Sunny with a chance of rain

The storm clouds cover the radiant sun, on what seemed like a perfect day, this sadness suddenly engulfs my heart, erasing the smile I had all morning.

The fresh air I breathed 5 minutes ago, turned to a thick smoke that I do not want to inhale.

It's sunny outside, I'm gloomy inside.

For my retired partner...

=)

I see what you did there...

I usually need a reason to have something to write because my mind is blank 89.3% of the time.
Besides, the poetry I post on here is never mine.
Today isn't any different.
Today I am but observing.
What makes someone want to put their thoughts into words for all to read?

Thoughts.

THOUGHTS are flying inspirations,

Fleeting as the summer's cloud;

Grasp them, hold them, they are precious;

Silent, yet they speak aloud.

For the inspirations lifting

From the soul's deep silvered strand,

Are the fresh and brilliant jewels,

Tokens of the inner man.

Thoughts, like rivers, run to oceans,

The great sea of human lore;

But it first must fall in showers,

On the mead and marsh and moor.

Then refresh the fevered meadows,

Let some dew fall in the night;

If you cannot send the showers,

You can lend your little mite!

Selfish natures cannot broaden,

From without their narrow self;

Wealth you hold within your bosom,

Narrows more and more yourself.

Breathe afar your thoughts of meaning,

Like the dew of Hermon's plain;

"Cast your bread upon the waters;

It will turn to you again!"

James A. DeMoss

Unexpected

Sometimes, in the search for nothing in particular, you find something that hits home. But then again I live under a rock.

Apparently James A. DeMoss was from Kansas and wrote poetry from the mid to late 1800's.

Some beings live from day to day

Without a thought;

Whose solemn moments pass away

And soon forgot.

Each day as but an idle dream

Of little worth;

And to the dormant mind 'twould seem

His life a curse.

It is a fruitless life indeed;

Ah, yes, 'tis worse

Than fruitless, and of little need

E'er to rehearse.

Not only do they bear no fruit

Of value great,

Nor deeds of any good repute

Would fain create,

But worse by far than fruitless toil,

They sink at last

Into despair, a worthless spoil,

Forgotten past.

Ah, sad to see a wasted form

All ghastly lay,

A victim to life's every storm,

A helpless prey.

All damned here by his worthless self,

Ignoble slave;

A victim of his hand bereft,

His trust did wave.

Worthlessness-James A. DeMoss

Sometimes here, but never there

He

...Was always there to lend a hand.

...Always had the words to make you laugh.

...Was surrounded by many and appreciated by few.

...Never fought it and let it win.

...Was taken one day.

.______.

I

...Will always remember the things you taught me.

...Will never forget your laugh.

...Will keep your memory alive.

...Miss you dearly, but mostly

...Wish I were there.

Las Golondrinas...

Traigo el alma sobre un mar de sentimientos

Todavia no cicatrizan mis heridas

Ese radio me toco en el peor momento

La cancion que amargan mas las despedidas

Rechazar a quien ame por tanto tiempo

Se que voy a lamentarlo mientras viva

-Escuche Las Golondrinas

I'm gonna need more wood.

I have to agree with the Pastrami Llama.
I'm not a Debbie downer, I believe what I see.
Why am I going to waste my life away searching for what is not there?

I don't read much......or read any at all.
I can't say I know anything about poetry or literature.
All I know is that the few things I've read, written by John Donne, have some truth to them.
He lived, loved and lost and was the kind of realist person I consider myself to be.
Just don't call me a pessimist, because the differences are great.

I will continue to restart and feed the fire because I realize that I cannot stop the winds or rainstorms.

When that elixir is found, then you have my attention.

 Love's Alchemy

 -John Donne
Some that have deeper digg'd love's mine than I,

Say, where his centric happiness doth lie;
I have lov'd, and got, and told,
But should I love, get, tell, till I were old,
I should not find that hidden mystery.
Oh, 'tis imposture all!
And as no chemic yet th'elixir got,
But glorifies his pregnant pot
If by the way to him befall
Some odoriferous thing, or medicinal,
So, lovers dream a rich and long delight,
But get a winter-seeming summer's night.



Our ease, our thrift, our honour, and our day,
Shall we for this vain bubble's shadow pay?
Ends love in this, that my man
Can be as happy'as I can, if he can
Endure the short scorn of a bridegroom's play?
That loving wretch that swears
'Tis not the bodies marry, but the minds,
Which he in her angelic finds,
Would swear as justly that he hears,
In that day's rude hoarse minstrelsy, the spheres.
Hope not for mind in women; at their best
Sweetness and wit, they'are but mummy, possess'd.