Day: February 14, 2017

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Love on the Floor: Because You Can’t Contain it in a Vase!

Love on the Floor: Because You Can’t Contain it in a Vase!



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My Beautiful, Funny, and Super-Confident Valentines 

My Beautiful, Funny, and Super-Confident Valentines 


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Zeshan B’s ‘Cryin’ in the Streets’

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❤️ on My Desk: When You ❤️ Your Work and Colleagues

❤️ on My Desk: When You ❤️ Your Work and Colleagues

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How Do I ❤️ Thee? With Food, Of Course!

How Do I ❤️ Thee? With Food, Of Course!

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Wearing a Great Smile with the Right Color and the Right Sombrero: Happy Valentine’s Day!

Wearing a Great Smile with the Right Color and the Right Sombrero: Happy Valentine’s Day!

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“…try to know deeper, better, and more.”

“I always think that the best way to know God is to love many things. Love a friend, a wife, something, whatever you like, and you will be on the right way to knowing more about it; that is what I say to myself. But one must love with a lofty and serious intimate sympathy, with strength, with intelligence, and one must always try to know deeper, better, and more. That leads to God, that leads to unwavering faith.”

-Vincent Van Gogh

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“…they light and open on the doubled hands of eucalyptus fronds”

Valentine
By Lorna Dee Cervantes
Cherry plums suck a week’s soak,
overnight they explode into the scenery of before
your touch. The curtains open on the end of our past.
Pink trumpets on the vines bare to the hummingbirds.
Butterflies unclasp from the purse of their couplings, they
light and open on the doubled hands of eucalyptus fronds.
They sip from the pistils for seven generations that bear
them through another tongue as the first year of our
punishing mathematic begins clicking the calendar
forward. They land like seasoned rocks on the
decks of the cliffs. They take another turn
on the spiral of life where the blossoms
blush & pale in a day of dirty dawn
where the ghost of you webs
your limbs through branches
of cherry plum. Rare bird,
extinct color, you stay in
my dreams in x-ray. In
rerun, the bone of you
stripping sweethearts
folds and layers the
shedding petals of
my grief into a
decayed holo-
gram—my
for ever
empty
art.