the Share Something Nice thread

[ashlesha]

"I want to eat your sparrow, come
here. I want to lick your sparrow claws come
here. I want to cut your sorrows out
you’re hollowed out. Come here.
I want to suck your fingers off.
Come here.
I want to give you your history back.
Your fingers back. I want to tell you yes.
Come back. I want to show you my pressure,
my heavy, my opened and clothes, my under
and o’s. Come here. I want to finger
your bones back. I want to sew your bones back
I want to re-blood your history.
I want to undo you like a mystery
novel. Is this the kitchen? The table-saw?
Is this your memory? Your tree-dream? You’re declawed.
I want to give you your teeth back. Your teeth marks.
I want to spit back your teeth-pull. I want to unhinge your heart-jaws.
Come here. I want to sit you down on the bed and give you back
my years. Here. I breathed your name into the leaves.
Here. I breathed you back into the trees. Here. This is your tree-dream
this is your tree-house, this is a bedroom, this is a silver broom
this is a shallow dream. This is my tree-dirt, my bee shirt.
This is my honey-stalk and these are your climbing shoes.
Harmonica me to sleep again. Put your sparrow on my back skin."

Kallie Falandays, “I Want To Tell You Yes”

[Aquagraph]

and @Aquagraph..

When I said nice, I didn't mean "nice" as in "she's a "nice" girl and doesn't have sex with tattooed hooligans"...I meant nice as in compassionate, constructive, non-abuse. Constructive disagreement is nice. Personal taste is nice. The goal of this thread is to make you feel welcome to share.

I like your definition of "nice". I might even even try to practice on expressing disagreement on the internet without being a dick about it.

I always enjoy reading your thoughts.

Well, now you might be a bit too nice, especially since I actively try to be disagreeable.

[ashlesha]

@Scapegrace, again

[leckysupport]

@lungs

[Scapegrace]

@Scapegrace

Italian greyhounds are THE ONLY type of dog that can get away with that shit.

[Park]

[leckysupport]

@GemOfTroy

[Absurd]

[SyrupDeGem]

@GemOfTroy

Thats beautiful Lecky...

My mind it wanders.. (Blog title)

[Park]

[Aquagraph]

I'd kinda want to draw a line between the personal "nice" interests and the generally "nice" interestests after that last post but I simply (put) can't.

I'd still want to add that it's fairly "generelly" likeable and I'd hope you'd enjoy it as best as you can.

PS: Dolphin, I'd like to thank you for creating this thread since it has enabled me to express myself here in a new way.

[Phantimo]

@GemOfTroy

Poem from the book of love by Syrian poet Nazar qbani -ENFj
the translation is a bit off though ,try this

I, about you, didn't inform them.. But they
glimpsed you bathing in my stares
I, of you, didn't tell them.. But they
read you in my ink.. in my papers
Love has a scent.. and it
is incapable but to spread out/over those fields of peach

[Phantimo]

This @ Se-Ni quadra

[Kalinoche buenanoche]

[Absurd]

[chriscorey]

[chriscorey]

Hmmmmm...
favorite flowers for youuuuuu blue orchids



In nomine Patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti

[InvisibleHim]

I love watching people perfect their art form or share/teach knowledge, for that, I share this:




I also enjoy this little web series that any gamer or individual very involved in an online community will enjoy/relate to:

[Park]

[Kalinoche buenanoche]

[InvisibleHim]

You're all welcome.

[RedBeard]

[InvisibleJim]

@truck I thought you would enjoy this.

[Hot Scalding Gayser]

haha I love it!! <3

[InvisibleHim]

Very calming.

[Tonatiuh]

[Kalinoche buenanoche]

[wacey]

Love the Gaelic language.

[SyrupDeGem]

For @dolphin for singing me to sleep... no idea why this song... just thought you might like it

[Amber]

Puella Mea

by e.e.cummings




Harun Omar and Master Hafiz
keep your dead beautiful ladies.
Mine is a little lovelier
than any of your ladies were.

