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You Gotta Toughen Up, Cowboy Up
The broad ruffled figure released his grip and moved the brown stick a ways, pushing ashes and burnt wood to make room for air to run through; to watch as the flames reached higher, with no bounds. It was alluring, and constituted deep thoughts; ones of intense feeling.
It was a chilly night, and a lonely one at that. The only source of life was a growing fire, that of a light whistle in the wind, and a white light in the sky which lightened the mood. Only a little. The slow moving clouds, the soundless giants made him seem smaller than the rest of the world.
Men would be fooled to believe that, though.
He was a very silent man as well, but he had big dreams. Big as the clouds.
A small hum came into existence, just a small voice. After a few seconds the man spoke a few words, and the brightness of the flames flickered against his eyes. And pretty soon, he found himself singing a small tune. It was alone that he was not afraid to show his full true voice.
A beautiful strong voice.
Where The Dust Settles - 2
The gunshots were unexpected. Everyone was tightly packed around the fire, still laughing when the bursts flew over their heads. The fire itself seemed to writhe with anxiety. Exasperation swept over Johnston, but he remained calm and just stayed in his position: lean and comfortable. A hand on the .45. The hat over his face so he could rest his eyes.
Some of the boys reached for their rifles and pistols, but a deep, low voice caught them off-guard. Off in the distance, a few groans and throat-cut cries indicated that something was going on with the cattle.
“Howdy, folks. I come here to talk.”
A man emerged from the torrential blackness upon a charcoal-streaked steed; a pipe stuck out of his mouth at an awkward angle, like a twisted tree branch ready to break off. His black hat hung down low, just barely enough for a man to see the narrow, auburn eyes. The revolver clutched in his scarred hand seemed to speak the very words of death, but Johnston understood its language. If
Standing On The Hill
Sitting on the hill
Is a wait worth making
The clouds of burden seem endless
But they will always pass by
To see and to dream
Is to reach beyond the norm
One can never truly exist
Without an arm outstretched
Memories become clear
Some are dear some are not
In the end it is memorable
Just knowing we are here
The endless blue ocean
High above our heads
Slowly waves and falls closer
Yet auras ascend with heart
Standing on the hill
Against a vast new sight
We must make a moment in our lives
Taking us to unimaginable heights
A Higher Calling
This is the great reward of service, to live, far out and on, in the life of others; this is the mystery of Christ, - to give life's best for such high sake that it shall be found again unto life eternal…”
Such was the belief, and heart, of thirty-four year-old Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, as he looked down on those unrelenting grey bodies climbing the rocky, bloody slopes of Little Round Top. With nearly half his regiment killed or wounded, and a torrent of infernal fire looming over their heads, certain decisions had to be made.
To no extent was there any end of emotional fervor. Indeed, as he looked upon the rebels, his enemy, Chamberlain could not feel the hatred many others bore instead. He was a professor from Maine, having taught at Bowdoin College. But the call for arms had marched him far away from his wife and children; from experiences he knew growing up as a boy. He learned through determination, and sought success through great challenges. “Do it
Travel For You - 3
The steps are soundless
The appearance unwanting
Here upon the trail
Is nothing more
Only one beautiful presence walks the way
Livid and fruitful
Still the appearance is unwanted
The air is turning for cold
The appearance can do nothing
But keep walking and walking
Along that trail
Behind the beautiful presence
An elegant sun brought the vivid colors sincerely missed the past days, which culminated with a breath of relief. No longer were the clouds gray and listless – instigating into its neighbors below a feeling of utmost hell – but they were now calming and right in the hearts.
There was always a beast which tore at them, and some wished they could stride with the torrential rains in the opposite direction; to return home, fall into the arms of family and friends, and be greeted with tears of love and happiness; to forever smell the baking of pies and taste those lovely dinners whom mothers always had the knack of preparing.
Who could forget venturing into the woods with fathers, muskets in hand and a manly spirit in rise; claiming the first deer, receiving such brusque but complimentary words as to build upon that manhood!
Who could forget!
Home was awaiting, and they dearly wished to return. But as of now…it was not to be. So, when…?
