I name them here

Originally posted on Wuji Seshat Nibada:

29

love has seven names
do you know what they are?
brightness, flame, melting

transformation, sunshine, shine
Light, that final healing
that is the end and is the beginning
these are the warmth of heart-strings

where the soul may rest in
clearest water, purity of unity
truth that is not true or false

but simply is as an extension
of love that has seven names
love appears day after day
not requiring scripture or even faith

love is wise enough in nature
to survive indefinitely, with or without you
her signs fall down from the fusion

of peculiar and eccentric evolution
crossing divinities of perspective
of virtue and the flesh’s form
love has seven names

her gifts are never-ending
like sublime coal that burns a lifetime
for an intimacy that God can give

for our intimate souls that long
more strongly with a mystical heat
that is a spiritual substance
whose…

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Mirror, Mirror On The Wall, Who Is The Fairest Of Us All?

Originally posted on arfa masihuddin:

snow white

Much has been said about the subcontinent’s archaic obsession with the “goray gaal” (fair skin). And while many amongst us will opine our disapprobation, there will be quite a few of the same lot who will flock to the air-conditioned stores (or non air-conditioned ) to try out another latest addition to the numerous miracle creams that are the self-acclaimed magic ticket to getting the Prince Charming who drives a Mercedes.

In this day and age, it is a highly Quixotic notion to “ooh and aah” over white skin and frown with distaste at a brown or even slightly wheatish complexion. In fact, it has always been a Quixotic notion. After all, how can the colour of a person’s skin define their roles as prospective husbands and wives and daughters-in-law and sons-in-law? Compatibility, personality and character, have been told to go play hide-and-seek. D’ Accord?

Celebrities and socially prominent personalities…

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Disgusting “Dynasty Trust”

Dynasty trust

DISGUSTING!!!!!  Why do people think this way?  I condemn this trust to HELL!!!  In a handbasket!!!

“The Dynasty Trust is an excellent tax planning vehicle as it permanently removes significant assets and the future appreciation on those assets from the transfer tax system. If no one “owns” these assets in the future, they will not be part of anyone’s taxable estate. In addition, the Dynasty Trust is an excellent asset protection vehicle. With no owner’s of the assets, creditors cannot make successful claims against the assets in these trusts, allowing them to be preserved, even against liability claims against the trust’s beneficiaries.

The trust is initially created for “primary beneficiaries” who are the Grantor’s children. They are given a limited power of appointment over the trust property in favor of their descendants. If this power is not exercised, the trust property passes to the descendants of the Grantor’s children, and so on. The trustee has discretion to pay a beneficiary income and principal from the trust, but is under no obligation to distribute any property at any time.

The trust is sensitive to the possible generation-skipping tax issues that can arise in this type of trust. (Section 3.1B). The trustee is given broad investment discretion. (Sections 3.1A and 3.3)

Since the trust is intended to last a very long time, the initial trustee is not likely to outlive the trust. Circumstances unforeseen at the inception of the trust may very well occur. For these reasons, the trust (section 4.5) appoints a “trust protector” – a person or institution to serve as the trust’s “watchdog” over what may need to be changed, amended, removed, etc. as time goes on.

Article 10 is also worth noting. The Grantor should consider how he/she may want to define such basic terms as “spouse” and “child”, given the potential long-term of the trust and evolving issues of social change, genetic engineering, etc. One can consider a “traditional” definition here, or allowance of either present or possible future definitions to be included in the trust.

 

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By the Rivers of Babylon (Psalm 137:4)

Originally posted on lovehappinessandpeace:

Gonna tell God

It is not a question of a Syrian, or Palestinian, Israeli, or the Child of ANY particular country. Children, Women, Innocents, People Entirely Unconnected with whatever grievance might have happened, are Dying, Thus Cruelly, All over the World.

The Israelites had been settled on the Banks of the rivers of Babylon. Their Land had been devastated, their fields had been plundered long ago, and even their Single Temple had been Destroyed. Israel is one of the Very Small Nations, and one of the Much Persecuted ones. Its people are a very Homogenous group. Thus, when they had been told by their captors to sing one their songs, they had said: “Just How can We sing when our Land is in Ruins, and our People are living as Slaves?” That is the sense of Psalm 137:4. And the famous song, ‘By the Rivers of Babylon,’ is based on this.

In…

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SOUL KITCHEN

Originally posted on hocuspocus13:

by JON BON JOVI
CAM08158
Is a Community Restaurant owned by none other and New Jerseys own Son Jon Bon Jovi

Serving a 3 course dinner for only $10

But if you are short on cash no bother you can pay for your meal by volunteering in the kitchen

Located in Red Bank New Jersey

Giving back…

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It’s time to stop caring…REALLY???

