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Written by BenCoulter in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Fight for Peace.

Straight talkers sending machines,

To defend by all means, necessary.

Rats in stone age hats caging cats,

For doing just that.

Fuelling us four percent,

Then going ballistic when, aggravation.

Forcing us not to stray,

And to laugh away,

Quarrels sent.

But the real irony comes,

When they unload their guns,

And tell us to fight for peace.

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Written by BenCoulter in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Fight for Peace.
Straight talkers sending machines,
To defend by all means, necessary.
Rats in stone age hats caging cats,
For doing just that.
Fuelling us four percent,
Then going ballistic when, aggravation.
Forcing us not to stray,
And to laugh away,
Quarrels sent.
But the real irony comes,
When they unload their guns,
And tell us to fight for peace.

#fantasy  #scifi  #fiction  #nonfiction  #romance  #horror  #adventure  #education  #poetry  #science  #philosophy  #mystery  #film  #politics  #spirituality  #news  #culture  #lyrics  #opinion 
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Written by BenCoulter in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Web of Hyper Truth.

Have you seen horror?

Have you encountered untimely death?

Have you witnessed innocent life lost?

Have you been terrorised by extreme minds?

Have you stopped your happiness in exchange for tear stained cheeks upon discovering their hearts have been stolen?

Of course you have, we all have.

We have, no choice.

The narrative of now, and then.

But then they didn't have this.

Yeah this, cyber reality, cosmos of code, brain invading addiction that doesn't care who you are.

Can we switch off?

Can it end?

Can we fuck.

Will it fuck.

Strap in and keep you mind inside the ride...

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Written by BenCoulter in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Web of Hyper Truth.
Have you seen horror?
Have you encountered untimely death?
Have you witnessed innocent life lost?
Have you been terrorised by extreme minds?
Have you stopped your happiness in exchange for tear stained cheeks upon discovering their hearts have been stolen?
Of course you have, we all have.
We have, no choice.
The narrative of now, and then.
But then they didn't have this.
Yeah this, cyber reality, cosmos of code, brain invading addiction that doesn't care who you are.
Can we switch off?
Can it end?
Can we fuck.
Will it fuck.
Strap in and keep you mind inside the ride...
#nonfiction  #science  #philosophy  #politics  #spirituality  #news  #culture  #opinion 
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Written by H_Fields in portal Nonfiction

Blogtacular

Hello writing friends! I'm breaking my normal posting routine to promote my blog, The Panoramic Dynamic, a little. 

While I love Prose as a medium to share my poetry and short stories, I use my blog to write about music, books, the publishing industry, and more. That being said, I'd love to have you all as readers or to throw ideas my way! I'm always looking for new music and books to review. I recently gave my blog a makeover and started over, so there's plenty of room for new content.

Anyway, that's my little blogging spiel for the day. I hope to see you at www.thepanoramicdynamic.com. 

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Written by H_Fields in portal Nonfiction
Blogtacular
Hello writing friends! I'm breaking my normal posting routine to promote my blog, The Panoramic Dynamic, a little. 

While I love Prose as a medium to share my poetry and short stories, I use my blog to write about music, books, the publishing industry, and more. That being said, I'd love to have you all as readers or to throw ideas my way! I'm always looking for new music and books to review. I recently gave my blog a makeover and started over, so there's plenty of room for new content.

Anyway, that's my little blogging spiel for the day. I hope to see you at www.thepanoramicdynamic.com. 
#nonfiction  #culture  #blog 
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Written by LadyOfBirds in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Hand in Hand

When your heart ceases to beat

don't you worry about it 

just use your feet

it's the same idea

I heard you say 

just live, live your life another day

When afternoon comes to kill you

and you've lost your way through the town

don't let, don't let the lights blind you

you'll, you'll get out some other way

Even if life gets harder

Even if the road gets longer

and the past is out to get you

it can't stop you, you've grown stronger

As the bullets fall from office buildings

and the seas have stolen all the sand

there'll be singing and dancing over wartime sound

and all, all our souls go hand in hand

oh, all our souls go hand in hand

all our souls go hand in hand...

