Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘Recreation’

(I saw this documentary some time ago.For some reason,I remembered it today.So I thought, why not write something hilarious? )

Broken bottles and barrels lying empty on the ground.

Chaos and mayhem all around

The monkeys are laughing like donkeys

As they cavort in the jungle

Bumping into each other/all over the place/ bungling

Some are fast asleep and just barely manage to keep themselves from falling/of tree branches

The moonshine wrest on consignment, only the consignees did not sell the product/some end up in trenches.

On the desert floor

Moonshine Bottle

Caveat emptor!

Every monkey for himself

Even the moon is confused/ asking questions/restless

Since when Monkeys began imbibing?

They not climbing?

I tell you its sheer madness.

By Joszann St. John

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

John Donne, one of the most famous Metaphysica...

John Donne, one of the most famous Metaphysical Poets.

COME live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines and silver hooks.

There will the river whisp’ring run
Warm’d by thy eyes, more than the sun ;
And there th’ enamour’d fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath,
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seen, be’st loth,
By sun or moon, thou dark’nest both,
And if myself have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poor fish beset,
With strangling snare, or windowy net.

Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest ;
Or curious traitors, sleeve-silk flies,
Bewitch poor fishes’ wand’ring eyes.

For thee, thou need’st no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait :
That fish, that is not catch’d thereby,
Alas ! is wiser far than I.

 

By John Donne

 

Read Full Post »

Huge fat snowflakes float by an open window

On their way down to the hard frozen ground.

Each unique and individually distinct

They pile unto each other.

Inside the temple silence is palpable

Compelling the meditative perspective.

On a crude wooden table sits two cups

Steam rising from their concave center.

A couple of tanned, weathered, leathery hands

Reach simultaneously for the tea.

Brewed strong, the scent permeates the entire room

And wards of the chill of the cold mountain air.

 

By Joszann St. John

Read Full Post »