Rolling hills encompassed th
Where The Dust Settles - 1
He took in the cool, fresh air, relieving all that anxiety that plagued the dusty old body he’d lugged around since the beginning of the trip. Now, it wasn’t out of tiredness that he did so. No...instead, it was out of a burning excitement. The expanse of lush, green grass and swift movement of the winds gave the fields an appearance of that of the ocean – an ocean he wanted to cross. It belittled the thoughts he first had of Montana territory.
There had been some hysteria among the men, though he could not point out why. Maybe it was the passion of the flaring sun – the endless days of breaking dawn to get a head start, and sweating like a mad dog thereafter. Perhaps it was the wild thought of being out on their own, finally free of homely duties. Or maybe it was just the coffee. That strong, dry coffee with the bitter after-taste.
Johnston wiped his nose with the hem of his sleeve, and took a good glance at the aura emanating from the surrounding clouds
A last wave of applause swept out from the surrounding crowd as Edward Everett, finished at last with his two-hour speech, smiled graciously. The November day was mild; a light breeze was all that carried throughout. It was a perfect date and occasion to have 15,000 people gathered at the newly established cemetery.
Everett searched around gradually, and then sat down in a chair beside other famous and well-known men that had been invited. His heart beat with pride as the crowd continued to clap, even a bit after he had seated himself.
The breeze picked up, but then settled thereafter. The sun was bright, and birds could be seen twittering around the landscape.
Then all went quiet.
The crowd’s attention was kept to as a tall, solemn figure rose from his seat. A slight smile was upon his aging-old face. He removed his hat and placed it behind him with ease, then stood up to his full height. A crude white piece of paper was clutched in his thin hands. His uniform was neat and tidy.
To The Last
He was already wounded twice, but was still alive. A revolver-pistol was held loftily in his hand; a bent scabbard, which had previously deflected a spent round, lay near him with no use. Yet, nothing else was on his mind except one thing: hold the line.
The great effort of the whole army around him was entirely audible, and the mass teamwork, the sense that this whole army was the last defense kept everyone on high alert. Already, they had endured several charges. It was only possible to hold out such strong spearheads because of the steep, rocky hill. He had read and learned everything he could about the tactics of war: marches, counter-marches, drills, attacking positions, retreat calls; but it was all useless at the moment. The college professor knew that the gray boys down there would continue to drive into his lines. The past summers, the rebels had won battle after battle. They had the stonewall at Fredericksburg. But now, the professor and his Maine men had the heights and the
It's NotIt's not the lipstick gloss
that makes a kiss
the warm pulse beating through
It's not their size
but the words they whisper,
It's not the color
nor the length
nor the glint
of her hair
that makes her special
it is her smile
in the falling rain
reflecting the joy
of yet another Spring,
It's not the time
she spent getting beautiful
that makes her so
but in fact
it is the hours
she was besides my bed
when I was sick
and in fact
it is the minutes
I could hear her breathe
in my embrace
AND in fact
it is the seconds
I saw her cry
(out of happiness)
Because she's beautiful.
It's not the clothes,
nor the jewellery,
nor the colored nails,
nor the drawn-in brows,
nor the words she says
to other people,
and neither it is
It is her mind
that entertains my poems,
it is her charm
that paints my cheeks
and averts my shy eyes from her
It is her soul,
that I love.
You Were Not An Aquarium BoySea-glass became your bones,
brine your blood, and seashells
melded into your skin.
You were not quite an ocean
when you said "This is your sign to love me."
My body was like a building;
tall, cold, almost unbreakable.
I was metallic and sharp,
towering over your waters.
I remember taking your hand in mine,
conch and coral shells scrubbing
my skyscraper wrists, and laughing
about how one day you would
submerge every last bit of me.
Your lips, riddled with argonauts,
found my cheek and I cringed
at the coarseness.
You asked if they bothered me
and I finally told you "I
think I love you."