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Written by LadyOfBirds in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Hand in Hand
When your heart ceases to beat
don't you worry about it 
just use your feet
it's the same idea
I heard you say 
just live, live your life another day

When afternoon comes to kill you
and you've lost your way through the town
don't let, don't let the lights blind you
you'll, you'll get out some other way

Even if life gets harder
Even if the road gets longer
and the past is out to get you
it can't stop you, you've grown stronger

As the bullets fall from office buildings
and the seas have stolen all the sand
there'll be singing and dancing over wartime sound
and all, all our souls go hand in hand
oh, all our souls go hand in hand
all our souls go hand in hand...
#nonfiction  #poetry  #life  #culture  #song 
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Written by HaleyMarie in portal Poetry & Free Verse

After All

My sun,

My stars,

My cliched happy ending all in all

It still haunts me you could love her,

But I think it isn't so

She dug her own grave-

Threw herself in in a grief-fueled rage

Pride goeth before the fall, 

Her undoing is clear

I'm happy to capitalize on the mistakes made,

But only because she stole from me a year with

My sun,

My stars,

My cliched happy ending after all

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Written by HaleyMarie in portal Poetry & Free Verse
After All
My sun,
My stars,
My cliched happy ending all in all

It still haunts me you could love her,
But I think it isn't so

She dug her own grave-
Threw herself in in a grief-fueled rage

Pride goeth before the fall, 
Her undoing is clear

I'm happy to capitalize on the mistakes made,
But only because she stole from me a year with

My sun,
My stars,
My cliched happy ending after all
#nonfiction  #romance  #poetry  #finally  #afterall 
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Written by DaveBricker in portal Simon & Schuster

Colors

From my memoir, The Blue Monk

February, 1991: Verdant Man-O-War Cay shines boldly against a turquoise sea on a blue-white winter afternoon. Gumelemi, seagrape, and poisonwood hammocks embrace white colonial houses. High hills encircle the anchorage, protecting the harbour from the sea. On the sea bottom, the dark figure of a nurse shark at rest contrasts with the lighter hues of sand and seagrass. Where everything is remarkable, nothing is remarkable. These colors are the stuff of daily experience.

At anchor in Man-O-War’s southeastern harbour, I regret my promise to care for John Nation’s cat for two weeks while he visits his mother in Oklahoma. The paralyzing favor has just passed its fifth week when Drew sails into the anchorage on Walden. Recognizing Blue Monk (by coincidence, she belonged to him many years before), he rows over in his fiberglass Whitehall dinghy, a traditional New England rowing craft—a long glass slipper of a pulling boat with a graceful, swooping shear and a wineglass transom.

When I first met Drew at Dinner Key, he sailed a wooden, double-ended sloop named Corentina. Her planks ran stem to stern without butt blocks or scarf joints. Drew cruised her up and down the American Atlantic coast and the Caribbean by himself. A capable navigator and a talented carpenter, he made a modest living with a captain’s license and a coping saw. Calling upon a wealth of sailing experience, his confident voice rumbled beneath his mustache over his brown beard, relating engaging stories of his many travels and adventures, punctuated by hearty laughter. I often joined him for morning coffee or an occasional moonlight sail. Sometimes, he’d disappear for months at a time but, like so many others, Drew always found himself called back to Dinner Key.

Beaufort, North Carolina was Drew’s second home port. On a whim, he would journey into the Gulf Stream alone for the week-long passage as casually as most people head to the store for a carton of milk. He sold Corentina when he found a bargain on Walden, a fiberglass, cutter-rigged Westsail 32. He quickly hammered her into cruising shape and resumed his wanderings.

Like myself, Drew is an aficionado of the spruce oar as a mode of locomotive power. Most cruisers depend on outboard engines and inflatable dinghies for transport. But while such craft make for fast, convenient transportation, oars always start on a cold morning and require no petrochemical fuel. As with sailing, a seakindly pulling boat, responding to subtle changes in angle and pressure on the oars, inspires a unique joy.

Rowing is a cultivated taste, a skill that comes with practice. Most people can’t even stand up in a proper rowing dinghy, but a good oarsman can balance on the breasthook while he steps from his dinghy to the dock, or flip himself from the sea into his boat without shipping water. Internal combustion has its merits but a long rowing craft, like its canvas-bearing counterpart, compels one to slow down, to focus on the journey rather than the destination. Brute force has little to do with proper rowing. With polished technique, one can row at a swift and earnest pace for miles. As the musician’s practiced touch squeezes the subtle, sweet essence from a string, an accomplished rower handles his sweeps and his vessel with an intuitive mastery that spirits him effortlessly across the waves.

Drew looks at Light Blue, my Chamberlain dory-skiff tethered behind Blue Monk. My tender is the same size as his Whitehall. He smiles mischievously. “Would you like to take a row?”

A northeaster is blowing. Even behind the sixty-feet-high coral hills that surround Man-O-War anchorage, brisk gusts of wind kick up a small chop.