In her perfectest array
my lady, moving in the day,
is a little stranger thing
than crisp Sheba with her king
in the morning wandering.
Through the young and awkward hours
my lady perfectly moving,
through the new world scarce astir
my fragile lady wandering
in whose perishable poise
is the mystery of Spring
(with her beauty more than snow
dexterous and fugitive
my very frail lady drifting
distinctly, moving like a myth
in the uncertain morning, with
April feet like sudden flowers
and all her body filled with May)
— moving in the unskilful day
my lady utterly alive,
to me is a more curious thing
(a thing more nimble and complete)
than ever to Judea's king
were the shapely sharp cunning
and withal delirious feet
of the Princess Salome
carefully dancing in the noise
of Herod's silence, long ago.

If she a little turn her head
i know that i am wholly dead:
nor ever did on such a throat
the lips of Tristram slowly dote,
La beale Isoud whose leman was.
And if my lady look at me
(with her eyes which like two elves
incredibly amuse themselves)
with a look of faerie,
perhaps a little suddenly
(as sometimes the improbable
beauty of my lady will)
— at her glance my spirit shies
rearing (as in the miracle
of a lady who had eyes
which the king's horses might not kill.)
But should my lady smile, it were
a flower of so pure surprise
(it were so very new a flower,
a flower so frail, a flower so glad)
as trembling used to yield with dew
when the world was young and new
(a flower such as the world had
in Springtime when the world was mad
and Launcelot spoke to Guenever,
a flower which most heavy hung.
with silence when the world was young
and Diarmuid looked in Grania's eyes.)
But should my lady's beauty play
at not speaking (sometimes as
it will) the silence of her face
doth immediately make
in my heart so great a noise,
as in the sharp and thirsty blood
of Paris would not all the Troys
of Helen's beauty: never did
Lord Jason (in impossible things
victorious impossibly)
so wholly burn, to undertake
Medea's rescuing eyes; nor he
when swooned the white egyptian day
who with Egypt's body lay.

Lovely as those ladies were
mine is a little lovelier.

And if she speak in her frail way,
it is wholly to bewitch
my smallest thought with a most swift
radiance wherein slowly drift
murmurous things divinely bright;
it is foolingly to smite
my spirit with the lithe free twitch
of scintillant space, with the cool writhe
of gloom truly which syncopate
some sumbeam's skilful fingerings;
it is utterly to lull
with foliate inscrutable
sweetness my soul obedient;
it is to stroke my being with
numbing forests frolicsome,
fleetly mystical, aroam
with keen creatures of idiom
(beings alert and innocent
very deftly upon which
indolent miracles impinge)
— it is distinctly to confute
my reason with the deep caress
of every most shy thing and mute,
it is to quell me with the twinge
of all living intense things.
Never my soul so fortunate
as (past the luck of all dead men
and loving) as invisibly when
upon her palpable solitude
a furtive occult fragrance steals,
a gesture of immaculate
perfume — whereby (with fear aglow)
my soul is wont wholly to know
the porgnant instantaneous fern
whose scrupulous enchanted fronds
toward all things intrinsic yearn,
the immanent subliminal
fern of her delicious voice
(of her voice which always dwells
beside the vivid magical
impetuous and utters ponds
of dream; and very secret food
its leaves inimitable find
beyond the white authentic springs,
beyond the sweet instinctive wells,
which make to flourish the minute
spontaneous meadow of her mind)
— the vocal fern, always which feels
the keen ecstatic actual tread
(and thereto perfectly responds)
of all things exquisite and dead,
all living things and beautiful.

(Caliph and king their ladies had
to love them and to make them glad,
when the world was young and mad,
in the city of Bagdad —
mine is a little lovelier
then any of those ladies were.)

Her body is most beauteous,
being for all things amorous
fashioned very curiously
of roses and of ivory.
The immaculate crisp head.
is such as only certain dead
and careful painters love to use
for their youngest angels (whose
praising bodies in a row
between slow glories fleetly go.)
Upon a keen and lovely throat
the strangeness of her face doth float,
which in eyes and lips consists
— always upon the mouth there trysts
curvingly a fragile smile
which like a flower lieth (while
within the eyes is dimly heard
a wistful and precarious bird.)
Springing from fragrant shoulders small,
ardent, and perfectly withal
smooth to stroke and sweet to see
as a supple and young tree,
her slim lascivious arms alight
in skilful wrists which hint at flight
— my lady's very singular
and slenderest hands moreover are
(which as lilies smile and quail)
of all things perfect the most frail.

