I believe that there are places where to go to a person must ready body and soul.
Some places talk about a sacredness, a silence, a refuge where the pilgrim rest and stops.
At times the traveler finds itself unworthy and is wary of entering. So sacred is this place.
The traveler asks, ‘What is this place? Where is this very hour in which we find ourselves?’
‘Who is you, who is me? What are these contemplations, this pond where we rest and pause?’
‘Why do you care for explanations,’ you asked me from the gate. …
If I could hold on time while in my hands,
As a friend and not this tyrant, spreader of lies,
Telling me when to birth and when to die,
Or when to go and walk.
If I could hold it and stretch it and compress it like a god,
To listen to all the songs, read all poems, kiss all lips, hear all stories,
If I could hold time just like that, time would be the lucky object,
About which now, I would write.
But instead, all I have is a bicycle taking me places near and far, To one…
Am I a robber, an intruder,
Into your private world going?
But you invited me, you said,
Let me take you into my world,
Are your words, roots of the world?
Towards the ground growing?
At first sight, I am enamored,
with the contour of your lines,
Voluptuousity sinuosity intertwine,
lustfully in my mind,
Messages I cannot fathom,
As my eyes in your caligraphy pause,
Your words hold stories without end,
How many Earths to bind a hundred sons?
If you hold me against your bosom,
I will learn from the secrets of your tongue.
©Pablo Pereyra 2021. …
There is a room, a place, maybe a pond, where we go and meet. Or this is the way I want it to be.
There is a house with a thousand rooms, maybe a milliard. Maybe just one.
There is a place where something beyond reader and writer exists, finding them. The story, it is, maybe.
Risking not understanding a single iota, here I come.
I got drawn to the Broads Non-Grata prompt, Black Out integration, several months ago. Ever since I struggled to take it to the place where I felt the message wanted to go.
The journey of…
I better be your bike,
Take me to your bed,
Give me the best ride of my life.
— Gurpreet Dhariwal
Many cyclists I know,
Fetichist the object bike.
The obvious relationship
Of genitalia against the seat,
Seat pressing against buttcheeks.
But the cyclist at heart knows,
There’s in cycling more than that,
More than pressures and vibrations,
Giving feedback from the trail.
There are hands and, there are hips,
Thrusting the bike, making it turn,
There are the thumbs caressing shifters,
Lightly firmly, the handlebars pressing.
There’s gasping for air and burning lungs, Pacing the breathing to keep a…
We so want to tell stories of triumph.
And hide failure and defeat.
It is easy to hide in our success, present our best face.
The weight of failure stands on our shoulders.
I failed. I set a goal and failed.
Why do I write about this, reader?
To remember one another that things will not always go according to plan.
That we will not meet our wants, and it will hurt, and we will not feel all-right. We will hope to have learned from our mistakes, but maybe we will not. …
I do not believe White Americans, in general, are racist. They possibly hold several unchecked biases about different stereotypes, such as race. But I want to think that as a group, they are not racist.
White Americans were once immigrants as well. Most people do not leave their home, family, and country unless living conditions are not optimal for growth. Most people do not abandon tried and true methods to work in the search for the unknown.
And the East Coast of the United States was the unknown for the European migrant of the seventeenth century.
Then, the Virginia Company…
I live in this dichotomy of places
Between the Spirit and the flesh,
For the sake of order in this world,
Seduced by unbinding desires,
Moving in incongruent directions,
With these appetites as masters.
I am unsure if I feel vertigo,
If I am recovering from spinning,
If I can see the blue side up,
Are my wings producing lift,
In this state of deep despair,
I am allowed now to exists.
The world we have created, Of these arbitrarities and lies, Denying the nutrients of words, An empty shell your money is, No, you cannot buy me, love, Not…
So, can I walk this while with you?
As we drink both from the Spirit of the West,
Share this trail filled with silence, full of song.
A land that does not quiet,
As we love it with our feet,
Keep on walking through this highway,
Full of emptiness, decipher,
The meaning of the silence,
As it speaks, louder than words.
Nature does not abuse the gift of words,
Speaking quietly of the essential,
Its lazy-talk, melting the soul.