It's time to stop caring…REALLY???.

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Rose, Honey, or Strawberry Moon

illustration rose honey strawberry moon

Rose, Honey, or Strawberry Moon (June)

Roses

We dug up the bushes, moving gifts from my mother’s friends, transported them to our tiny backyard, planted them in rows, a fine garden. Suddenly they took over, bursting into frenzied blooms, the metal tags dangling, all hybrids, expensive, my mother’s friends were rich, we weren’t. Tropicana, Peace, Mister Lincoln — but over the next few years they all gave up the ghost, dwindled away to one or two sticks bearing black-spotted leaves, an occasional bud. My mother & stepfather forgot the roses, neglected them the way they neglected their and my mental health. Cases of beer and gallons of wine were lugged home instead. We sold the house when my mother & stepfather divorced, the new owners didn’t care for roses, I haven’t seen the backyard in decades. I used to swing there, under a Florida holly, on a splintery board, watching the roses in their sweet decline. Remnants of a more splendid time, not mine. My dog and cat were buried in that yard, my girlhood surrendered to a more ominous time, a time of sneaking out the bedroom window. I had a purple and blue room, painted furniture, a globe of the world, matching curtains & bedspread. I lost the room when I lost my cobbled-together family. But the absence of family was no great loss, not the same as losing the roses. It wasn’t my family anyway, though people were always telling me how much I looked like my “dad.” We hardly ever had the heart to tell them we weren’t related. For a while, he liked me, but not when I started showing signs of womanhood. Then he despised me, the way he despised my mother.

I was an ugly, awkward girl. My glasses hid my eyes, my hair hid my face, the only things revealed were arms & legs like jointed sticks, bare feet with black soles, a pair of bright yellow & white plaid shorts & a white cotton shirt. My hair bleached at the ends, stiff like straw from the sun & pool water. My smile was alarming, my sullen face more of a comfort. I met my “real” father that year. He was frightening, a reminder of myself yet a complete stranger. I suffered from vertigo in his presence, the room grew long and thin, the sounds bounced off the walls like rubber, and I was covered with cold sweat. I didn’t want to touch him. After he left, I went to swing next to the roses. That rope and board swing saved my mind over & over. I could carry on after that soothing motion.

Honey

The neighbor across the street decided to keep bees. The two hives were square wooden boxes, painted white, and he kept them in the side yard, past the driveway, against the chain link fence. They buzzed in and out all day, and I was always afraid of being stung. His orange blossom honey was sweet & bright & bland. I was desperately in love with his oldest son, and the man himself hated me. The mother was slightly less hostile. His son was tall & long-limbed & had chestnut hair & dark hazel eyes. His hands were beautifully shaped, the hands of a pianist, but he was not a musician, he was not an artist, not an intellectual. He should have been, he looked the part. Instead he was an athlete, always running or riding or throwing or hitting. I played basketball with him in the driveway, always humiliated, always losing, but it was the only way to be with him. I humbled myself, and years later when I became beautiful, he loved me back, but it was too late. He wouldn’t speak, and I couldn’t stand the silence. I foresaw years of painful silence broken only by my own shouting. I gave him up, my first love. And lived to regret it. I wonder if the silence would have endured. His nervous, awkward kisses were sweeter than his father’s honey. We lay together on my bed and necked for hours. He was so shy. I was willing to let him be that way. The first time we had real sex wasn’t as good as all the times spent in preparation. We were both too young to know what we had. Everything seems possible in June. Everything seems as though it will last forever. I still have a jar with a petrified sugar-crust, remnants of his daddy’s honey.

Strawberries

One year, my grandfather planted a field of strawberries behind his house, my little brother and I wandered up and down the rows, picking the ripe ones and eating them on the spot. We didn’t care that they weren’t washed. They were so warm & sweet & soft & our lips turned red, my brother’s face smeared pinkish, like a lover’s blush. I was madly in love with everyone that summer. I just wanted to be held. Men were foreign to me, I couldn’t understand them at all. My brother and I ate as many as we wanted, then picked buckets full for later. Washed & cut up, they weren’t the same, still good, but the wildness was off them. My grandfather’s hands as he cut them up were beautiful & careful & solid, I wanted to look at his hands forever. They were not delicate, but not rough — a man’s good hands, they looked loving & trustworthy, and even though he never really touched me, I could tell they could transmit all varieties of tenderness & passion. I loved my grandfather for being that kind of man — I wished I could have been a stranger, so that he could have loved me too. All summer long, I ate sweet strawberries & dreamed of love, a man to love me like a piece of perfect, ripe fruit. I was only 14, still gangly & shy, and no one came along for several years, yet still the dream carried me along like a fast ship, driven by a cool wind.

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