Kelly Vang's Blog

"Wine is a Love Affair"February 9th, 6pmat Barsha Wines & Spirits
Live Poetry by artist Kelly Vang & friendsFlight of Wine (Rose, Sparkling Rose, Red & Icewine)Gourmet chocolate dipped fruitCharcuterie and cheese spreadJewelry by Stella & Dotplus more..   Purchase tickets, click here
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Oh! The Bride of Heavens,
She sits on a high throneBut cannot make up her mindWho she loves most, the groom or the lover.DAY: She wears the brightest ring; its radiant diamond is the Sun.NIGHT: She lays it down to sleep with another; his jewel which is the Moon, twirls and spirals with many strange colors, ever-spellbinding on her soft finger.

A dedication to the 20+ children and victims that died in Newtown, Connecticut School Massacre today...

"God sent children for another purpose than merely to keep up the race--to enlarge our hears; and to make us unselfish and full of kindly sympathies and affections; to give our souls higher aims; to call out all our faculties to extended enterprise and exertion; and to bring round our firesides bright faces, happy smiles, and loving, tender hearts."
-Mary Botham Howitt

BE LIKE THE WHITE CEDAR SON: Death of a Child
Little one,Somewhere by the Great Lakes of Canada,I heard of a couple whose White Cedar* sonStayed forever young;Innocent and childish was heThat brought his parents all their joy–His angelic laughter filled them till old age, Into their happy graves.
So please,Be like the White Cedar; Do not grow too quickly.Sing to me your playful cheers, Crawl through the years with that adorable skipWithout following the world'sGrownup pace,On the slippery road to a cruel maturity.
It is now –I love you the most,Young like the tender green sprout From out of the moist ground with no blemishOf the vicious world’s beetles. They lay their suffering eggs Where loads of burden hatch, Weakening the blooming shooters.
Understand, I have attempted to hide you From a world in ruins, But you wish to run with the others.Child,In the dusk of life, the road is hard to see,Wait till I am gone before you leave me–So I can be sure to watch over you.




*White Cedar
The slowest growing tree located in Canada; it grows less than four inches during its lifespan of 155 years. 

Gorgeous,
Where did you learn to entrap men with your beauty? You command a hundred men as if it is their legal dutyTo bind themselves in silent wonder, gaping like madmen. You are the beast who grazes the land, luring the herdsmenTo follow and fancy; they care and drive your vanity.You forget the land which you graze, along with humanity,Ages and withers. Today, you strike the eye,  Tomorrow, in the market, men will come to buyYour fresh wool skin for shoes, coats and trade.Beauty is a foe who upon parting, first betrays;You were the exquisite sheep among all fields and flocks–A lamb is born, she lures a thousand men like preying hawks. 


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 -Kelly 

They stand silent, both with burning hearts.
His vision begins to water,
The first teardrop climbs up his lower lid like the sun rising;
When it falls, his face is veiled within a sparkling flood.

She hands him a handkerchief and leaves.
As he watches her solitary departure,
He scorns himself for having ever loved –
An unforgiving woman.

He does not know,
She flees before he can see her eyes trickle.
She struggled to write a final love letter for him–
She poured herself into it.

When he lifts the handkerchief to wipe his tears,
It is thoroughly soaked–where her rich farewell cries is inscribed.

Something random and for the fun of it...enjoy.

The common man is common because his work, his thoughts, and his actions are no different than his neighbor. He labors day and night in aimless work and play, and seldom leaves room for personal development. The journalist, Isidor Feinstein Stone stated: “…in Rome the common man was treated like a dog. In America he sets the tone. This is the first country where the common man could stand erect."

The rich man's greatest characteristic is greed. He is the man large in income and large in expenditure but little in moral and little in obligation. The 19th century American author and abolitionist, Henry David Thoreau described one class of the rich men: “The rich man is always sold to the institution which makes him rich. Absolutely speaking, the more money, the less virtue.”

The true rich man–the business man, he deals in work he loves. His wealth is acquired because he is commits to the power of compounding. Thoreau also defined a true rich man as one who “…enjoys the fruits of riches, who summer and winter forever can find delight in his own thoughts.”

The poor man is the man who has given up; he is defeated. Author, Sydney Madwed said, “Poor is the man who does not know his own intrinsic worth and tends to measure everything by relative value.”

The just man deals righteously. He gives freely and takes sparingly. He has many friends because he mastered the art of being virtuous. The 18th-century English writer Samuel Richardson explained, “A good man will not engage even in a cause, without examining the justice of it.”

The great man, the rarest, he is obsessed and knows what nearly all cannot fathom. Emerson declared, “I count him a great man who inhabits a higher sphere of thought, into which other men rise with labor and difficulty.” Often, not until the death of a great man, we call him a genius.

