Private Moments [Pre-Epilogue]

 

“For that fine madness still he did retain,
Which rightly should possess a poet’s brain.”
~Michael Drayton~ (1563-1631)

talking serious (c) jkm 2014Talking Seriously

hands reaching out into rain

“they hear nothing”
By mt

They hear nothing
Eyes wider shut

An homage made
A mysterious end

Now evil enters
Return to stage

Know thy words
Nano particles filter in

Cinders sting the eyes
Blinding in their destruction

Consciousness altered
World of slaves

Masters return
With Unbroken chains

Never know imagination
Daydreaming thoughts

Worlds we build
Our minds now dismiss

Realness has been lost
The fantasy begins

© jkm

candle flame flickering gif

Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini - Composer Rachmaninoff – Pianist Maksim Mrvica

garden waterfall private gazebo overgrown 4pmip&p

“Doorway to a Place of Enchantment”

“Creating is having the courage
to allow the seer into the private
moments of our imaginative lives.”

— jkm the secret keeper
aka Jennifer Kiley McCormack

black_shamrock_ribbon green reverse

* * * * * * *

(c) jennifer kiley 2014

So You Want To Be A Writer

a writer's word polished or raw

“So You Want To Be A Writer

Written by Charles Bukowski

Post Sunday 12th October 2014

Created by Jennifer Kiley

So You Want To Be A Writer - Charles Bukowski – Read by Tom Bedlam

“so you want to be a writer”

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

 a. comes roaring out of you dont do it bukowski on writing poster neg

Charles Bukowski on Writing

“A Thousand Kisses Deep”

creative musings [dragon]

“A Thousand Kisses Deep”

Poem Written & Read by Leonard Cohen

Post by Jennifer Kiley

Post Saturday 12th July 2014

 

Sony – Two Worlds

“That’s What I Heard You Say”
Original Poem Written & Read by Leonard Cohen

Don’t matter if the road is long
Don’t matter if it’s steep
Don’t matter if the page is gone
It’s written that we’ll meet.
I loved you when you opened
like a lily to the heat
and I love you when it closes
a thousand kisses deep.

I know you had to lie to me
I know you had to cheat
You learned it on your father’s knee
and at your mother’s feet.
But did you have to fight your way
across the burning street
where all our vital interests lay
a thousand kisses deep…

[the rest of poem below is Not on video]

Don’t matter if you’re rich and strong
Don’t matter if you’re weak
Don’t matter if you write a song
The nightingales repeat
Don’t matter if it’s nine to five
Or timeless and unique
You ditch your life to stay alive
A thousand kisses deep

I hear their voices in the wine
That sometimes did me seek
The band is playing Auld Lang Syne
But the heart will not retreat
There’s no forsaking what you love
No existential leap
As witnessed here in time and blood
A thousand kisses deep

toulouse-lautrec-in-bed-the-kiss

In Bed The Kiss - Artist Toulouse Lautrec

 

Private Moments #65 – “Say Goodbye To Love”

private moments in paintings & poetryPrivate Moments #65 
Poem “Say Goodbye To Love”
b
y Jennifer Kiley
Poem for Private Writings: Chapter #65
“I Said Hello You Said Goodbye”
Painting “Flames Pouring Down”
by Jk McCormack
Post Monday 9th June 2014

“For that fine madness still he did retain,
Which rightly should possess a poet’s brain.”
~Michael Drayton~ (1563-1631)

flames pouring down - jk mccormack (c) jkm 2014

Flames Pouring Down - Jk McCormack (c) jkm 2008

hands reaching out into rain

“Say Goodbye To Love”
By Madison Taylor
2nd December 2008

Say goodbye to love
The hardest pain to feel
Being left alone in the dark
Lovers and friends
Always heading a way
Scattering the fields of earth
Planting ideas for nurturing
Watching their future grow
Into tomorrow’s perspectives

The present is fulfilling
Gorging on imagination
A pathway forward
Overflowing and inviting
The Muse a constant inspiration

Follow her serendipitously
A yet unsculpted “Angel”
Crying out to be released
Only wanting to be protective
A Guardian to serve what she believes

Giving guidance and understanding
Listen for the quiet in her voice
Nothing to fear in the mysterious
Often the unknown is more secure
Than the known that causes pain

© madison taylor 2008

candle flame flickering gif


“Every Rose Has Its Thorn” - Rock of Ages

garden waterfall private gazebo overgrown 4pmip&p

“Doorway to a Place of Enchantment”

“Creating is having the courage
to allow the seer into the private
moments of our imaginative lives.”

