I wanted to die of love (by Oriza Martins)

I wanted to die of love

I wanted to die of love, I wanted, one day,
When I suspected of you deceiving me,
I suffered, you did not deceived me
That you wanted me, and still love me…

I wish I resigned the sun and spring,
The sounds of the afterglow, the light of the stars,
Happiness, joy – I wish –
I suspected I would never live them again...

I dove myself in an abyss,
In the distrust and disappointments,
I avoided joys that only life can bring,
Closed myself to other hearts.

However, I understood, slowly, happily,
That after the storm, rises prosperity,
And while I tortured my mind,
I also sacrificed hope.

If we come to this world to be happy, love,
Why not resist suspicions?
Why not indulge in a another trust,
And why not make the relationship perfect?

I understand now, in a sincere stirring,
What my heart wishes and my soul feels:
No longer for love – no more – die I wish,
But – yes – of eternal love, living intensely,
And surrender myself, so: completely…

Oriza Martins
Tr: Daiane da Silva

Happiness (by Oriza Martins)


Saturday morning, sunny,
A day of sunshine, of flowers, of gardening;
I happily go, take care of the branches,
Take care of the rose garden and the pergola.

Will follow me my love, the sun, the wind,
Butterflies, moths and hummingbirds,
Dancing along with the singing of the flycatchers,
Framed by the blue skies…

I'll sprinkle the fascinating allamanda,
Making my hostel colored,
Delicious, fragrant lavender ...

And after so flourishing journey,
We'll lay down in a hammock on the porch,
Making love until life be forgotten…

Oriza Martins
Tr: Daiane da Silva

Girls in love (by Oriza Martins)

Girls in love

Who are these creatures
So vibrating, kind and pure,
Overflowing heart,
With a future to dream,
Unfolding in flower buds,
Beautiful, full of love,
Enchanted by life?
Girls in love!

If insecurity hits,
Do not lose the hope,
Fight to deserve
And believe… Believing is achieving!
For a smiling future,
Believe in your dream,
And be determined,
Girls in love!!

©Oriza Martins
Tr: Daiane da Silva

True Friendships (by Oriza Martins)

True Friendships

Says the proverb that
the one who has friends, has everything.
And the one who thinks that has everything,
But lives without anybody,
In loneliness, with not friends,
Actually, little has…

Ties that bond people
In sincere friendships,
Hardly drift into
the drain of cruelty.

Real friendships
Are like a rare essence,
That envolves us with carress
And supply our needs.

For material goods,
There are stores to buy.
But there are not stores that can
offer friendships…

And in the hours of uncertainty,
Who should we count?
Whatever might a danger be
It will never have the value
Of a sincere friend shoulder…

©Oriza Martins
Tr: Daiane da Silva

How old are you? (by Oriza Martins)

How old are you?

If we are asked “how old are?”,
our tendency is to list the time of our lives.

But why don’t we stop to consider
all these years that have passed –
we no longer have them?
Gone are the times, they belong to the past,
good or bad, happy or not,
and we no longer can use them,
except enjoy the lessons that life has taught us.

Far more sensible would be the answer:
"I hope I will have many years."
For the years that will come - they do -
mean those we have left, those we really "have",
which are placed what remained of hope and dreams to realize.

How old are you?
Think about it.
And try to make from the years - you still have - the best of your existence.

©Oriza Martins
Tr: Daiane da Silva

Give hope a chance (by Oriza Martins)

Give hope a chance

The storm of today may be dark, 
but there will always be a chance 
of rising a shiny Sun in the next morning.
Seeing a sunny tomorrow after an sleepless night 
is an attitude that brings us relief.
It is trust.
It is belief. Optimism and hope.
Do not let yourself be overwhelmed by despair.
Give hope a chance!
Hope is a safe harbor to afflicted hearts!...

©Oriza Martins
Tr: Daiane da Silva

Love Day by Day (love poem by Oriza Martins)

Love Day by Day

There are so many details, so many intimate moments, 
Tiny drops of tenderness of our life together, 
That the slightest shadow of a doubt 
We dialogue, we do not put off for tomorrow

If we laugh, we laugh together – we join happiness, 
If there is pain, we cry together – we join hearts... 
In the hours of grief, love sow faith, 
And faith reaps love - the harvest of emotions.... 
So we complement each other, uniting body and soul 
Mind and pleasure - reasons to be happy. 
And I thank the heavens for finding in you 
the life that I always dreamed, the love I always wanted! 


