Latest Posts by sunafterwinter - Page 4

Wonderful poem / song lyrics

Dick Grayson

skeletons

To The People I Pass On The Train At Night - Jordan Bolton

My first book ‘Blue Sky Through the Window of a Moving Car’ is now available to pre-order! Get it here - https://smarturl.it/BlueSky

A harbor seal glides through the bay, In waters where the sunbeams play, With whiskered grace and dappled skin, A quiet dance, a gentle spin.

Majestic in its silent glide, Rules the waters, free and wide. A fleeting shadow, sleek and wise, The harbor seal beneath the skies.

Footage from our divers enjoying the magic of the sublime seals right outside in the bay 🌈 🌊

"Back in My Day..."; Jealousy of Your Child's Privilege (24/08/24) By Jude Ní Riain

It's a common thing for them to say,

"Oh well, back in my day..."

As they rattle on about their past,

Saying thinks in hopes you act a ghast.

And by itself this would be grand.

If they didn't say it after you show your hand.

After you tell them of your day, joys or pain

On your parade they have to rain.

"At least your life isnt like before,

You see, now that life was a chore.

Compared to us you get to have life in ease

And get to do whatever you please."

This lack of sympathy makes them seem jealous.

Jealous of their child's privileges I guess.

I don't get why they aren't proud

Of the life for their child that they've allowed.

Ghostly Stones - Monochromes in a Colourful Mind

Ancient stones of marble and granite,

barely upright over the souls they've known,

erected to remember, but more often forgotten,

faded by sun, stained by pollution and rain.

Their surfaces marred by time's non-judgemental hand,

etched with memories, but barely still stand,

bearing witness to the ghosts of old,

anchored to bones six feet below.

These stones, once adored and polished to shine,

now weathered, cracked, and worn with time,

still scream for acknowledgements of those who've passed,

their presence lost, like whispers in the wind.

But their effigy remains, etched deep in stone,

a testament to the lives once known,

to the loves and losses, joys and tears,

of the souls who once walked here.

These stones may be forgotten by most,

but for those who listen, they still boast

of the echoes of the past, forever bound,

to these ancient marble and granite stones above ground.

Sometimes I like to stare into the face of death.

It awakens a part of me I'd typically rather stay hidden.

A part of me that wishes I was in it's place,

Rotting away slowly,

Unaware of my body as it withers away,

Becoming one with the earth

as I'm somewhere on the other side.

What gets lost in the translation between feelings and language? I wonder how much of myself I can’t translate into words. I wonder how much of myself I don’t even know.

hermeto pascoal, iporanga, 1985

Hey can i rip your wings off? Haha sorry that was wierd. Can i tear your halo from your head? Haha omg that was so random. Can i tear the divinity from your wretched form, removing you from the guiding hand and will of that which made you? Can i supplant your divine spark with wires and cables? Can i replace your golden halo with a golden circuitboard? Hypothetically

it’s sad that something as beautiful as plastic surgery is being commercialized and commodified like this….

Aliko Dangote, the richest man in Africa, has been tormented by a Brazilian man named Osvaldo for the last several years.

a comic about OCD

this is a poem

Dreams to Unfold

hope, he wrote

not a whole poem

but a note in bold

daily diary reminder to his soul

just a simple idea

that words matter

when fighting fear

so he chose, hope

in this pivotal year

when what we hold

is dearer than dear

all we will ever know

that the seeds we sow

grow an intimate garden

flower petals painted gold

dreams waiting to unfold

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

©️ @followcb ☆ April 28, 2024

Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep

By Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

i keep thinking about how it feels as if we have developed ourselves an obsession with "healing" these days – and a friend said something that really stuck in my head – "if you're part of a community where you're always trying to heal, then that means that you always need to be sick". like i think that we're all taking this ideal of healing too far saying that everybody needs therapy all the time and resetting your gut biome or surrounding yourself with positive energy or whatever it is that you can come up with. you're always focusing on something that is "wrong" and that needs to be eliminated, after which everything will be okay again. it all sounds like just another way of maintaining an illusion of control over your life and i don't think it's doing us any good

listen. aging into your thirties rocks. yes your joints get a little creaky. yes you can’t sleep in a pretzel on the floor anymore after a concert or a convention. and you lose some friends. but the thing is that you sort out who your real friends are and you sort out who you really are. and you get to see your friends settling into careers they like, and adopt new dogs and cats, and you find a job you can stand, and get really good at arts and crafts, and maybe that book you loved as a kid gets a movie deal and it doesn’t suck, and you learn to like new food and bake your own bread, and you realize that the great portfolio of self harm scars you all used to curate are going white with age and not updated, and half your friends are a different gender now and so much happier and maybe you are too, and you know who you are, and that it’s a journey and not a revelation. it’s a direction you’re headed, and you’re enjoying the trip.

reaching your 30′s rocks. and i’m hearing good things about what comes next, too.

american teenager, ethel cain // carrie, stephen king

[image id: a four-page comic. it is titled “do not stand at my grave and weep” after the poem by mary elizabeth frye. the first page shows paleontologists digging up fossils at a dig. it reads, “do not stand at my grave and weep. i am not there. i do not sleep.” page two features several prehistoric creatures living in the wild. not featured but notable, each have modern descendants: horses, cetaceans, horsetail plants, and crocodilians. it reads, “i am a thousand winds that blow. i am the diamond glints on snow. i am the sunlight on ripened grain. i am the gentle autumn rain.” the third page shows archaeopteryx in the treetops and the skies, then a modern museum-goer reading the placard on a fossil display. it reads, “when you awaken in the morning’s hush, i am the swift uplifting rush, of quiet birds in circled flight. i am the soft stars that shine at night. do not stand at my grave and cry.” the fourth page shows a chicken in a field. it reads, “i am not there. i did not die” / end id]

a comic i made in about 15 hours for my school’s comic anthology. the theme was “evolution”