(Whoso rideth in the tale
of Chaucer knoweth many a pair
of companions blithe and fair;
who to walk with Master Gower
in Confessio doth prefer
shall not lack for beauty there,
nor he that will amaying go
with my lord Boccaccio —
whoso knocketh at the door
of Marie and of Maleore
findeth of ladies goodly store
whose beauty did in nothing err.
If to me there shall appear
than a rose more sweetly known,
more silently than a flower,
my lady naked in her hair —
i for those ladies nothing care
nor any lady dead and gone.)

Each tapering breast is firm and smooth
that in a lovely fashion doth
from my lady's body grow;
as morning may a lily know,
her petaled flesh doth entertain
the adroit blood's mysterious skein
(but like some passionate earlier
flower, the snow will oft utter,
whereof the year has perfect bliss —
for each breast a blossom is,
which being a little while caressed
its fragrance makes the lover blest.)
Her waist is a most tiny hinge
of flesh, a winsome thing and strange;
apt in my hand warmly to lie
it is a throbbing neck whereby
to grasp the belly's ample vase
(that urgent urn which doth amass
for whoso drinks, a dizzler wine
than should the grapes of heaven combine
with earth's madness) — 'tis a gate
unto a palace intricate
(whereof the luscious pillars rise
which are her large and shapely things)
in whose dome the trembling bliss
of a kingdom wholly is.
Beneath her thighs such legs are seen
as were the pride of the world's queen:
each is a verb, miraculous
inflected oral devious,
beneath the body's breathing noun
(moreover the delicious frown
of the grave great sensual knees
well might any monarch please.)
Each ankle is divinely shy;
as if for fear you would espy
the little distinct foot (if whose
very minuteness doth abuse
reason, why then the artificer
did most exquisitely err.)

When the world was like a song
heard behind a golden door,
poet and sage and caliph had
to love them and to make them glad
ladies with lithe eyes and long
(when the world was like a flower
Omar Hafiz and Harun
loved their ladies in the moon)
— fashioned very curiously
of roses and of ivory
if naked she appear to me
my flesh is an enchanted tree;
with her lips' most frail parting
my body hears the cry of Spring,
and with their frailest syllable
its leaves go crisp with miracle.
Love! — maker of my lady,
in that always beyond this
poem or any poem she
of whose body words are afraid
perfectly beautiful is,
forgive these words which i have made.
And never boast your dead beauties,
you greatest lovers in the world!
who with Grania strangely fled,
who with Egypt went to bed,
whom white-thighed Semiramis
put up her mouth to wholly kiss —
never boast your dead beauties,
mine being unto me sweeter
(of whose shy delicious glance
things which never more shall be,
perfect things of faerie,
are intense inhabitants;
in whose warm superlative
body so distinctly live
all sweet cities passed away —
in her flesh at break of day
are the smells of Nineveh,
in her eyes when day is gone
are the cries of Babylon.)
Diarmuid Paris and Solomon,
Omar Harun and Master Hafiz,
to me your ladies are all one —
keep your dead beautiful ladies.

Eater of all things lovely — Time!
upon whose watering lips the world
poises a moment (futile, proud,
a costly morsel of sweet tears)
gesticulates, and disappears —
of all dainties which do crowd
gaily upon oblivion
sweeter than any there is one;
to touch it is the fear of rhyme —
in life's very fragile hour
(when the world was like a tale
made of laughter and of dew,
was a flight, a flower, a flame
was a tendril fleetly curled
upon frailness) used to stroll
(very slowly) one or two
ladies like flowers made,
softly used to wholly move
slender ladies made of dream
(in the lazy world and new
sweetly used to laugh and love
ladies with crisp eyes and frail,
in the city of Bagdad.)

Keep your dead beautiful ladies
Harun Omar and Master Hafiz.

[Amber]

[Amber]

[Park]

A sunday breeze

[Amber]

[Kalinoche buenanoche]

[Amber]

She's typed ESI as far as I know. Such photos probably challenge dolphin's idea of "nice", but I find her vision and sense of the grotesque pretty interesting. hopefully dolphin doesn't show up and claim the pics as a troll.

[Amber]

@GemOfTroy

[IBTL]

Bigotry in France

[Amber]

[IBTL]

Russian Abandoned Wooden Miracles