November 4th, 2013

the laughing heart.

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

-Charles Bukowski

August 23rd, 2012

The Road Not Taken.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 
By: Robert Frost
Last week, I taught this poem in my American Literature class.
It was one of those pieces of literature that sticks with you.
One glance at the words, “I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference,” and I knew they were worth more than the pen in which they were originally written.
Sometimes, you feel validated with a particular choice you’ve made in life.
For me, reading this poem, & grading essays based off of its meaning, absolutely became one of those moments.
August 7th, 2012

the laughing heart.

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

-Charles Bukowski

August 1st, 2012

I know I am august, 
I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood, 
I see that the elementary laws never apologize, 
(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, 
after all.) 

I exist as I am, that is enough, 
If no other in the world be aware I sit content, 
And if each and all be aware I sit content. 

One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself, 
And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten 
million years, 
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait. 

-Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”

September 16th, 2010
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,      Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;  Conspiring with him how to load and bless      With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;  To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,      And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;          To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells      With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,  And still more, later flowers for the bees,  Until they think warm days will never cease,          For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells. 
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?      Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find  Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,      Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;  Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,      Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook          Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:  And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep      Steady thy laden head across a brook;      Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,          Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 
Where are the songs of spring?  Ay, where are they?      Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -  While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,      And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;  Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn      Among the river sallows, borne aloft          Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;  And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;      Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft      The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;          And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
"To Autumn" by John Keats.      September 1819

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
    Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
    With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
    And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
        To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
    With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
        For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
    Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
    Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
    Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
        Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
    Steady thy laden head across a brook;
    Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
        Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring?  Ay, where are they?
    Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
    And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
    Among the river sallows, borne aloft
        Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
    Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
    The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
        And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.


"To Autumn" by John Keats.      September 1819

Hi! I'm Brooke. Indianapolis is my home & I welcome you to my little nook. I'm a twenty-something girl who was born in the land of corn (Okl.), attended undergrad in the true Sea of Red (Neb.), & eventually found her way back home again after picking up a couple letters behind her name (Kan.) while clinging to an adorable Maltipoo named Bentley. Thank you for stopping by & please feel free to leave a comment (or ask a question) under the "Be Kind" tab at the top... xo, B