Elis Regina & Tom Jobim - "Aguas de Março" - 1974

 

Marisa Monte & Paulinho da Viola - " Carinhoso "

 

Why Terrifying Self-Discovery Is the Only Way to Succeed | Tom Bilyeu

 

Now

I dream of today,

today only

and nothing more...

A whisper -

not a sound -

moving the day

and nothing more...

Half-a-thought

I shall tend to,

gratefully,

regardless of a theory forming.

Deep in my heart,

a strange feeling

pervades,

that nothing more,

is nothing more than now,

a single moment

paradoxically eternal.

                                                                         

The Muse

There is always a song to be sung 

and I surround the one on the stage 

crowding him, reminding him 

to sing, to dance, to pretend...

There is always a road 

not crossed by anyone:

speeding trucks, weaving cars 

blocking the golden fortunes 

that are only found on the other side.

I like the fearful, 

the devotees... 

I smile to them my Mona Lisa smile,

as they beg the Lord: for forgiveness,

for inspiration for clemency;

if he listens, if he cares,

if he inspires, 

itʼs well beyond my care. 

Clemency he has none to give, 

for I am, forever inspiring and certain.

There is always a thing or two

that one can daily do to forget;

and as they do, religiously,

time takes them by the hand

and delivers them all to me.

The soulful,

I take away

in majestic strides, 

as the courageous 

I sit beside, 

as they drive their cars 

hundreds of miles an hour

over a cliff, against a tree.

The uninspired 

I arrive late to collect,

in their forever muted state 

they go peacefully, 

in their sleep. 

There will be people there, 

crying. 

I come, collect them and move on. 

As I walk away with them 

I see a building, 

an unfinished fence, a nice garden 

that reminds me of someone. 

Step by step, in my lead shoes, 

I tip toe on the others: 

the passionate, 

the inspired, 

as they put the final touches 

on their latest creations, 

as they begin their opus.

We walk away together 

and I hear their passionate tales

of their unfinished masterpieces: 

a beautiful painting, 

a beautiful score,

a perfect quilt, 

the first typed pages

of a new novel

that would inspire millions.

A late afternoon, 

an early morning stroll,

is always better 

accompanied by someone 

whose time has run out. 

I watch them 

passionately describing 

how grandiose it would have been: 

they are still focused, 

strangely connected, 

eternally unaware, 

forever dreaming, 

and I am the one destined 

to exist only in their stories, 

and the wondrous promises held 

in their unfinished work.                 

On rare occasions, 

I read over their shoulders 

and find absolute beauty, 

and I wait, teary eyed, 

ignoring the clock, 

until the lead marks the paper 

one final time,

one final note: 

the end.

They see me 

and acquiesce; 

I take them away 

into the night 

quietly, 

I know I should feel betrayed 

but genius is rare indeed 

and mediocrity makes me forgotten.

                                                    

SELFIE

                        

 

Perhaps you should walk                         

In the woods

The narrow path

No one meets

Only then you will see

that you should let me be

It is you right to be

and my right to be

that will save you and me,

that will set us free.

Somewhere down the path

art will meet death

Mark the words, songs, a sonnet 

and colors on a canvas

adding nothing to the banality of a moment.

Perhaps if you build something:

a house, a hotel, an entire row of Floridian homes

monstrosities,

to the altar of Gods  

A path you encounter death

standing there

Do I see pity in your eyes, miss?

Do you see something I don't see?

Generations and generations

of Shakespeare's

desperately trying to be?

Why are you so cruel,

do you see the broken ones,

can you let them be?

Can you carry them free?

A smile, a hug, a gesture, a gentle nudge

are perhaps the only things that can

link us all.

Our eyes are lost in a virtual space,

thumbs moving from place to place

trying to win: the race, the game, the prize, 

trying to get to the end of the line

Where we feel, where we collect the surreal

A posting here, a “like” there

is enough to fill a day

and for life to fade away.

We look online

for what is here

within you and me

poke a man long enough

and he will join the machine 

and take the path to anyplace

he can feel something

fast, something cheap

something that won’t last

A pastime,

and while we pass the time

life 

pass us by.

A Shangri-la

a digital net

where we can join in the world to profess

we are lonely in this mess:

a smile, a hug, a gesture, a gentle nudge 

on the remote

and men can now be a winner at last

He can thrive

For  $19.95

                                                    

The Tulip and the Comet

A Tulip meets a Comet and longs to see the world.