“Sure. Where to? I imagine the seas are pretty choppy outside.”

“Let’s go to a beach, first,” Drew suggests, “to clean the dinghies. I hate rowing with a dirty bottom and I still have a few Dinner Key barnacles to get rid of. Then we’ll go rowing and end up where we end up.” He pauses and grins before continuing. “We don’t have to choose a destination to go rowing, do we?”

The question is rhetorical, but the suggestion to clean the dinghies is a good one. I do have some weedy spots on the underside of Light Blue though barnacles don’t grow in these clear, clean waters.

We row northwest toward town, up the narrow lagoon, past moored sailboats and the docks of white-planked Bahamian houses trimmed with pastel shutters, past paths lined with conch shells and coconut palms, to a small beach where we drag our boats ashore and turn them over. A few minutes with a sharp putty knife and a coarse scrubbing pad consign scrapings of unwanted marine growth to the sand. We flip the dinghies back over, push them into the water and climb aboard.

Clean, Light Blue feels faster, as if freshly oiled. She rows easily, gliding with enthusiasm.

Drew pulls ahead, not quite challenging me to a race, but wordlessly suggesting we put our backs into the pace.

A rocky cut in the side of hairpin-shaped Man-O-War Cay provides a narrow gate for its well-protected anchorage. We exit into the Sea of Abaco.

“There’s a coral head in the channel!” Drew remarks, looking down into water that’s still fairly clear in spite of being stirred up by the chop.

“The locals know where the rocks are,” I explain. “The channel is deep enough so most of them can go over it. The rest know to go around it. I doubt anyone will be coming by to install a marker, dynamite it or file a complaint.”

Drew smiles. He knows how it is in these islands. If you don’t know where you’re going and you don’t keep your eyes open, you don’t belong here.

The lee side of Man-O-War is scrub-covered coral—sharp gray rock covered by succulent plants with an overhanging shelf undercut by thousands of years of wave action. The waves are bigger here than in the harbour; they slosh musically under the rocky shelf.

We continue, pulling steadily, breathing hard but working toward a second wind.

Drew looks over to see how I’m doing. Light Blue can handle herself in a sea. I row enough and swim enough to stay in good shape.

I’m doing great.

We continue around the point to head northeast into the wind, toward the reef and the mighty Atlantic Ocean.

The waves grow bigger. The north wind has put the distant reef in a rage. The wind is lighter than expected, probably gusting to twenty knots, but these waves were sent by far stronger winds from higher latitudes. Driving into wind and sea, we pull up and over the crests. Atlantic swells roll in from the deep, trip over the drop-off and shatter against the coral ahead of us. A mile off the coast of Man-O-War, the reef line is a seething highway of white foam and exploding silver spray. Immense glass cannonballs detonate against a wall of impenetrable rock.

We pull harder, approaching the coral wall that demarcates the deep Atlantic from the shallow Bahama Banks—the third largest barrier reef on Earth. I wonder if we might not be engaged in a foolhardy contest, but our boats are dry, handling the waves as good pulling craft were designed to. We continue out over turbulent water, our bows facing a sky that fades from pastel blue to hazy white at the horizon.

The cut receives us—a sixty-foot deep, sixty-foot wide hole in the coral battlement worn by time, tide, and geological happenstance. To either side, rocky fingers of dull orange, brown, and green clutch at the sky through the foamy remains of spent waves. Black hills of moving water thunder spectacularly against unyielding coral, hissing and sizzling as they dissipate into rainbow mist. The power surrounding us is awe-inspiring. Many ships have met their ends on this coral; some of them lie in fragmented repose beneath us. How many people have witnessed nature’s fireworks at this proximity and lived?

I look for Drew. He’s two boatlengths away, on top of a wave, six feet above me.

Blue-black swells crowd through the cut, growing taller and closer together.

Drew drops below me as I’m carried up on the crest of the next wave.

Inside the cut, the swells find no coral to break against. They pile up on themselves as they roll from the deep ocean into the shallow waters.

Where are we? The reef is difficult to make out through the big rollers.

Drew hooks his head to one side, suggesting we turn back. It would not be wise to row past the reef line and miss the cut coming back in; we’d never make it over the coral. We’ve seen what we came to see. Past this point lies nothing but miles and miles and more miles of cobalt swell.

