I'm not in the mood for a today. I await a beautiful tomorrow, a new today but filled with her, with her beautiful aroma, with a bliss that can only be achieved through contact with you, your static touch, so rare it is. My muse, the inspiration of my dreams, what helps me conjure up a tide of thoughts and overwhelming probabilities where i inevitably drown and i dont fight it, no, you are a magnificent sea, and im great at drowning. No, I'm not in the mood for a today. I'm tired of today. What I want is the beautiful future ahead. I want more of that intoxicating drug that is her scent. I want her heavenly touch that is indelible to my sences. That image that haunts me and causes me to mistake her at every corner. I'm sick of today, all I want is tomorrow. Its plane and simple. Why tomorrow ? Because she's in that tomorrow. And I want nothing but her.
As the sunlight after the rain,
As the moon after the daylight my dear,
As the harvest after the long wait,
You will see me here.
As the silence after the tempest,
As the peace after the war,
As the hope after the failure,
You will see me here.
As a friend after the disaster,
You will see me here.
Roedd gwl dathliadau Mai dydd;
Mae'r wyl uchod yn ddithlwyd, nghymru er mwyn arsyllwi. dyfodiad Haf. Nid yw Mai dydd yn coffau equinox neu hauldro'r.
Yn hyrach ei fod yn afeniad a ddefnyddir, Yn tan: tanua i droi buchesi gwatheg o chwater y Gaef; tanau i gynnau'r fordd er gyfer y gwatheg, tanau i lanhau ymaith clefyda a allai niweddio y fuches.
Tanau gyfer Baltan a elwir hefyd, yn Beltane: a fflam yn tan; ar ayfer defadau puro derwydden au Haf.
Gwyliau tan Mai dydd eu cynnal a rhwysg mawr a seremoni.
By Anita Griffiths (Welsh language translation)
The above festival was celebrated in Wales: in order to observe the arrival of Summer time.
Mayday in Wales is not to celebrate equinox or solstice.
The Mayday festival in Wales is a custom consumed in fire: fires to turn out the herds of cattle from Winter quarters; fires to light the way for the cattle; fires to cleanse away diseases that may harm the cattle.
Fires for Baltan also known as Beltane; fire and flame for the Druidic purification rites of the arrival of Summer.
The fire festivals of Mayday celebrations were carried out with a lot of pomp and ceremony.
By Anita Griffiths
Words flow in
but stumble out
I whisper things
I’d rather shout
My heart thinks
before my head
to words unsaid
Time stands still
while blurring past
Please tell me things
I haven’t asked
Too far to touch,
too close to speak
I’m bravest when
you make me weak
exactly what it is about,
what words flirt around;
a piece of art,
that tell what has transpired,
what had rambled on by.
or that feel-good story
that is too cliche for news
no love to be found.
Between then and now,
after everything that has happened,
still trying to climb a side of a mountain.
Reach up above and find purchase,
pull yourself onto the ledge,
overcome that edge.
overcoming what supposed story
has made times get harder.
denotes what is to be,
or what can be deemed
So is it inspirational,
it being anything,
just because it had been done
by one who downplays the feat?
it feels good instead,
the rushing feeling
of creating, being
involved in something more than me,
kittens and puppies,
more than you,
inspired to make a difference
because I had made made one
to your day,
or so you say.
As long as what is being inspired
doesn't bring the end
of love and life,
I'll do it every day,
that's the point.
Nothing in this world compares,
being lost at sea;
tidal waves won't let me be.
a release to me,
I can live with that,
be it the truth."
You are everything I ever wanted
You got the most beautiful eyes
The most beautiful hair
Every day I think of you
When you write to me
I get a big smile on my face
And a warm feeling inside of me
I wrote our names a thousand times
Just to see yours next to mine
I'm always to shy to tell you my true feelings
Every night before I go to bed
I pray to god that everything will be fine with you
That you will be happy, no matter what
It's hurting me everyday
Not being able to tell you how I feel about you
My heart can't take the beating
Not having you close to me
I want to make you feel my love
I want to dance with you under the moonlight
I want to kiss you good night
And hold you through the night
I tried to step out
I tried to love
I tried to be brave
I tried not to hurt
I tried not to cry
I tried to forget
Although, you broke my heart I will remember
Little Willy Green, a lone dandelion puff on the valley floor,
sat on a graying park bench, beneath a willow tree.
Though we’ve never met, I did consider him
as he sat no more than ten feet from me a few years ago.
There was something about him that tore my heart in two.
His eyes gave him away.
Looking at him, I knew
the boys taunted him and
the girls understood him. The dark circles under his red eyes told me he was
broken, a heart shattered, shrouded in shredded
As I gazed at him, I imagined him sitting with a companion
at a place — not here.
He had peace there — his mind was still.
I knew peace was rare for him, considering the storm cloud his mother must be,
absentee father (who I’m sure is absentee) and that motley mob
flanked by his math teacher and campus counselor, who I am sure
must chide him about his not knowing how to throw a football.
He did not remember their slurs
which stabbed him like a whip of bronze nails,
choked him like a noose,
and cut him like a razor blade.
He forgot it all
at that moment—in that place—as he sat on the edge of a gray sofa,
his large hands holding a stitch in his thin side. His bluish-green eyes were
barely visible through his
brimming tears. I don’t think he had ever felt such freedom.
Someone understood, and so did he,
wiping his tear-streaked face with the back of his soiled, canary yellow sleeve.
He regained his composure while
his companion recalled the punch line to his next joke.
I sat at my desk and rubbed my eyes,
Rocking back and forth in my grey
Office chair. The coffee I drank caused my loins to
Burn so I stood up to take a leak.
Passing my bedroom mirror, I saw
My profile and noticed that
My chest was round and peacockish.
The burning moved from my groin
To my right hand. I grabbed an
Unfinished volume of my thoughts from the
Shelf and peeled back the skin. I found
My place (as I often do) and navigated
My Pilot across the strict ruled page.
Black streams of thought formed like
A fetus in the womb, kicking my insides.
My breathing was fast, then slowed to the
Rhythm of my heartbeat. I pushed.
What was on the inside was coming
out. I looked down at my son. My hand was
Limp and my chest concaved.
I am overcome with sorrow.
I do it again tomorrow.