The Origins Of The Ice Queen (Story)
As the Duke slammed into the cold, hard ground, Elsa knew that she had only made the accusations worse. As the fear began to consume her she ran out of the castle's huge, wooden gates, her breath increasing in speed and intensity the whole time. She heard a familiar voice shout after her. "Elsa! Wait!" It was her sister Anna. She was 2 years younger than Elsa and had a beautiful young face with a rosy complexion and had strawberry blonde hair with a white highlight in it. She wore a green and black royal gown with a flowery pattern over the torso. It was perfect for the coronation that had taken place that day. However, it was not so perfect for chasing the new Queen. "Elsa please! Stop!" Anna shouted at her terrified sister. Elsa started to sprint even faster now, she flicked her wrist and created an icy path in an attempt to slow down her ever worrying sister. Anna slipped and fell onto her behind. She let out a small yelp as she sat, stunned for a moment. She looked up and saw Elsa
SIRENNeath the woe of Ulysses' blood and toil,
A sea of heavenly-fury once awaken'd
Her gaze clad in honey’d delirium ablaze
Of such beauteous prize, he shall yield;
For her tongue hath seized mortal desire
And lo the Moons’ glory shall weep in vain!
Journey’s of madness sung with promise;
— A rising tempest hurl'd to Hades reign
Oceanic rhythms untwine love forbidden,
Breaking the mists of insatiable dreams
The Sirens call ebbed like darkness falling;
Her lust bleeding into the mythic abyss ..
His anguish bestow'd the folding tides,
Unto their lips would perish in mystery
Deeper jewel'd the haunting of his soul,
Forsaken to the ink of Orpheus' muse.
And ghostly twilight shone low and pale,
O’er the hum of those ethereal seas
Long wherest his heart shall forever sail
— Arthur Crow © 2014
SevenEach day is a new struggle.
Each day is an uphill fight.
I go out, and I wage war against them,
And I lose.
Then I come home,
Beaten and bruised,
They won the last one,
They'll win the next.
They'l win all the rest,
Until I'm finally dead.
But I am a warrior,
And one who will protect,
One who will serve,
Until his dying breath.
And why do I go out each day?
Why dawn my dented armor?
Because I know what I'm fighting for.
And though they may have victory,
And the sparkling spoils of war...
I have you,
And that is enough
To make me get out of bed each day,
To walk out the door,
To draw my sword and fight them,
To come home beaten yet once more;
But then I see your face
And I know I'd go through it all again
If it meant I won your love,
If it meant your affection.
For you I would fight this many battles:
Seven times seven times seven.
Sexual TensionI see the lust in his eyes,
a whirlwind of locked desire,
looking for a way to be unleashed
There's hidden intentions in all he does
He's always finding an opportunity
for our skins to touch
I want him to cross the line
I want to feel what he feels
I don't want to be forbidden anymore
I want to be his sweet meal
To feel different hands on my body
would awaken what I've been trying to hide
The fact that I want him to take me
I can no longer deny
I wish I could touch his body,
feel him up with my hands;
rub myself against him,
do his every command
Songs“Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?”
Those aren't my words, what can I say?
Your laugh, your smile, your way with words,
Your song is borrowed by the birds…
The Voice of HeavenThe sweetest music fills the atmosphere
The voice of heaven itself
Surfing on waves of air
Sound so pleasant, beyond orgasmic
Listen to the subtle facets of its audible splendor
Every measure, every crescendo, every lick
Everyone is savored
Never have ears been so graced
Graced by such a precious lullaby
Transcendent silvery tones caress the soul
Knees begin to buckle
Everything fades in haunting mist
Oh, harmonious ballad!
The notes sparkle along their silky path
So smooth, so lovely
Sing them forever
Sing sweet love,
Your beautiful heart let shine!
Light up the darkness
Play your songs again and again
Play your songs in my heart
In the heart you've captured and chained to yours
If only everyone could know their magick
Those notes will resonate in me til I die and ever after
I love you, voice of heaven
RadianceHer hair is like gold
Framing a radiant face
That makes the sun jealous
Her eyes are pools of mercury
Deep and entrancing
Giving everyone pause
Her smile shines like the stars
Brightening any dark day
With a laugh clean as crystal
How proud I am to call her mine
As she calls me hers
From here on and ever
What Is He Worth?
A forgotten man
Is a soul worth losing
In spite of his successes
There is nothing he is
A shy man
Is someone worth ignoring
From day to night
Silence is his only sound
A man in love
Is someone worth crushing
His broken heart
Only matters to him
A forgotten, shy man who is in love
Doesn’t exist to her
He is invisible
So what is he worth?
I don't own the preview image.
*Additional Note*: This does not reflect my mood or thoughts as I am. It's rather more of a pondering.
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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