I am alone
But we are happy.
We hear and speak of things, to mortals are unknown.
We watch the songbirds dance on the foam of airborne seas
And sympathize with the Father of Rain,
Collecting his teardrops of dews.
In desolate fields, I am alone
But we are happy.
We encounter and converse with strange travelers,
Stranger is the many atmospheres we roam.

You left me alone
To sit, weep and yield
To my own helplessness.
But I found in every hour–
My sacred soul.
I found in loneliness,
A love of the purest form.

My Love,Here is a barren island with two equally red mountains grieving; its hot lava gushes with horrible wails and overflows the desert till it sinks in an overwhelming fury. I stand as that wild wasteland, though these tears run silent, it is my spirit who clamors, awakened for the first time and weeps for you. My erupt-eyes: duel rivers of swollen shame and my face: a chaos of burning regret. I am drowning in a sea sorrow–it possesses no bottom.
My Love, I’ve abandoned you for another. While I desperately chased after affection, I did not know you were patiently waiting. These long years, I left you to dwell alone and disregard our long struggles. My complete passion I bargained for another. Because our relationship was in its infancy, I did not care to stay to understand you, to learn how sacred you truly are. I was naïve and yearned for greater love and excitement.
When all is gone: I remember–I have been happy; I have been loved. It was you, whose sweet affection is beauty that is forever; it defies time and like the heavens is unparalleled. Your love is the only love that can never be found, not even in the sum of all loveliest persons. No romantic man can emulate even the slightly fraction of your love.
My love,Today, I come before you once again. Your delighted arms stretch out and so easily forgive me. The sad crime I’ve committed deserves no compassion but sufferings to endure. There are many as myself, wondering and chasing after new love. None among themselves know, there is no love more devotional and tender as that of, “mother,” and “father.” Therefore, by these sincerest hearts and eternal love, you are my, “True Love.”
Oh, what terror it is, to awake after “True Love,” has passed.

I love listening to sad instrumentals; this poem was inspired from a romantic saxophone collection. You can view the video and follow along...feedback always appreciated ;-D

 If Poetry had a voice, surely he must sound unerringly divine as you. Like the dreamy seas, like the ruffling rivers, like the rushing waterfalls, you run every which way you desire—your beauty and your talent are equally magnificent, but you like your strange musical notes, are remarkably unpredictable and alter with each second. Your waves calm–then turbulent. You make my blood dance–then run cold. Your melody speaks of a rare passion. Your tone rages in a glorious sadness. Your cadence sways high and low like a genuine weeping.
With your True Love, you must have endured a sorrow so great it grew boundless like darkness, clinging alongside you from woman to woman; with each failed relationship you grow more stubborn and your tongue more rapid. You clutch your instrument–she is your soft maiden. With caressing fingers, you stroke her up and down like love making; with stiffen hands, you strike her harder and harder like fatal fighting. You kiss her as though drowning, clenching onto her like the gasping of air.  

There is profound melancholy that haunts, quivers and trails following each sound your golden saxophone utters. Each note is lovelier than the prior and each beat deadlier than the last. You pretend to be joyful, but there is a deep mourning with your breathing. You try to forget, but the bitter memories quickly return and your throat overflows with a wrath of violent ringing. You grow still; merely, from lack of breath, and again the sad thoughts pour in while you hopelessly rage out. The fierce climax of your enchanting saxophone embraces every known noise, intensity and emotion, sounding all at the same time; it shrills like Death and chills like Passion.
How is it—I no longer know you, yet you move me so wildly? Is your song the manifestation of Heaven’s angels? Or is music of a lost romance? The composition reminds me of my once furious heart.
When I arrived here to hear you, I was content. For you, my face is coated with moist compassion; I, stepped out of this fresh pond that which was dried ground, and walk home drenched, in our past.

If Poetry had a voice, surely he must sound unerringly as you. Like the dreamy seas, like the ruffling rivers, like the windy waterfalls, you run every which way you desire—your beauty is magnificent, but you are incredibly unpredictable and alter with each second. You make my blood dance–then run cold. Your melody speaks of a rare passion. Your tone rages in a glorious sadness. Your cadence sways high and low like a genuine weeping. With your True Love, you must have endured a sorrow so great; it grew boundless like darkness, clinging alongside you from love to love; with each new relationship you grow more stubborn and your tongue more rapid. There is profound melancholy that haunts, quivers and trails following each sound you utter. You pretend to be joyful, but there is a deep mourning with your breathing. You try to forget, but the unforgiving memories always return and your throat overflows with a wrath of violent ringing. You grow calm merely from lack of breath, and again the sad thoughts pour in while you hopelessly rage out.

How is it—I no longer know you, yet you move me so wildly? Is your song the manifestation of Heaven’s angels? Or is music of a lost romance? The composition reminds me of my own furious heart.

When I arrived here to hear you, I was content. For you, my face is coated with moist compassion; I, stepped out of this fresh pond that which was dried ground, and walk home drenched in our past.