauguin
 With Peace in mind, And I'll dance all night
 I'll sit on the shore, at a bonfire light

That is all about; A stirring Conversation, a Tête-à-Tête, à tue-téte,   with my muse,  le cœur en fête, the joy at heart…if I have a million dollars…

 

I told you so

/Fearless fantasies 

 The Khashmiri Song
BY LAURENCE HOPE

Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,
 Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell?
Whom do you lead on Rapture's roadway, far,
 Before you agonise them in farewell?
 
Oh, pale dispensers of my Joys and Pains,
 Holding the doors of Heaven and of Hell,
How the hot blood rushed wildly through the veins,
 Beneath your touch, until you waved farewell.
 
Pale hands, pink tipped, like Lotus buds that float
 On those cool waters where we used to dwell,
I would have rather felt you round my throat,
 Crushing out life, than waving me farewell!

Source: India's Love Lyrics (Dodd Mead & Company, 1906)

So we must meet apart –
You there – I – here –
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are – and Prayer –
And that White Sustenance –
Despair –

_“[I cannot live with You (640)],” Emily Dickson

I told you so 
To Night

She left, with just the door ajar
And I – The heart broken, with a scar
profoundly open – behind
In me with such sorrow,
a swell pain in my heart, tonight
You feel like no tomorrow,
Poetry prose and the such you write
Love, oh! Such stupid thing, love,
Roses, letters, promises, swan, and dove
Ah! That Cupid’s Arrow,
aimed right to the heart
Touched in the now, tonight
Left in the-morrow.

She walked afar down the street
She there – I – staying here – tonight
Staring at her with my eyes wide open
She loved to say in laughter
To me that night , and  so often,
You’re too sweet to be forgotten,
Don’t be sad, she said
we still are in love affair, tonight

She said, she said
“I love you, true” tonight
and she left in the tomorrow’s
Who said is true morose
“_Depart, such sweet sorrow” is

Isn’t Hamlet, Othello…Shakespeare
How do you know, O you fool
Where I have been in despair
What a pain I’ve gotten!
Alas, Did you try lovin’?

Now, that you come back to me
With your heart-broken tonight
Don’t hit your pale forehead,
but your heart, again and again
you see, Falling in love, indeed
Such, and such was the token

Never I fall in love again, tonight
you said: I swear.
Now suffer in silence without tears
Oh! Such brave heart then, thou arth
But yesterday In such sorrow I were

Now, taste from that melancholy elixir,
Of such bittersweet zest, of hate and desire
In such stern that you can’t bear
That lonely feel, but lasts in your mouth.
Yesterday, That you loved her without fear

Because, because, such and such,
And so and so
Because You-want-to-know
what-love-it-is, tonight
I will not tell you this, my dear,
Today I told you so
Now That she hangs your heart among others,
You are the one of her so many hunter trophie
you shine like a fleece in the sun, also
“Alto chi piantro almondo duras e!” Tonight

“Because you see, amie
I can’t live with you…
And I can’t live without you”
_Kalimelo

Now, consider those odds of Keats

La Belle Dame Sans Merci
* “I love thee true.”_Keats

"I met a lady in the meads,
 Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
 Her hair was long, her foot was light,
 And her eyes were wild.
 I made a garland for her head,
 And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
 She looked at me as she did love,
 And made sweet moan.
 I set her on my pacing steed,
 And nothing else saw all day long,
 For sidelong would she bend, and sing
 A faery’s song. 
 She found me roots of relish sweet,
 And honey wild, and manna-dew,
 And sure in language strange she said—
 “I love thee true.”
 She took me to her elfin grot,
 And there she wept and sighed full sore,
 And there I shut her wild eyes
 With kisses four.
 And there she lullèd me asleep,
 And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
 The latest dream I ever dreamt
 On the cold hill side.
 
"I saw pale kings and princes too,
 Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
 They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
 Thee hath in thrall!”
 
 I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
 With horrid warning gapèd wide,
 And I awoke and found me here,
 On the cold hill’s side.
 
 And this is why I sojourn here,
 Alone and palely loitering,
 Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
 And no birds sing."_ Keats

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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re:To the Time Traveler Passing By

To the Time Traveler Passing By. To Night

Mon enfant, you see
My route is the Milky Way.
I'm the Time Traveler passing By,
I stopped here, par hazard I'm going there, anyway
People milking time, elsewhere I swear_ thinking I'm a cow,
tell my how.
Oh, my Child, don't cry 
like that, it's make angels cry
Hiding your eyes in your  hands
tel me why.
I saw your lament
From atop the firmament
Shed your tears, don't let them fall
I'll take them  all, your tears,
Where there, as it' appears
In the sky like diamonds they are gem, 
on the stars I put them. 
Orion is my chariot.
Oh!It's Time I have to go, 
keep your dream, 
And make a wish, when you see a beam in your sight
As you might See me passing by, one night