Atop the next crest, I take a mental bearing on the houses and the white beach of Man-O-War Cay stretching off to the northwest. Hopetown Light guards the coast of Elbow Cay to the east where the Abaco out-island chain curves abruptly south. The next instant, I’m lowered into a valley surrounded by blue, foam-streaked mountains. I time my turn carefully so as not to get caught broadside by the big seas. Long, light oars give us leverage to work with our boats and the tremendous forces surging beneath them. I have an advantage with my higher freeboard. Drew ships an inch of water over his low shear, but manages his turnabout.

We head back.

The seas move faster than our boats, but pulling hard, we can almost match their speed.

Drew synchronizes his pace with a wave.

I follow.

We’re surfing!

The pounding reef falls behind.

On this side of the coral, the shallow water pulses with an impressionistic watercolor glow. We glide over sand patches, seagrass beds, and coral gardens, pulling hard, straining to keep pace with the racing seas we ride. The incoming tide runs with the wind, flooding onto the banks, carrying us back to shore. The swells diminish as we distance ourselves from the coral, but these blue horses are charged with the power of a North Atlantic gale. Large enough to carry us briskly, they are strong enough to capsize our boats if they can catch us abeam. We time each wave, surfing with extended oars to control direction and balance.

Drew stays one wave ahead.

I can’t catch him.

We laugh and shout as we charge through the flying rollers.

Exhilarating!

I feel each incoming wave, gauging how the swell will lift; then pull and turn my tiny boat. By design, we row facing away from our destination. Atop the crests, I glance over my shoulder to take fresh bearings on Man-O-War’s rocky southeastern shore. That coast is no place I’d care to land in these conditions, but our course around the island’s point is true. After a long few minutes, we round the island to turn into Man-O-War’s lee, into the gentle chop behind its rocky shore, over the coral head that sits in the middle of the entrance channel, and past the piling marking the edge of the shoal inside the lagoon.

Seen from the Queen’s Highway—the jungle-shaded footpath that runs along the spine of the island—or perhaps from the white porch of a pink-shuttered Bahamian house on the harbour’s edge, two sun-darkened figures rowing into Man-O-War harbour are hardly remarkable, even with a norther blowing and the reef in a rage. Where everything is remarkable, nothing is remarkable. These colors are the stuff of daily experience.

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Written by DaveBricker in portal Simon & Schuster
Colors
From my memoir, The Blue Monk

February, 1991: Verdant Man-O-War Cay shines boldly against a turquoise sea on a blue-white winter afternoon. Gumelemi, seagrape, and poisonwood hammocks embrace white colonial houses. High hills encircle the anchorage, protecting the harbour from the sea. On the sea bottom, the dark figure of a nurse shark at rest contrasts with the lighter hues of sand and seagrass. Where everything is remarkable, nothing is remarkable. These colors are the stuff of daily experience.

At anchor in Man-O-War’s southeastern harbour, I regret my promise to care for John Nation’s cat for two weeks while he visits his mother in Oklahoma. The paralyzing favor has just passed its fifth week when Drew sails into the anchorage on Walden. Recognizing Blue Monk (by coincidence, she belonged to him many years before), he rows over in his fiberglass Whitehall dinghy, a traditional New England rowing craft—a long glass slipper of a pulling boat with a graceful, swooping shear and a wineglass transom.

When I first met Drew at Dinner Key, he sailed a wooden, double-ended sloop named Corentina. Her planks ran stem to stern without butt blocks or scarf joints. Drew cruised her up and down the American Atlantic coast and the Caribbean by himself. A capable navigator and a talented carpenter, he made a modest living with a captain’s license and a coping saw. Calling upon a wealth of sailing experience, his confident voice rumbled beneath his mustache over his brown beard, relating engaging stories of his many travels and adventures, punctuated by hearty laughter. I often joined him for morning coffee or an occasional moonlight sail. Sometimes, he’d disappear for months at a time but, like so many others, Drew always found himself called back to Dinner Key.

Beaufort, North Carolina was Drew’s second home port. On a whim, he would journey into the Gulf Stream alone for the week-long passage as casually as most people head to the store for a carton of milk. He sold Corentina when he found a bargain on Walden, a fiberglass, cutter-rigged Westsail 32. He quickly hammered her into cruising shape and resumed his wanderings.

Like myself, Drew is an aficionado of the spruce oar as a mode of locomotive power. Most cruisers depend on outboard engines and inflatable dinghies for transport. But while such craft make for fast, convenient transportation, oars always start on a cold morning and require no petrochemical fuel. As with sailing, a seakindly pulling boat, responding to subtle changes in angle and pressure on the oars, inspires a unique joy.

