First sight|From atop

From atop of my three-apples tall
Quote; Courtesy to: Mr. Alec Nevala-Lee

 _”From atop of my three-apples tall”_Kalimelo.

I was not taller than three-apples, staked one atop of another, oh! _ I just turned seven or nine years old, then_ from the hilltop, I could see the world brand new; my first sight of it from there, standing on the hilltop, and stress-free. Thither or hither, on the other side of the hill; It was like putting a stool to glance from a window into the outside, at the peer of things.

_Kalimelo

I stood tip-toe upon a little hill
The air was cooling, and so very still
_John Keats
http://www.bartleby.com/126/2.html

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.

— J. D. Salinger

But wait,  unless you don’t want to know further more and nor continue reading,

“All this happened, more or less

_Kurt Vonnegut, The Slautherhouse-five

Continue reading First sight|From atop

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

On the Souls of My Shoes|re: Inspiration Call

Writer Highlight Featuring Anjell Mars-Roberts MzHotness: Shoes|re:
Response to:

Inspiration Call
· Creative Talents Unleashed’s Photos ·

Take you shoesThank you for those precious gems:

To them

I bow my hat
with respect
I know they’re old,
A Million, ye can’t sold
but, you see,
No apology,
I can’t put my feet in your shoes

neither you, your head in my hat.
If we have to choose__
before I depart,
my sandals are Sparts.
My muse Clio, Erato are bare feet
You see, walking barefoot,
I’m use to it.
Never  to complain,
nor  it   blew  my toot.

On hot sand,
and rocky roads,
With a stick on my hand
the World, I roam
All where I go is home.

I care of my feet

sometimes, they bleed,

they take me where I need,

God bless the broken roads,

keep your shoes,
and  I, my hat,
In the summer,
It keeps me at shade, my head
and In the rain, it stays dry, no matter what
We are both at,
you to take your hat,
and me, my  shoes
At a mosque or a temple
Leave your shoes at the door
Of The Lord

It’s that simple,

And not had to choose

Nice talk,
Kiss good-bye the old shoes
I take a walk,

“I carry them,  On The souls of my shoes,

With me, thither and yon, the places  I go”

say it low.
this is it
I quit
I have to leave,
We are to Live
Sometimes and die.

__Kalimelo®

“You pass through places, and places pass through you, but you carry them with you on the souls of your shoes”

_Molly  Layde

“We carry always with us a little of the small town we lived in on the soles of your shoes,
When we have to leave all things behind, for a tranquil life”_ Enrico Marcias

Sleepy Time|The nap, a lost art|The value of rest

http://writing201july2014.wordpress.com/2014/08/15/not-writing/

Taking a nap afternoon, has been a tradition in most of the countries riverine to, or living around on the other banks of the Mediterranean Sea, and in Latin Americas, as well. But, it remained peculiar  to Spain were it was established as a “holy” costume  among people since dusting  centuries, it was raised to the same level of holiness as Toro corrida, Flamenco dance, the toreador El Cordobes, bullfighting in arena, torero Ole,  the collective joy  in  shared  moments of farnientes.  Dramas, passionate   crimes and feuds were committed at this singular hour; the napping time, the moment of predilection: when inspiration strikes. Painters, Picasso, Miro, Salvador Dali, Living Art, Poets and writers like Frederico Garcia Lorca, Ernest Hemingway, who wrote masterpieces  narrating the particular hour when the drama occurred: Death In The Afternoon_ https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1455.Ernest_Hemingway

