December 3, 2024Dec 3 pre neki dan sam slučajno dobila ovu pesmu , poklopila se sa mojim raspoloženjem ko ruka u rukavici
December 6, 2024Dec 6 San ovog ratnika sad je ručak crvima. Dva metra dubok moj je dom, ti me nemoj čekati. Dva metra dubok moj je dom, jer ja se neću vratiti. Pomozi mi da ustanem, kosti uz tebe ugrijem. Jednom sam te volio, usne ti živom ljubio, ali glupost je bolest od koje čovjek umire još dok je živ.
January 2Jan 2 Dan je mirisao na cimet mogla sam to osetiti još u liftu dok sam nameštala kosu jer treba se napolju prikazati uglađen i treba zaštititi prolaznike od loše frizure i namrgođenog izraza dakle, moglo se osetiti još u liftu da se tamo na gradskim trgovima u Evropi kuva vino i peku kobasice božićno je vreme i pokloni se kupuju nemilice jer to je najplastičniji način da se drugima kaže da ih voliš reči i razglednice su prevaziđen koncept na dodirivanje da i ne pomišljamo u ovo nebezbedno vreme cimet i malo karanfilčića u vino gradovi božanstveno mirišu lepo nam je opasali smo se žilet-žicom sa svih strana. Vitomirka Trebovac
February 3Feb 3 u očima se obično vidi koliko će dugo neko biti tvoj jer beonjače nikad neće imati bore znam iz forenzičkih pravila tvoje kose čije vlati držim u herbarijumima i džepovima i hoću da pamtiš samo ono šta sam spreman da uradim za tebe dok ti pričam o psihologiji poljupca čekaj me jer imaš lice čednije od drugih i zato te proglašavam mojom svetinjom koju želim da razmazim sobom i njušim tvoje pege raspoređene kao izraelske enklave obožavam te probavnim traktom i iznutricama svim onim što mi proradi kad si pored mene za sve trave i javna mnjenja volim te čulima volim te dodirom mirisom i ukusom koji ostavljaš u mojim danima.
February 5Feb 5 Mislio bi čovek Kad pogleda mrak, Da je strašno moćan, Da je silno jak. To bi bilo naopako Al na sreću nije tako Svećicu zažeži, A mrak odmah beži!
February 5Feb 5 On 3. 2. 2025. at 18:16, Sandens said: u očima se obično vidi koliko će dugo neko biti tvoj jer beonjače nikad neće imati bore Ko je autor? : ) On 3. 2. 2025. at 18:16, Sandens said: znam iz forenzičkih pravila tvoje kose čije vlati držim u herbarijumima i džepovima Ovi stihovi su me podsetili na film "La ragazza nella nebbia". 😬
February 5Feb 5 On 5. 2. 2025. at 16:57, Klara said: Ko je autor? : ) Ovi stihovi su me podsetili na film "La ragazza nella nebbia". 😬 Igor Varga ili Ivan Ergić, nisam siguran. Mada mislim da je Varga. Ima stranicu fake poet na fejsu. Edited February 5Feb 5 by Sandens
February 26Feb 26 Do not stand By my grave, and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep— I am the thousand winds that blow I am the diamond glints in snow I am the sunlight on ripened grain, I am the gentle, autumn rain. As you awake with morning’s hush, I am the swift, up-flinging rush Of quiet birds in circling flight, I am the day transcending night. Do not stand By my grave, and cry— I am not there, I did not die. — Clare Harner, The Gypsy
February 27Feb 27 I’ll bet you think the room was empty. Wrong. There were three chairs with sturdy backs. A lamp, good for fighting the dark. A desk, and on the desk a wallet, some newspapers. A carefree Buddha and a worried Christ. Seven lucky elephants, a notebook in a drawer. You think our addresses weren’t in it? No books, no pictures, no records, you guess? Wrong. A comforting trumpet poised in black hands. Saskia and her cordial little flower. Joy the spark of gods. Odysseus stretched on the shelf in life-giving sleep after the labors of Book Five. The moralists with the golden syllables of their names inscribed on finely tanned spines. Next to them, the politicians braced their backs. No way out? But what about the door? No prospects? The window had other views. His glasses lay on the windowsill. And one fly buzzed — that is, was still alive. You think at least the note could tell us something. But what if I say there was no note— and he had so many friends, but all of us fit neatly inside the empty envelope propped up against a cup. Wislawa Szymborska
February 27Feb 27 On 26. 2. 2025. at 18:15, Sandens said: Do not stand By my grave, and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep— I am the thousand winds that blow I am the diamond glints in snow I am the sunlight on ripened grain, I am the gentle, autumn rain. As you awake with morning’s hush, I am the swift, up-flinging rush Of quiet birds in circling flight, I am the day transcending night. Do not stand By my grave, and cry— I am not there, I did not die. — Clare Harner, The Gypsy
February 27Feb 27 Celia, Celia When I am sad and weary When I think all hope has gone When I walk along High Holborn I think of you with nothing on Adrian Mitchell
March 1Mar 1 Glad mi je beskrajna a ruke večno prazne. Noću niz ulice gradske na prstima nosim mesec i tugu ostavljam pod prozorima izgubljenih žena. Dao bih sve a ništa nemam. Glad mi je beskrajna a ruke večno prazne. Rade Drainac
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