Rowing is a cultivated taste, a skill that comes with practice. Most people can’t even stand up in a proper rowing dinghy, but a good oarsman can balance on the breasthook while he steps from his dinghy to the dock, or flip himself from the sea into his boat without shipping water. Internal combustion has its merits but a long rowing craft, like its canvas-bearing counterpart, compels one to slow down, to focus on the journey rather than the destination. Brute force has little to do with proper rowing. With polished technique, one can row at a swift and earnest pace for miles. As the musician’s practiced touch squeezes the subtle, sweet essence from a string, an accomplished rower handles his sweeps and his vessel with an intuitive mastery that spirits him effortlessly across the waves.

Drew looks at Light Blue, my Chamberlain dory-skiff tethered behind Blue Monk. My tender is the same size as his Whitehall. He smiles mischievously. “Would you like to take a row?”

A northeaster is blowing. Even behind the sixty-feet-high coral hills that surround Man-O-War anchorage, brisk gusts of wind kick up a small chop.

“Sure. Where to? I imagine the seas are pretty choppy outside.”

“Let’s go to a beach, first,” Drew suggests, “to clean the dinghies. I hate rowing with a dirty bottom and I still have a few Dinner Key barnacles to get rid of. Then we’ll go rowing and end up where we end up.” He pauses and grins before continuing. “We don’t have to choose a destination to go rowing, do we?”

The question is rhetorical, but the suggestion to clean the dinghies is a good one. I do have some weedy spots on the underside of Light Blue though barnacles don’t grow in these clear, clean waters.

We row northwest toward town, up the narrow lagoon, past moored sailboats and the docks of white-planked Bahamian houses trimmed with pastel shutters, past paths lined with conch shells and coconut palms, to a small beach where we drag our boats ashore and turn them over. A few minutes with a sharp putty knife and a coarse scrubbing pad consign scrapings of unwanted marine growth to the sand. We flip the dinghies back over, push them into the water and climb aboard.

Clean, Light Blue feels faster, as if freshly oiled. She rows easily, gliding with enthusiasm.

Drew pulls ahead, not quite challenging me to a race, but wordlessly suggesting we put our backs into the pace.

A rocky cut in the side of hairpin-shaped Man-O-War Cay provides a narrow gate for its well-protected anchorage. We exit into the Sea of Abaco.

“There’s a coral head in the channel!” Drew remarks, looking down into water that’s still fairly clear in spite of being stirred up by the chop.

“The locals know where the rocks are,” I explain. “The channel is deep enough so most of them can go over it. The rest know to go around it. I doubt anyone will be coming by to install a marker, dynamite it or file a complaint.”

Drew smiles. He knows how it is in these islands. If you don’t know where you’re going and you don’t keep your eyes open, you don’t belong here.

The lee side of Man-O-War is scrub-covered coral—sharp gray rock covered by succulent plants with an overhanging shelf undercut by thousands of years of wave action. The waves are bigger here than in the harbour; they slosh musically under the rocky shelf.

We continue, pulling steadily, breathing hard but working toward a second wind.

Drew looks over to see how I’m doing. Light Blue can handle herself in a sea. I row enough and swim enough to stay in good shape.

I’m doing great.

We continue around the point to head northeast into the wind, toward the reef and the mighty Atlantic Ocean.

The waves grow bigger. The north wind has put the distant reef in a rage. The wind is lighter than expected, probably gusting to twenty knots, but these waves were sent by far stronger winds from higher latitudes. Driving into wind and sea, we pull up and over the crests. Atlantic swells roll in from the deep, trip over the drop-off and shatter against the coral ahead of us. A mile off the coast of Man-O-War, the reef line is a seething highway of white foam and exploding silver spray. Immense glass cannonballs detonate against a wall of impenetrable rock.

We pull harder, approaching the coral wall that demarcates the deep Atlantic from the shallow Bahama Banks—the third largest barrier reef on Earth. I wonder if we might not be engaged in a foolhardy contest, but our boats are dry, handling the waves as good pulling craft were designed to. We continue out over turbulent water, our bows facing a sky that fades from pastel blue to hazy white at the horizon.

The cut receives us—a sixty-foot deep, sixty-foot wide hole in the coral battlement worn by time, tide, and geological happenstance. To either side, rocky fingers of dull orange, brown, and green clutch at the sky through the foamy remains of spent waves. Black hills of moving water thunder spectacularly against unyielding coral, hissing and sizzling as they dissipate into rainbow mist. The power surrounding us is awe-inspiring. Many ships have met their ends on this coral; some of them lie in fragmented repose beneath us. How many people have witnessed nature’s fireworks at this proximity and lived?

