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mossyfrets
41 519,689 M Meaningful Journey 13
PathStep 11 Compassion hearts68,554 Forum posts184 Forum upvotes390 Current upvotes390 Age GroupAdult Last activeJuly, 2026 Member sinceSeptember 27, 2022
Bio

^^

Swim for the music that saves you when you're not too sure you'll survive

https://voca.ro/17UPPLai117T (Komet)

A bird sang and I was rich 

The common thing between me and my cab driver is we're both lost

Nature does not ask who you are. It simply lets you belong - Jack kerouac

No more emails, if you want to reach me light the beacons of Gondor

Our personality has limits. The soul has none.

You're mountain of tiny courages

- - -                                          - - - 

I love writing poems and reading with all my being just like I love my pets especially Shiro, maria and bishu, bugs and nature

Some of my fav books or book title feel like finding a coin in the pocket of my coat. Finding a good book always feels random and incredibly lucky. After all, I've been sticking my hands in pockets for all my life and never finding anything but old crumpled tissue. And some days ofcourse, I come across amazing book title and books which have been actually astoundingly brilliant.

Here are the titles and books I love

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Lord of the flies, Life after Life, Do andoids dream of Electric Sheep?, All the light we cannot see, Love in the time of Cholera, The Catcher in the Rye by Harper Lee, The Dharma Bums and On the road By Jack Kerouac, And Hippos were boiled in their tanks by Jack Kerouac and William S Burroughs, A violent masterpiece, East of Eden, Persuasion by Jane Austen, The heart's invisible furies, The unbearable lightness of being, Five quarters of Orange, When breath becomes air, I who have never known Men, The last good kiss, Noone belongs here more than you, The heart is a lonely hunter by Carson M'cullers, To kill a mocking bird by vintage Lee, I have no mouth and I must scream by Harlan Ellison, Nightbitch by Rachel yoder, A heartbreaking work of staggering genius by Dave Eggers, On Earth we're briefly gorgeous by Ocean Vuong, Something wicked this way comes by Ray bradbury, Their eyes were watching God by Zora N hurston, How much of these hills is Gold, The Ministry of fear by Graham Greene, The loneliness of Sonia and Sunny, Mother Mary comes to me, The lion women of Tehran, Call me Ishmael, James, Anna Karenina, Customs of the country, Let's explore diabetes with Owls, The song of Achilles, The axeman's carnival, The Most secret memory of Men Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon, Oranges are not the only fruit!, Four difference between pigeons and God, One hundred years of Solitude, The Sun also Rises, Small things like these by Claire Keegan, Cold Enough for Snow by Jessica Au, My summer without men by Siri hustvedt, The ocean at the end of the lane, Her smile will untether the Universe, Heart of darkness, Absalom, Absalom!, The grapes of wrath, For whom bells torn, To an undifferent God, God of small things, The hand that first held mine by Maggie OF, Everything that rises must converge, Darkness at Noon, Things in Nature Merely Grow ^^


Escape

by D.H. LAWRENCE

When we get out of the glass bottles of our own ego,

and when we escape like squirrels from turning in the cages of our personality

and get into the forest again,

we shall shiver with cold and fright

but things will happen to us

so that we don't know ourselves.

Cool, unlying life will rush in,

and passion will make our bodies taut with power,

we shall stamp our feet with new power

and old things will fall down,

we shall laugh, and institutions will curl up like burnt paper.

















Recent forum posts
mossyfrets profile picture
If I am to be found
Poetry / by mossyfrets
Last post
June 22nd
...See more A red bird, a faded bush, still flowering. When another joins, it is not by chance- every morning has to open like this. Its hinges so cold, even in summer, through memory, like feathers, belong to no season. If I am to be found, it is to be like this. Hands closed. How desperate I am to not lose anything, least of which that I am desperate to put down. 
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A Sunday late night scribble
Poetry / by mossyfrets
Last post
June 15th
...See more Noone can control the weather, but the birds seem to be quite invested. The clouds are doing their part- hurting each other and apologizing  so quickly it is almost like a joke. I want to be a privy to the kind of air that doesn't move, but instead  beckons you to move around it, like a rock or a broken heart. If I were a bird, I would be one no bigger than an eyelash, discovered too close to the end to name. If I were a cloud, I would accept the apology, such a good joke it was.
mossyfrets profile picture
Putting the stone back in the river
Poetry / by mossyfrets
Last post
June 13th
...See more The Night stampedes across the river. Not through it. A miracle cannot be anticipated, wanted, or otherwise coordinated. The same is often  said of stones that, once spotted, picked up, and held, seem to radiate in the hand. It's ok to put the stone back in the water. It's ok to go back home, carrying  something that  nothing else, not even the hoofed dark, could touch.
mossyfrets profile picture
The End of An Argument
Poetry / by mossyfrets
Last post
June 13th
...See more Sure. Everyone has, at one time or other, felt the wind across their face, beaming little fiddles  that we are. While elsewhere, the foxes in the snow, as if they had not fallen, but simply  fell, there, burning. Sure. I won't deny that.
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Poems by other artists
Poetry / by mossyfrets
Last post
June 22nd
...See more I will use this thread to share poems by other artists  Where my Books Go by W B Yeats All the words that I gather,    And all the words that I write, Must spread out their wings untiring,    And never rest in their fight, Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,    And sing to you in the night, Beyond where the waters are moving,    Storm darkened or starry bright.
mossyfrets profile picture
The boxes we think inside of
Poetry / by mossyfrets
Last post
June 10th
...See more The boxes we think inside of. The names we gave the sky before ever looking up. The standards we inherited, threaded into us so early they feel like instinct. The quiet agreements we never remember making. This is how things are. This is who you are. This is what is possible. Stories repeated until they settle like dust on every surface of the mind. And us, mistaking the dust for the furniture. Carrying old versions of ourselves long after we've outgrown them, wearing them like coats whose shape no longer fits, yet reaching for them each morning because they are familiar. How strange, to spend years defending a cage we did not build. How strange, to mistake recognition for truth. Sometimes freedom arrives not as a door opening, but as a question. Who am I beneath the stories? Who am I without the inherited script? Who am I when the walls become visible? And what if becoming has never been about adding anything at all - only about setting down what was never ours to carry?
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May scribbling on the beach
Poetry / by mossyfrets
Last post
June 8th
...See more In the month of May when all leaves open, I see when I walk how well all things lean on each other, how the bees work, the fish make their living the first day Monarchs fly high; then I understand  I love you with what in me is unfinished. I love you with what in me is still changing, what has no head or arms or legs, what has not found its body. And why shouldn't the miraculous, caught on this earth, visit the old man alone in this hut?
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Photographs
Poetry / by mossyfrets
Last post
June 6th
...See more There are smiles in old photographs yours most of all the kind that break me and heal me at the very same time we had a life in our hands once the world remained & the skies turned & life went on it was not the same but it went on
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