Oriza Martins
Tr: Daiane da Silva

Our Friendship (a poem by Oriza Martins)

Our Friendship

Who are the angels with whom I cry and laugh,
In the tough hours, in the sweet moments,
With whom I vibrate along the summer afternoons
With whom I share sincere thoughts?...

They are rare jewels, preciousness,
They are friendships I carry in the very bottom of my heart,
that support me under storms
and accept me as I accept them.

You always made me believe
In the goodness of life, in a golden future…
And this friendship I will certainly deserve
Sincerely, while I am alive! 

Oriza Martins 
Tr: Daiane da Silva

Love Poems on E-Cards

Nice Poems on E-Cards:

Christmas Poems

A Christmas Poem (Helen Steiner Rice)
Baby's First Christmas (Alice E. Chase)

Christmas Bells (Longfellow Henry Wadsworth)

Christmas Past (Clarice Williams)
Christmas Trees (Robert Frost)
Cold comfort in the chastity of sorrow,
Jesus, of Pure Love! (Oriza Martins)

Mistletoe (Walter de la Mare)

The Christmas Thing (Jane Merchant)
Wherein our Saviour's birth (William Shakespeare)
Christmas Cliparts, Slideshow & Animated Gifs

Happy Thanksgiving... It's time to love!

The Pilgrims made seven times more graves than huts. No Americans have been more impoverished than these who, nevertheless, set aside a day of thanksgiving. ~H.U. Westermayer

If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, “thank you,” that would suffice. ~Meister Eckhart

Thanksgiving Day is a jewel, to set in the hearts of honest men; but be careful that you do not take the day, and leave out the gratitude. ~E.P. Powell

So once in every year we throng Upon a day apart, To praise the Lord with feast and song In thankfulness of heart. ~Arthur Guiterman

Good morning... have a nice day!!

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Poems for Thanksgiving Day: The Pumpkin

by John Greenleaf Whittier (1850)
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Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,
Like that which o’er Nineveh’s prophet once grew,
While he waited to know that his warning was true,
And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.

On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,
And the sun of September melts down on his vines.

Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,
From North and from South comes the pilgrim and guest;
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored;
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before;
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye,
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?

Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin, — our lantern the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!

Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better
E’er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o’er its baking, than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!



by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1896)

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We walk on starry fields of white    

And do not see the daisies; 

For blessings common in our sight    

We rarely offer praises. 

We sigh for some supreme delight    

To crown our lives with splendor, 

And quite ignore our daily store    

Of pleasures sweet and tender.
Our cares are bold and push their way    

Upon our thought and feeling. 

They hang about us all the day,    

Our time from pleasure stealing. 

So unobtrusive many a joy    

We pass by and forget it, 

But worry strives to own our lives    

And conquers if we let it.

There’s not a day in all the year   

But holds some hidden pleasure, 

And looking back, joys oft appear    

To brim the past’s wide measure. 

But blessings are like friends, I hold,    

Who love and labor near us. 

We ought to raise our notes of praise    

While living hearts can hear us.

Full many a blessing wears the guise    

Of worry or of trouble. 

Farseeing is the soul and wise    

Who knows the mask is double. 

But he who has the faith and strength    

To thank his God for sorrow 

Has found a joy without alloy    

To gladden every morrow.

We ought to make the moments notes    

Of happy, glad Thanksgiving; 

The hours and days a silent phrase    

Of music we are living. 

And so the theme should swell and grow    

As weeks and months pass o’er us, 

And rise sublime at this good time,    

A grand Thanksgiving chorus.

Poem for Thanksgiving Day: "One Day is there of the Series"

Emily Dickinson

One Day is there of the Series
Termed Thanksgiving Day.
Celebrated part at Table
Part in Memory.

Neither Patriarch nor Pussy
I dissect the Play
Seems it to my Hooded thinking
Reflex Holiday.

Had there been no sharp Subtraction
From the early Sum —
Not an Acre or a Caption
Where was once a Room —

Not a Mention, whose small Pebble
Wrinkled any Sea,
Unto Such, were such Assembly
’Twere Thanksgiving Day.