I look for Drew. He’s two boatlengths away, on top of a wave, six feet above me.

Blue-black swells crowd through the cut, growing taller and closer together.

Drew drops below me as I’m carried up on the crest of the next wave.

Inside the cut, the swells find no coral to break against. They pile up on themselves as they roll from the deep ocean into the shallow waters.

Where are we? The reef is difficult to make out through the big rollers.

Drew hooks his head to one side, suggesting we turn back. It would not be wise to row past the reef line and miss the cut coming back in; we’d never make it over the coral. We’ve seen what we came to see. Past this point lies nothing but miles and miles and more miles of cobalt swell.

Atop the next crest, I take a mental bearing on the houses and the white beach of Man-O-War Cay stretching off to the northwest. Hopetown Light guards the coast of Elbow Cay to the east where the Abaco out-island chain curves abruptly south. The next instant, I’m lowered into a valley surrounded by blue, foam-streaked mountains. I time my turn carefully so as not to get caught broadside by the big seas. Long, light oars give us leverage to work with our boats and the tremendous forces surging beneath them. I have an advantage with my higher freeboard. Drew ships an inch of water over his low shear, but manages his turnabout.

We head back.

The seas move faster than our boats, but pulling hard, we can almost match their speed.

Drew synchronizes his pace with a wave.

I follow.

We’re surfing!

The pounding reef falls behind.

On this side of the coral, the shallow water pulses with an impressionistic watercolor glow. We glide over sand patches, seagrass beds, and coral gardens, pulling hard, straining to keep pace with the racing seas we ride. The incoming tide runs with the wind, flooding onto the banks, carrying us back to shore. The swells diminish as we distance ourselves from the coral, but these blue horses are charged with the power of a North Atlantic gale. Large enough to carry us briskly, they are strong enough to capsize our boats if they can catch us abeam. We time each wave, surfing with extended oars to control direction and balance.

Drew stays one wave ahead.

I can’t catch him.

We laugh and shout as we charge through the flying rollers.

Exhilarating!

I feel each incoming wave, gauging how the swell will lift; then pull and turn my tiny boat. By design, we row facing away from our destination. Atop the crests, I glance over my shoulder to take fresh bearings on Man-O-War’s rocky southeastern shore. That coast is no place I’d care to land in these conditions, but our course around the island’s point is true. After a long few minutes, we round the island to turn into Man-O-War’s lee, into the gentle chop behind its rocky shore, over the coral head that sits in the middle of the entrance channel, and past the piling marking the edge of the shoal inside the lagoon.

Seen from the Queen’s Highway—the jungle-shaded footpath that runs along the spine of the island—or perhaps from the white porch of a pink-shuttered Bahamian house on the harbour’s edge, two sun-darkened figures rowing into Man-O-War harbour are hardly remarkable, even with a norther blowing and the reef in a rage. Where everything is remarkable, nothing is remarkable. These colors are the stuff of daily experience.


#nonfiction  #adventure  #memoir 
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Written by MEsolushospes in portal Philosophy

Your Soul & A Light-bulb

"I had an epiphany! I think I finally figured out how to convey what I was trying to say, in the simplest way possible!" I almost cheerfully declared poking my head through the doorless threshold between the kitchen and dinning room turned everything-but-dinner-room...

"Okay..." 

"So, in the most basic of basic terms, you see a light-bulb, you can touch it, even break it! It's a physical thing. Put an electrical current through it and it shines light! Light that reaches well beyond the bulb!"

"I'm following..."

"Right! So... your soul, inside your body, is like the light inside the light-bulb... it's your soul, your 'emotional current' that shines the light, but it shines outside your body just as the light shines outside of the bulb."

"Okay..."

"So when I said you effect me with your negativity, I'm not saying you have power to control me. -I- get to choose what to do with how you effect me, just like I can choose to put a shade on a lamp to lesson the light that shines into a room, or walk out of the room to ignore it... that doesn't stop the light from shining, and it doesn't negate that we still effect each other to begin with."

"I agree."

"Awesome! So, when you turn a positive, uplifting conversation into a negative because you're thinking negatively, that's twice the 'negative' light because it's there whether you said it or not, and then you said it and gave it more power. That effects me twice, because it's there, and then you gave it more power. 

