Pubblicato in: A casa con cate, articoli ospiti, novita', Poesie, ricette ospiti, vacanze

-Articoli ospiti-a cura Di Rosalba-poesie messaggi positivi –

ask your loyal followers to submit a favourite poem of hope or inspiration. A nice compilation may be just what we all need during these challenging times.I would like to submit the following:

inserire una poesia positiva, o una frase positiva per fare meno triste questo periodo -io ho scelto questa

Quando le cose vanno male, come a volte capita,
Quando la strada che percorri sembra sempre in salita,
Quando i fondi sono bassi e i debiti sono alti,
E tu vorresti sorridere ma riesci appena a sospirare
Quando non riesci a mantenere cura di te stesso,
Riposati se devi, ma non mollare.

La vita è curiosa, piena di colpi di scena,
Come ognuno di noi certe volte impara,
Me la traiettoria si può correggere,
Con coraggio, costanza e perseveranza
Non ti scoraggiare nei momenti difficili,
Otterrai successo se continui a lottare.

Spesso il successo è più vicino
Di quello che appare ad un individuo,
Bisogna continuare a combattere
Fino a quando si raggiunge il risultato finale

Successo è l’opposto di fallimento
Il colore argenteo della nuvola del dubbio,
E tu non puoi mai sapere quanto vicino sei,
Può essere vicino quando sembra lontano,
Quindi continua a lottare quando sei colpito
Quando le cose sembrano al punto peggiore, non devi mollare.

32 pensieri riguardo “-Articoli ospiti-a cura Di Rosalba-poesie messaggi positivi –

  1. E così, con questo (bellissimo) pretesto, Cate ci ha messi di nuovo al lavoro! 😀 Grazie Cate, e grazie Rosalba per il bellissimo messaggio positivo 🙂
    Ora ci penso!

  2. Ci ho già pensato 🙂 🙂 🙂

    If—
    BY RUDYARD KIPLING
    (‘Brother Square-Toes’—Rewards and Fairies)

    If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
    If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;
    If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
    Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

    If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
    If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;
    If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
    Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

    If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
    And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
    If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
    And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

    If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
    If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
    If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
    Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

    1. Ho seri dubbi che questa frase sia davvero di Jim Morrison… Non proprio un cuor-contento…! Ma mi piace ugualmente molto! 🙂 🙂 🙂

  3. Bellissima idea….sbizzarrirsi con la fantasia.
    Io, a scuola coi ragazzini, inventavo filastrocche per loro….
    Ad esempio per la festa del papà:
    QUANDO PAPÀ HA UN PO’ DI TEMPO PER ME, SONO FELICE,SAPETE PERCHÉ?
    SE MI RACCONTA UNA LUNGA STORIA, LUI NON LA LEGGE, LA SA TUTTA A MEMORIA!
    CHE SIA ALLEGRA O TRISTE AVVENTURA, TRA LE SUE BRACCIA, IO NON HO MAI PAURA….
    MA SE GIOCHIAMO A TIRARCI I CUSCINI….MAMMA CI SGRIDA, CI URLA:” BAMBINI”

  4. The jester walked in the garden:
    The garden had fallen still;
    He bade his soul rise upward
    And stand on her window-sill.

    It rose in a straight blue garment,
    When owls began to call:
    It had grown wise-tongued by thinking
    Of a quiet and light footfall;

    But the young queen would not listen;
    She rose in her pale night-gown;
    She drew in the heavy casement
    And pushed the latches down.

    He bade his heart go to her,
    When the owls called out no more;
    In a red and quivering garment
    It sang to her through the door.

    It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming
    Of a flutter of flower-like hair;
    But she took up her fan from the table
    And waved it off on the air.

    ‘I have cap and bells,’ he pondered,
    ‘I will send them to her and die’;
    And when the morning whitened
    He left them where she went by.

    She laid them upon her bosom,
    Under a cloud of her hair,
    And her red lips sang them a love-song
    Till stars grew out of the air.

    She opened her door and her window,
    And the heart and the soul came through,
    To her right hand came the red one,
    To her left hand came the blue.

    They set up a noise like crickets,
    A chattering wise and sweet,
    And her hair was a folded flower
    And the quiet of love in her feet.
    W B YEATS

      1. Thank you for the idea. I escaped from Covid and winter while I reread my favorite poems.

  5. Una bellissima raccolta di pensieri e considerazioni che ci aiutano a sormontare i momenti difficili e le crisi che la vita presenta!

  6. In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
    A stately pleasure-dome decree:
    Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
    Through caverns measureless to man
    Down to a sunless sea.

    So twice five miles of fertile ground
    With walls and towers were girdled round:
    And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
    Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
    And here were forests ancient as the hills,
    Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

    But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
    Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
    A savage place! as holy and enchanted
    As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
    By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
    And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
    As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
    A mighty fountain momently was forced:

    Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
    Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
    Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail :
    And ‘mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
    It flung up momently the sacred river.

    Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
    Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
    Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
    And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
    And ‘mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
    Ancestral voices prophesying war!

    The shadow of the dome of pleasure
    Floated midway on the waves;
    Where was heard the mingled measure
    From the fountain and the caves.

    It was a miracle of rare device,
    A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

    A damsel with a dulcimer
    In a vision once I saw:
    It was an Abyssinian maid,
    And on her dulcimer she played,
    Singing of Mount Abora.
    Could I revive within me
    Her symphony and song,
    To such a deep delight ‘twould win me,
    That with music loud and long,
    I would build that dome in air,
    That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
    And all who heard should see them there,
    And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
    His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
    Weave a circle round him thrice,
    And close your eyes with holy dread,
    For he on honey-dew hath fed,
    And drunk the milk of Paradise.

    Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  7. Ritratto di donna
    Deve essere a scelta.
    Cambiare, purché niente cambi.
    È facile, impossibile, difficile, ne vale la pena.
    Ha gli occhi, se occorre, ora azzurri, ora grigi,
    neri, allegri, senza motivo pieni di lacrime.
    Dorme con lui come la prima venuta, l’unica al mondo.

    Gli darà quattro figli, nessuno, uno.
    Ingenua, ma ottima consigliera.
    Debole, ma sosterrà.
    Non ha la testa sulle spalle, però l’avrà.
    Legge Jaspers e le riviste femminili.
    Non sa a che serva questa vite, e costruirà un ponte.
    Giovane, come al solito giovane, sempre ancora giovane.

    Tiene nelle mani un passero con l’ala spezzata,
    soldi suoi per un viaggio lungo e lontano,
    una mezzaluna, un impacco e un bicchierino di vodka.

    Dove è che corre, non sarà stanca?
    Ma no, solo un poco, molto, non importa.
    O lo ama o si è intestardita.
    Nel bene, nel male, e per l’amor del cielo!
    Wislawa Szymborska

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