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The pure contralto sings in the organ loft (Thanksgiving Day)

from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman (1900)
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The pure contralto sings in the organ loft;
The carpenter dresses his plank—the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp;
The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner;
The pilot seizes the king-pin—he heaves down with a strong arm;
The mate stands braced in the whale-boat—lance and harpoon are ready;
The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches;
The deacons are ordain’d with cross’d hands at the altar;
The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel;
The farmer stops by the bars, as he walks on a First-day loafe, and looks at the oats and rye;
The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum, a confirm’d case,
(He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother’s bed-room;)
The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case,
He turns his quid of tobacco, while his eyes blurr with the manuscript;
The malform’d limbs are tied to the surgeon’s table,
What is removed drops horribly in a pail;
The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand—the drunkard nods by the bar-room stove;
The machinist rolls up his sleeves—the policeman travels his beat—the gate-keeper marks who pass;
The young fellow drives the express-wagon—(I love him, though I do not know him;)
The half-breed straps on his light boots to complete in the race;
The western turkey-shooting draws old and young—some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs,
Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels his piece;
The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee;
As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them from his saddle;
The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their partners, the dancers bow to each other;
The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof’d garret, and harks to the musical rain;
The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron;
The squaw, wrapt in her yellow-hemm’d cloth, is offering moccasins and bead-bags for sale;
The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut eyes bent sideways;
As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat, the plank is thrown for the shore-going passengers;
The young sister holds out the skein, while the elder sister winds it off in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots;
The one-year wife is recovering and happy, having a week ago borne her first child;
The clean-hair’d Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine, or in the factory or mill;
The nine months’ gone is in the parturition chamber, her faintness and pains are advancing;
The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer—the reporter’s lead flies swiftly over the note-book—the sign-painter is lettering with red and gold;
The canal boy trots on the tow-path—the book-keeper counts at his desk—the shoemaker waxes his thread;
The conductor beats time for the band, and all the performers follow him;
The child is baptized—the convert is making his first professions;
The regatta is spread on the bay—the race is begun—how the white sails sparkle!
The drover, watching his drove, sings out to them that would stray;
The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the purchaser higgling about the odd cent;)
The camera and plate are prepared, the lady must sit for her daguerreotype;
The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly;
The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-open’d lips;
The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck;
The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other;
(Miserable! I do not laugh at your oaths, nor jeer you;)
The President, holding a cabinet council, is surrounded by the Great Secretaries;
On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined arms;
The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the hold;
The Missourian crosses the plains, toting his wares and his cattle;
As the fare-collector goes through the train, he gives notice by the jingling of loose change;
The floor-men are laying the floor—the tinners are tinning the roof—the masons are calling for mortar;
In single file, each shouldering his hod, pass onward the laborers;
Seasons pursuing each other, the indescribable crowd is gather’d—it is the Fourth of Seventh-month—(What salutes of cannon and small arms!)
Seasons pursuing each other, the plougher ploughs, the mower mows, and the winter-grain falls in the ground;
Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in the frozen surface;
The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deep with his axe;
Flatboatmen make fast, towards dusk, near the cottonwood or pekan-trees;
Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river, or through those drain’d by the Tennessee, or through those of the Arkansaw;
Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahoochee or Altamahaw;
Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grandsons around them;
In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after their day’s sport;
The city sleeps, and the country sleeps;
The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time;
The old husband sleeps by his wife, and the young husband sleeps by his wife;
And these one and all tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them;
And such as it is to be of these, more or less, I am.

A Thanksgiving Poem

- from Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadow by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1905)

The sun hath shed its kindly light,
Our harvesting is gladly o’er,
Our fields have felt no killing blight,
Our bins are filled with goodly store.

From pestilence, fire, flood, and sword
We have been spared by thy decree,
And now with humble hearts, O Lord,
We come to pay our thanks to thee.

We feel that had our merits been
The measure of thy gifts to us,
We erring children, born of sin,
Might not now be rejoicing thus.

No deed of ours hath brought us grace;
When thou wert nigh our sight was dull,
We hid in trembling from thy face,
But thou, O God, wert merciful.

Thy mighty hand o’er all the land
Hath still been open to bestow
Those blessings which our wants demand
From heaven, whence all blessings flow.

Thou hast, with ever watchful eye,
Looked down on us with holy care,
And from thy storehouse in the sky
Hast scattered plenty everywhere.

Then lift we up our songs of praise
To thee, O Father, good and kind;
To thee we consecrate our days;
Be thine the temple of each mind.

With incense sweet our thanks ascend;
Before thy works our powers pall;
Though we should strive years without end,
We could not thank thee for them all.