"The hardest part is, you don't even know that your negative thoughts are true, in my experience 90% of them are not, and that gives the negativity even more false power because the only thing fueling it is your belief; so, by the time I feel it in your mood and again when you say it out loud, I'm being hit with stadium lighting of negativity from you, it's in your soul not mine, but it does effect me and that's why I walk away."

"..."

"Yeah... so, I made a stick-figure info-graphic... I'm going to put it on the fridge, you can think on it or I will. It wont happen over-night, communication is an infinitely evolving thing, we'll keep working on it." I concluded, wiggling the single pocket-sized sheet of paper before disappearing into the kitchen to do as promised...then, back to my passion; art.

-M.E.

201705251845

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Written by MEsolushospes in portal Philosophy
Your Soul & A Light-bulb
"I had an epiphany! I think I finally figured out how to convey what I was trying to say, in the simplest way possible!" I almost cheerfully declared poking my head through the doorless threshold between the kitchen and dinning room turned everything-but-dinner-room...

"Okay..." 

"So, in the most basic of basic terms, you see a light-bulb, you can touch it, even break it! It's a physical thing. Put an electrical current through it and it shines light! Light that reaches well beyond the bulb!"

"I'm following..."

"Right! So... your soul, inside your body, is like the light inside the light-bulb... it's your soul, your 'emotional current' that shines the light, but it shines outside your body just as the light shines outside of the bulb."

"Okay..."

"So when I said you effect me with your negativity, I'm not saying you have power to control me. -I- get to choose what to do with how you effect me, just like I can choose to put a shade on a lamp to lesson the light that shines into a room, or walk out of the room to ignore it... that doesn't stop the light from shining, and it doesn't negate that we still effect each other to begin with."

"I agree."

"Awesome! So, when you turn a positive, uplifting conversation into a negative because you're thinking negatively, that's twice the 'negative' light because it's there whether you said it or not, and then you said it and gave it more power. That effects me twice, because it's there, and then you gave it more power. 
"The hardest part is, you don't even know that your negative thoughts are true, in my experience 90% of them are not, and that gives the negativity even more false power because the only thing fueling it is your belief; so, by the time I feel it in your mood and again when you say it out loud, I'm being hit with stadium lighting of negativity from you, it's in your soul not mine, but it does effect me and that's why I walk away."

"..."

"Yeah... so, I made a stick-figure info-graphic... I'm going to put it on the fridge, you can think on it or I will. It wont happen over-night, communication is an infinitely evolving thing, we'll keep working on it." I concluded, wiggling the single pocket-sized sheet of paper before disappearing into the kitchen to do as promised...then, back to my passion; art.

-M.E.
201705251845
#nonfiction  #education  #spirituality  #conversation 
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Written by BenCoulter in portal Nonfiction

22

Disorder universal order.

The only gospel is your own.

Loneliness defends pride.

Love is only half the truth.

Good men stand far between.

Music is a vessel of nature.

Change the set for a growth.

Never leave love with hate.

Good food fattens the soul.

Life is faith to the dying.

This reality is only a home.

None can bar the ebb of time.

Fame will not fasten a void.

Injustice requires quiet.

Drugs are bad for your mind.

Never cower for cowardice.

The time is always here now.

Crave nothing enjoy it all.

Forgive never ever forget.

Nothing to say so walk away.

Our sunlight is a true king.

Number is a genesis tongue.

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Written by BenCoulter in portal Nonfiction
22
Disorder universal order.
The only gospel is your own.
Loneliness defends pride.
Love is only half the truth.
Good men stand far between.
Music is a vessel of nature.
Change the set for a growth.
Never leave love with hate.
Good food fattens the soul.
Life is faith to the dying.
This reality is only a home.
None can bar the ebb of time.
Fame will not fasten a void.
Injustice requires quiet.
Drugs are bad for your mind.
Never cower for cowardice.
The time is always here now.
Crave nothing enjoy it all.
Forgive never ever forget.
Nothing to say so walk away.
Our sunlight is a true king.
Number is a genesis tongue.
#nonfiction  #philosophy  #politics  #spirituality  #news  #culture  #opinion 
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Written by Squeakypeewee01 in portal Letters From Prison

First Kiss

My first kiss.

It still does things to me that I don't fully understand. The smell of her hair and the way she brushes it to one side, gives me butterflies.


Oh I've had kisses before, but this one was full of promises. She held my gaze and leaned in, lips moist and puckered. I was so nervous. I didn't want to look like a right idiot. But as her lips touched mine, I felt the love that was beginning to blossom between us. It meant so much to me. In a place where falling in love is forbidden, we broke the rules and it made that moment all the more special.


