Jul 18 2015

Together for ever


You are the moon

And I am the tallest peak

In the world blindly in love with you.


I am happy

Because I know I will see you

Tonight and admire your immense beauty again.


You are glad

Because you know I will see

You with loving eyes until the end of time.



And me





Poem by Lucio Muñoz

Vancouver, BC, Canada

July 18, 2015



Jul 03 2015

Bees, Beetles and Butterflies: A Photoshow

Bees, Beetles and Butterflies: A Photoshow


Jul 01 2015

Happy Canada Day


Happy Canada
Day-I hear people singing
Oh Canada! Eh. 


Haiku por Lucio Munoz

Vancouver, BC, Canada

July 01, 2015



Jun 22 2015

The first time

The first time I fell in love

Knowing that I was not

The chosen one…

I wrote a haiku to sadness.


The first time I met someone

Who smiled at me and liked

My crazy personality…

I wrote a poem of hope


The first time I tasted sweet kisses

With my eyes closed and

My heart singing…

I wrote a song to love           


The first time I could take a moment

To think about my past

And my lucky life…

I wrote a story of happiness.


First, I wrote a haiku to sadness,

Then, a poem of hope,

Next, I wrote a song to love,

And finally, I wrote a story of happiness.


Poem by Lucio Muñoz

Vancouver, BC, Canada

June 22, 2015



Jun 09 2015

Love without limits

It is not a dream,

It is the truth;

I am her king,

The source of her happiness.


And the universe

Is too small

To store all

The love that for her I feel.


Poem by Lucio Muñoz 

Vancouver, BC, Canada

June 8, 2015


Sep 13 2010

Not That I Care – Three-Minute Fiction

Credit To: Molly Reid

There goes our neighbor, Jim, running into the street again. He grabs one of the ducks crossing. Doesn’t even look to see if anyone is looking, just scampers out — hunched over, elbows bent and reaching behind him like he’s trying to grow wings or is throwing himself to the asphalt — then scoops a duck and holds it with both hands close to his chest and runs back into his house.

This has been going on for two weeks; started around the time Marcus left, or at least that’s when I first noticed it. The ducks always squawk like someone has just thrown a hundred bread crumbs into the lake, moving in frantic, dizzy eights around the stolen duck’s absence. I don’t think anyone sees him but me. The houses on our street keep the curtains closed. There’s nothing ever to see on our street.

I sit at the window drinking pot after pot of weak black coffee, drumming my fingers on the windowsill and chewing off the extra tiny bits of skin inside my cheeks, pondering whether it’s always a different group of ducks that cross our street, migrating from the man-made lake across town, or if Jim lets the snatched duck go some time later, and maybe the same group of ducks make the same trek every day, an afternoon waddle, forgetting about the dangers of this street. Or maybe the ducks and Jim have reached an understanding, a mutually-agreed-upon ritual.

When Marcus left, he left behind a pair of dirty socks, one hiding under the bed and one right in plain sight, curled into itself and getting smaller every day, like a sad little salted slug. I can’t bring myself to touch them. I wonder if he left them on purpose, if they’re supposed to communicate something, something about cheating and the things we discard, the state of our souls, the process by which galaxies implode.

Once Jim has gone inside with the duck, the other ducks remain in the middle of the street, going around and around each other accusingly, angry toddlers pacing in waddles. I think about moving them to safety. Not that any cars drive down our street. Not, anyway, like Marcus used to, speeding, snarled music, brakes wheezing, spitting rocks. I should at least run out and comfort the remaining ducks, tell them it’s going to be ok, that sooner or later the sting of absence will lessen. One day those blue and green feathers, you won’t remember them so soft.

Not that I know that for sure. Or that I know anything about feathers. Not that they could understand me, being ducks.

Or I could go next door, take that duck back, let him go, let them all go free. If it wasn’t for the look on Jim’s face, lips pressed together like he has a mouth full of jellybeans, like he’s getting away with something — which I let him believe, which I understand the importance of. I keep watching. And every time he takes another duck, I get closer to thinking about moving away from the window.


Nov 28 2011

Jens Lekman: NPR Music Tiny Desk Concert

Post Provided By: NPR Music

Jens Lekman is a singer-songwriter, storyteller, actor and comedian whose banter falls somewhere between the effortless delivery of a seasoned comic and the nervous rambling of an indie-rock frontman. Lekman shows off his humor and charm in this intimate set at the NPR Music offices.