— Jkm the secret keeper
aka Jennifer Kiley McCormack

red heart outline with pale blue bg

* * * * * * *

Private Moments #64 – “Get Out of My Head”

private moments in paintings & poetryPrivate Moments #64: “Get Out of My Head
Poem Written by Jennifer Kiley
For Private Writings: Chapter #64 - “Get It Out of My Head”

PaintingHeart Spirals” by Jk McCormack
Post Monday 2nd June 2014

“For that fine madness still he did retain,
Which rightly should possess a poet’s brain.”
~Michael Drayton~ (1563-1631)

heart spirals - jk mccormack (c) jkm 2014

Heart Spirals - Jk McCormack (c) jkm 2008

hands reaching out into rain

“Get Out of My Head”
By Madison Taylor
25th November 2008

Get out of my head
You’re invading my space
Don’t like people
Getting up in my face
It’s a disgrace
To be so blown away
While life treats the delicate
Like they’re a disease
No sympathy please

People starving
Some living in peace
Excess food remaining
Governments complaining
Where’s the human generosity
When all could partake
In the grandest feast
If the world learned sharing
Hope ain’t filled with caring
We’re keenly in need of serenity
So Peace will abound

I feel the pressure’s back inside my head
Seeing how futility feeds the rage
Depending on “them”
The strangers of kindness”
Not knowing who’s giving
Wanting to believe in Hope
Where there is none
Smile when all I see is sadness

Death waits patiently
So we need overwhelmingly
To believe the darkness will fade
And the light will find its way

© madison taylor 2008

candle flame flickering gif

Until - by James Conlee

garden waterfall private gazebo overgrown 4pmip&p

“Doorway to a Place of Enchantment”

“Creating is having the courage
to allow the seer into the private
moments of our imaginative lives.”

— Jkm the secret keeper
aka Jennifer Kiley McCormack

red-heart-for mj ghost 1

*        *         *        *        *        *        *

“On the Pulse of the Morning”

poetry out loud - day title saturday

“On the Pulse of the Morning”

Poem Written by Maya Angelou

Post Created by Jennifer Kiley

Post Saturday 31st May 2014


Maya Angelou -“On the Pulse of the Morning”

“On the Pulse of the Morning”
Written by Maya Angelou
Spoken at President Clinton’s
First Inauguration 1993

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.

I will give you no more hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.

Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.

Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.

Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,

Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.

The River sings and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.

So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.

Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.

Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveler, has been paid for.

You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers- desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.

You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot…
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.

Here, root yourselves beside me.

I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.

I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours- your Passages have been paid.

Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.

History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.

Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.

Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.

Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.

No less to Midas than the mendicant.

No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister’s eyes, into
Your brother’s face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.

- Maya Angelou -

maya angelou insightful

MAYA ANGELOU
1928 – 2014
R.I.P.

* * * * * * *

Special Edition: Maya Angelou R.I.P.

special edition day any
Maya Angelou R.I.P.

Special Edition

Post Created by Jennifer Kiley

Post Wednesday 28th May 2014

 

Poet, author Maya Angelou dies at 86

maya angelou insightful

Hillel Italie
May 28, 2014
Filed 03:59 PM EST

NEW YORK (AP) — Maya Angelou, a modern Renaissance woman who survived the harshest of childhoods to become a force on stage, screen, the printed page and the inaugural dais, died Wednesday, her son said. She was 86.

Angelou’s son, Guy B. Johnson, said the writer died at her home in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, where she had been a professor of American studies at Wake Forest University since 1982.

Tall and regal, with a deep, majestic voice, Angelou defied all probability and category, becoming one of the first black women to enjoy mainstream success as an author and thriving in virtually every artistic medium. The young single mother who worked at strip clubs to earn a living later wrote and recited the most popular presidential inaugural poem in history. The childhood victim of rape wrote a million-selling memoir, befriended Malcolm X, Nelson Mandela and the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., and performed on stages around the world.

An actress, singer and dancer in the 1950s and 1960s, she broke through as an author in 1969 with “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings,” which became standard (and occasionally censored) reading, and was the first of a multipart autobiography that continued through the decades. In 1993, she was a sensation reading her cautiously hopeful “On the Pulse of the Morning” at President Bill Clinton’s first inauguration. Her confident performance openly delighted Clinton and made the poem a best-seller, if not a critical favorite.

FOR COMPLETE ARTICLE GO TO THIS LINK ON HUFFPOST

The Following Video is Maya Angelou speaking for herself.

Here, I Give You, Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou [Director’s Cut] – Cole Haan