Sleepy Time Napping time, it was introduced to Spain by the Moorish Moslems as part of their daily religious rituals; like ablutions before each prayer, the respect of one’s privacy, and  by the fact that their work day starts from dusk to noon: The south of Spain is known; by being arid and hot, it tends to less activities, and more to farnientes . In a given time of today’s work, it’s already equal to six, seven hours, thus the break after lunch imposes itself  de facto. In modern time, taking a nap, it is still in use, and with the same respect for the tradition, preserved intact same as times ago, that businesses close by law, between noon and two-thirty, to resume work until 5:30 PM. _The photography of the daily prompt  emphasizes well a  phenomenon that I had seen a longtime ago. Back then, as usually it was years  ago, as I used to stop somewhere, Paris, Geneva, Bamako or elsewhere. That night it was at Alicante, Spain to spend the night, a stand-by, of  the time I was a flight attendant, like bird of same feather stops for the night. I  used to go to one of the café terraces to relax, as it remains a couple of hours of day-saving at its début of establishment–before dusk to enjoy the lovely late afternoon; the hotel in which we stay for the night was a few steps away from the plaza and cafeteria terrace, there, they were hundred of townsmen, owners of businesses, and families they came gathering there, to relax and chat after work for happy hours, sipping coffee, and indulgent sorbet. The  phenomenon was queer enough by itself, at moments, as the  shout of the crowd rose so loudly, then went crescendo riffed in to the air,  to become  indistinct from the clamored  chirping of the birds that gathered also on the limbs of the trees like on predisposed design. Then, it ceased instantly, in to a sustainable silence like,  for a split of a second, to resume to its brilliant cacophony. People and Birds that seemed comfortable with it, in common accord  were both alike were indifferent to each other’s, they  had come there for the sole  purpose of this: to chat; the ones just perched on the limbs above the heads of  the lasts, the people sitting there on the chairs, under the trees. For  a person foreign to the uses and costumes of the country, who chance to come sitting there stress-free, —-not writing– and just contemplate the scene, it was naturally for him to  find it strange, that with all that tumult  clouding above and without annoyance and disturb,  that anyone  of being aghast of it, where it seemed like nobody was listening to nobody, while everybody is talking, just for the sake of it.

http://cbwentworth.wordpress.com/2014/08/20/interim/ Courtesy to C B Wentwoth

Another day, another night, this time it was ten stories atop of the bank of Niger River, sitting there in a balcony of the Hotel De L’Amitiée at Bamako, the capital of Mali, cleansed by a faint of freshness of the  air at building heights, coming for the river, a mile away.  I was watching thousands of bats, and flock of birds of the same feathers  invading the sky at dusk in a chase of insects for the last meal,  over the crests of Flamboyant trees baobabs, bananas and mango-trees, while twenty feet under, people  were  heading home after an exhausting  day of torrid  Heath, in swarm of bikes, cars and taxi-brouses–a shared car or truck for a ride by ten to twenty people– as the streetlights turned-on in the city and on the bridge, they were crossing the river in long beam of toots hanks, lights and vaporous dust . Somewhere in a distance, I silhouetted an angler on a pirogue who was  throwing his fishing net in the river. People there, mostly Moslem, they stop working at noon for lunch, pray and taking a nap, to resume work at around four o’clock, the call of the muezzin for Asser prayer time Modernism, and automation focusing on generating profit, extending out-put, had taken over traditions, rituals, and the artisanal arts and craft to becoming obsolete, they are fashioning a new way of life, and style, in a fast-paced environments, at the expenses of taking time to live, and appreciate the gift of the present moment: such as, the benefit  of taking a break. Recently some corporates  traduced  a séance of relaxation in a hub in to their office,  for their employees, besides the lunch break, to increase their attentions, during their work. Ps: just for a zest of humor: if you yawn in reading this, just take a …drink and think of it, sometimes inspiration strikes, never knows, when and where.

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.

 

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/

The sitting it’s the thing|’T was at the Blue-Note|a Blog for no regrets

 

image

Courtesy to: fantasy sports


We met at the end of the party_Philip Larkin

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/because-the-night/

 

T’ was at the Blue-Note,

Un soir, peut-être

A soirée too singular

The ones you never forget

she was just sitting there…

In the heat of the night

I was taking  note.

a complain moaned, from the clarinet,

Miles Davis, it was in the mood.

you never felt so good,

after that.

She, about  a vignette, she wrote,

in a sudden she left

for the piano-bar or to the waiter,

there ever we met

 

 

Fellow commuter camaraderie|Why we write, are we right?|dailypost-writing-challenge-reflections

In Response to Daly Prompt: honey Vs Vinegar : in deed, it still exist this kind of humanly and intrinsic behavior. Sometimes, a common anonymous person,  that we thought as rare species, suddenly becomes the hero of the day, like the one who jumped in to the subway tracks to save a person.
http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/05/11/the-kindness-of-strangers/

Mackneen, The Algerian Goldfinch

“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 of the day, totally immersed in my thoughts, then  I hearted a voice  of a 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 handheld, 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…

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‘T was at the Blue-Note|a Blog for no regrets

 

I got the Blues
Jazz-it up_kalimelo

 

image

Courtesy to: fantasy sports


 

Because the night

‘T was at the Blue-Note,

un soir,  peut-être,

a soirée too singular

that you never forget.

She was just sitting there…

In the heat of the night

I was taking  note.

A complaint moaned, from the clarinet,

Miles Davis, it was in the mood.

you never fell so good,

after that.

She was, about  a vignette, she wrote,

Then, in a sudden she left

for the piano-bar or to the waiter,

there ever we met