The Thanksgivings

translated from a traditional Iroquois song by Harriet Maxwell Converse (1908)

We who are here present thank the Great Spirit that we are here to praise Him.
We thank Him that He has created men and women, and ordered that these beings shall always be living to multiply the earth.
We thank Him for making the earth and giving these beings its products to live on.
We thank Him for the water that comes out of the earth and runs for our lands.
We thank Him for all the animals on the earth.
We thank Him for certain timbers that grow and have fluids coming from them for us all.
We thank Him for the branches of the trees that grow shadows for our shelter.
We thank Him for the beings that come from the west, the thunder and lightning that water the earth.
We thank Him for the light which we call our oldest brother, the sun that works for our good.
We thank Him for all the fruits that grow on the trees and vines.
We thank Him for his goodness in making the forests, and thank all its trees.
We thank Him for the darkness that gives us rest, and for the kind Being of the darkness that gives us light, the moon.
We thank Him for the bright spots in the skies that give us signs, the stars.
We give Him thanks for our supporters, who had charge of our harvests.
We give thanks that the voice of the Great Spirit can still be heard through the words of Ga-ne-o-di-o.
We thank the Great Spirit that we have the privilege of this pleasant occasion.
We give thanks for the persons who can sing the Great Spirit's music, and hope they will be privileged to continue in his faith.
We thank the Great Spirit for all the persons who perform the ceremonies on this occasion.

Thanksgiving Song


from Happy Jack by Thornton W. Burgess (1918)

Thanksgiving comes but once a year,

But when it comes it brings good cheer.

For in my storehouse on this day

Are piles of good things hid away.

Each day I’ve worked from early morn

To gather acorns, nuts, and corn,

Till now I’ve plenty and to spare

Without a worry or a care.

So light of heart the whole day long,

I’ll sing a glad Thanksgiving song.


by Kate Seymour Maclean (1880)
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The Autumn hills are golden at the top,
   And rounded as a poet’s silver rhyme;
The mellow days are ruby ripe, that drop
   One after one into the lap of time.

Dead leaves are reddening in the woodland copse,
   And forest boughs a fading glory wear;
No breath of wind stirs in their hazy tops,
   Silence and peace are brooding everywhere.

The long day of the year is almost done,
   And nature in the sunset musing stands,
Gray-robed, and violet-hooded like a nun,
   Looking abroad o’er yellow harvest lands:

O’er tents of orchard boughs, and purple vines
   With scarlet flecked, flung like broad banners out
Along the field paths where slow-pacing lines
   Of meek-eyed kine obey the herdboy’s shout;

Where the tired ploughman his dun oxen turns,
   Unyoked, afield, mid dewy grass to stray,
While over all the village church spire burns—
   A shaft of flame in the last beams of day.

Empty and folded are her busy hands;
   Her corn and wine and oil are safely stored,
As in the twilight of the year she stands,
   And with her gladness seems to thank the Lord.

Thus let us rest awhile from toil and care,
   In the sweet sabbath of this autumn calm,
And lift our hearts to heaven in grateful prayer,
   And sing with nature our thanksgiving psalm.

Poems for Thanksgiving Day: Over the River and Through the Wood

by Lydia Maria Child (1844)
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Over the river, and through the wood,
to Grandfather’s house we go;
the horse knows the way to carry the sleigh
through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river, and through the wood,
to Grandfather’s house away!
We would not stop for doll or top,
for ’tis Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river, and through the wood—
oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes and bites the nose,
as over the ground we go.

Over the river, and through the wood.
with a clear blue winter sky,
The dogs do bark and the children hark,
as we go jingling by.

Over the river, and through the wood,
to have a first-rate play.
Hear the bells ring, “Ting a ling ding!”
Hurray for Thanskgiving Day!

Over the river, and through the wood—
no matter for winds that blow;
Or if we get the sleigh upset
into a bank of snow.

Over the river, and through the wood,
to see little John and Ann;
We will kiss them all, and play snowball
and stay as long as we can.

Over the river, and through the wood,
trot fast my dapple gray!
Spring over the ground like a hunting-hound!
For ’tis Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river, and through the wood
and straight through the barnyard gate.
We seem to go extremely slow—
it is so hard to wait!

Over the river, and through the wood—
Old Jowler hears our bells;
He shakes his paw with a loud bow-wow,
and thus the news he tells.

Over the river, and through the wood—
when Grandmother sees us come,
She will say, “O, dear, the children are here,
bring pie for everyone.”

Over the river, and through the wood—
now Grandmother’s cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

Love is friendship, friendship is love!

Christmas Trees

Robert Frost (1920)
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(A Christmas Circular Letter)

The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said,
“There aren’t enough to be worth while.”
“I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over.”

“You could look.
But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”
I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north. He said, “A thousand.”

“A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?”

He felt some need of softening that to me:
“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”

Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
I can’t help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.