Set List:
“I Want A Pair Of Cowboy Boots”
“The End Of The World Is Bigger Than Love”
“Waiting For Kirsten


Jun 18 2013

Featured Artist: Flávio Macedo

Featured Artist: Flávio Macedo

Notes From the Artist:
I was born in Brazil, Vitória da Conquista, Bahia and today live in São Paulo, the capital. I am self taught and paint since childhood. Made a few exposures outside the official circuit. I’ve had several of my works sold abroad, most recently to Germany, Australia, France, etc..

The aim of every artist is to seek reactions in people, each person reacts differently. Looking for these reactions stylizing the shapes and colors highlighting what we have more beautiful: nature and its native people.

My works expound on the theme Exobrasilvestre that translates the fauna, flora and indigenous Brazilian culture. Not deprezando Goldens peoples and cultures, as the natural beauty is unique. Simply by being born and raised among these that picture today.

Pop chose to address this issue when valuing the design and colors of this unique nature.


Sep 01 2014

Featured Poet: Rosemarie Yusen

Featured Poet: Rosemarie Yusen

Till The end of Time
Till The end of Time, until Time stops It’s Count. You Told Me that You would love Me. You told me that our love as The North Star would never die. The walks along The Bridge. Hands of Mother of Pearl, of Oyster Shell. The Water is considerate to our conversations. Never talking over us. It pays not attention to our scribbles of laughter or my tears of belief. But yet the naysayers to the corner stare with eyes of bitter and lips of sweet. We Pay them No Mind, Our Youth, Our in God We Trust, brings forth This Melancholy, This more than just Lust. From Canals we were born and into the grave We shall go. But in the meantime, on this night, in the days to follow and the years which will bring forth our Seeds of Root. On This Bridge our lives will extend. Meaning has taken on a new name. Kisses have grown up. What gets left behind will follow and what is brought forth Shall come up even Stronger. The Strength in your letters which came once per month. They brought You back to me. In my nights of dented pillows and soaked tissue. War is an unkind stranger to me. You say not to worry. That You know it’s weakness and that Your return will neither drag on nor be in vain. I try to explain this to A Two Year Old with blonde curls and blue eyes like The Aurora Lights. She scribbles her laughter and I scribble the ink across the paper, smearing the print with unsteady fingers of sweat. I haven’t the words they have left me. They wait for You back at the bridge on that night where we knew a love which most will never find. Many a time I’ve had to tear up the letters that I had written to You. The Paper which My Words are written upon is no longer plyable from the tears where Oceans run dry. But Yet at Our Bridge I Stand once more. And the words and the used up paper falls over the side of our bridge. My finger tips can no longer bear the weight of the heaviness to which my heart has now to for so many years. I stare at our little girl with blonde curls and blues like the aurora lights. She is no longer just two. Time has turned her now into a grown Woman of twenty two. I stare at the lovers Who pace their steps so evenly by. Unsure if they notice my eyes of bitter and my lips of sweet. Unkind War. A stranger I would never shake hands with. Nor shall I ever forgive You for taking My Love from My Arms. From My Sight. I See You for what You Are. Just A Taker of Lives. 10 fingers, 10 toes where 20 ought.


Mar 20 2014

Featured Artist: Shachi Srivastava

Featured Artist: Shachi Srivastava

About the Artist:
Shachi Srivastava, is a self taught versatile Artist, experimenting, exploring and learning from her experiences while playing with her canvas, brushes and various Art mediums. Painting is her passion. She loves to learn new art forms and styles like Zentangle, Tribal Art and folk Art forms from India such as Madhubani, Warli, Kalamkari and Gond Art. Her heart and soul belongs to her beautiful country India and her art is deeply rooted from India. She has strong affinity towards bright and bold colors.She loves simplicity.
Every painting she makes is a depiction of Love for Life!!Painting is her way of expressing the beauty of our worlds. She is learning each day something new and enhancing her skills to create as much beauty in our worlds as she can.

Shachi Srivastava on see|me: https://shachisrivastava.see.me/
Shachi Srivastava onon the web: http://sshachi23.wix.com/srijanshachi
Shachi Srivastava on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/srijan.shachi


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