Love might be frowned upon, but it can't be stopped. So we stole that amazing few seconds and flipped the finger to our keepers.


The kiss wasn’t rushed through, and I savored every second. The world around me paused. Everything and everyone stopped. Ceased to exist. For a time I was free to feel and do what I wanted. It sounds like a movie scene, sure, but I swear that’s exactly how it happened.


I realize now, that my destiny took a different turn. A change that altered everything. I knew our love would stand the test of time. Together we could take on the world.


To this day, that memory has never faded. It’s now a big part of me. It’s my present and future, but also holds the power to banish my past. Whenever I think of that brief kiss, I see a well learned lesson.


Love still conquers all.


15 months down the line, we have faced many difficult challenges. So many people interfering to break us apart. We may be physically separate right now, but the strength of that kiss, that glorious union of two souls who have found each other, has made us ever stronger.


It’s not easy to love and glue your heart to someone. The fear that it will be broken is always there. But what I have come to realize is that, it’s bloody worth it in the end.


Things will go wrong, bumps in the road will cause us pain, but my memory of that kiss tells me that love does work. No matter who you are or what your circumstances may be, finding love and keeping it alive is a remedy that has cured me.


No longer is my future a dark void with no hope in it. There is my soulmate, now guiding me through my fears and worries. She is there for me in a way I’ve never known before . And best of all… I’m there for her too.


Love is a two-way road. If both of you are on the same path, nothing and nobody can break you apart. The memory of my first kiss with my partner has taught me that love is a true and powerful emotion.



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Written by Squeakypeewee01 in portal Letters From Prison
First Kiss
My first kiss.
It still does things to me that I don't fully understand. The smell of her hair and the way she brushes it to one side, gives me butterflies.

Oh I've had kisses before, but this one was full of promises. She held my gaze and leaned in, lips moist and puckered. I was so nervous. I didn't want to look like a right idiot. But as her lips touched mine, I felt the love that was beginning to blossom between us. It meant so much to me. In a place where falling in love is forbidden, we broke the rules and it made that moment all the more special.

Love might be frowned upon, but it can't be stopped. So we stole that amazing few seconds and flipped the finger to our keepers.

The kiss wasn’t rushed through, and I savored every second. The world around me paused. Everything and everyone stopped. Ceased to exist. For a time I was free to feel and do what I wanted. It sounds like a movie scene, sure, but I swear that’s exactly how it happened.

I realize now, that my destiny took a different turn. A change that altered everything. I knew our love would stand the test of time. Together we could take on the world.

To this day, that memory has never faded. It’s now a big part of me. It’s my present and future, but also holds the power to banish my past. Whenever I think of that brief kiss, I see a well learned lesson.

Love still conquers all.

15 months down the line, we have faced many difficult challenges. So many people interfering to break us apart. We may be physically separate right now, but the strength of that kiss, that glorious union of two souls who have found each other, has made us ever stronger.

It’s not easy to love and glue your heart to someone. The fear that it will be broken is always there. But what I have come to realize is that, it’s bloody worth it in the end.

Things will go wrong, bumps in the road will cause us pain, but my memory of that kiss tells me that love does work. No matter who you are or what your circumstances may be, finding love and keeping it alive is a remedy that has cured me.

No longer is my future a dark void with no hope in it. There is my soulmate, now guiding me through my fears and worries. She is there for me in a way I’ve never known before . And best of all… I’m there for her too.

Love is a two-way road. If both of you are on the same path, nothing and nobody can break you apart. The memory of my first kiss with my partner has taught me that love is a true and powerful emotion.


#nonfiction  #romance  #firstkiss  #LettersFromPrison 
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Written by PaulDChambers in portal Poetry & Free Verse

silent paradox

I got forty two thousand reasons

this sullen silence ain't so golden

new voices emulating false rebels

empty ink, dead pads a-holding

we stickin' it to the man, you yell

just origami ethics, honour folding

you became the man, go to hell

shit from shinola, ignorance boring

man up, big boy pants, final bell.

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Written by PaulDChambers in portal Poetry & Free Verse
silent paradox
I got forty two thousand reasons
this sullen silence ain't so golden
new voices emulating false rebels
empty ink, dead pads a-holding
we stickin' it to the man, you yell
just origami ethics, honour folding
you became the man, go to hell
shit from shinola, ignorance boring
man up, big boy pants, final bell.


#nonfiction  #education  #philosophy  #ignorance 
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