Another shot of Victoria Creek, in Cedar, MI, on a glorious day in late October.

To Autumn

By John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

While barred clouds bloomthe soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

...Deep in the bosom of the gentle night

Is when I search for the light

Pick up my pen and start to write

I struggle and fight dark forces in the clear moonlight

Without fear

Insomnia

I can't get no sleep

I can't get no sleep...

-Faithless-

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, Speak to us of Children.

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Kahlil Gibran - On Children

from chermala, perambra.....

on 13th april............

The Bosham Channel is a part of Chichester Harbour in West Sussex. The channel is tidal so I was lucky on this visit that the tide was up.

Joshua Tree National Parc, California

Two male turkeys, one clearly has the upper hand. Taken at the Biltmore Estate, Asheville, NC.

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In the window of a lingerie shop:

A female dummy with an XXXL bust and defective left breast, dressed in a black sexy top. 😜

TREES

I think that I shall never see,

A poem as lovely as a tree

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest,

Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray:

A tree that may in summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair:

Upon whose bosom snow is lain:

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

by Joyce Kilmer

www.youtube.com/watch?v=XTtfX7pVBiM

www.youtube.com/watch?v=vOHekLZD5i4

Did you know that the Moon has horns? Despite having been keen on astronomy since my childhood in the 60s & 70s, I only learned in the last year or so that the pointed ends of a crescent moon are called its “horns.” Those horns were fine and sharp when I captured this scene on 22 April 2023, with the Moon having only 4% of its sunlit surface visible here on Earth. As the Moon glided down towards the southwest this night, it slipped towards the embrace of Gulaga, the 806 metre / 2644 ft high extinct volcano, the best-known landmark in this region of New South Wales, Australia.

Gulaga has significant cultural and ancestral importance to the local indigenous Yuin people, especially the Yuin women. Wikipedia cites Gulaga as “regarded as a symbolic mother figure providing the basis for the people’s spiritual identity.” What better place for the Moon to head towards to find rest and protection for the evening?

Photographed from the cemetery at Tilba, Australia, I captured this scene with my Canon EOS 6D Mk II camera and a Sigma 50-500mm f/5.6 lens zoomed to 500mm at an aperture of f/8.0, using an exposure time of 1/15 second @ ISO 800.

Teh, questo è per il troglodita, e questo per quello nel cesso, e poi quest'altro perché siamo amici, e poi...

The first time I entered this room there was a group of artists sketching a nude woman with very large breasts. I was completely embarrassed but knew I'd come back. I got that chance a few days later due to a friend with special access. The weather was better and so were the bosoms, I mean blossoms;-). If you've seen this perspective before you'd know there is a massive crane hovering above the Space Needle. Please feel free to leave some feedback

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

close bosom-friend of the maturing sun

conspiring with him how to load and bless

with fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run

to bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees

and fill all fruit with ripeness to the core

to swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

with a sweet kernel; to set budding more

and still more, later flowers for the bees

until they think warm days will never cease

for summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

thee sitting careless on a granary floor

thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind

or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep

drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

spares the next swath and all its twined flowers

and sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

steady thy laden head across a brook

or by a cider-press, with patient look

thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

think not of them, thou hast thy music too

while barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day

and touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue

then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

among the river sallows, borne aloft

or sinking as the light wind lives or dies

and full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn

hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

the redbreast whistles from a garden-croft

and gathering swallows twitter in the skies

John Keats

Fairy Bosom in Quản Bạ, Vietnam, features two symmetrical karst hills steeped in legend. A H’Mông fairy fell in love with a human and bore his child, but the Jade Emperor forced her to return to the heavens. Heartbroken, she left behind her breasts, forming the twin hills, said to nourish her child with mystical energy. Today, they symbolize motherly love and fertility, standing as a breathtaking and sacred landmark in Hà Giang.

"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells."

John Keates

Symbol of unhappy love

Sacred to the slighted Clytie:

See how it turns its bosom to the sun;

And when the dark clouds have shadowed it,

Or night is on the sky, mark how it folds its leaves

And droops its head, and weeps sweet tears of dew:

The constant flower!

~ Leticia Elizabeth Landon

Prints and Downloads are available on my 👉 H O M E P A G E

To Autumn

By John Keats

Toggle annotations

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

"Sufi woman, read me Rumi ’til I fall asleep upon your bosom

Sufi woman, you’re a lion, but you walk around so unassuming

You go shine your eyes, you go put it on me

Put a little spell on me

What you do to me?

Don't go walk away on me

You gon’, you gon' see

You gon’, you gon’ ni, ni, ni

You gon’, you gon’ shaker it

You go see the gardens

In La Bruja

In La Bruja

In La Bruja

Sufi woman, read me Rumi ’til I fall asleep upon your bosom

Sufi woman, you’re a lion but you walk around so unassumin'

Gypsy!

Gypsy woman, we gon’ dance until we dizzy

Gypsy woman, well, your power got me tipsy

All (All) day, now you brought that star

You left lipstick on my hand

I look dead inside, inside

You go shine your eyes

You go put it on me

Put it a little spell on me." - Jidenna ♫

Gi struts slowly through the dark gardens under the willows ❤️

I want a bosom torn by severance,

That I may unfold the pain of love-desire…..

The Sunrise runs for Both—

The East—Her Purple Troth

Keeps with the Hill—

The Noon unwinds Her Blue

Till One Breadth cover Two—

Remotest—still—

Both lie—

Emily Dickinson

This was Esthwaite Water, on a warm September evening. I managed to capture the mists that had begun to roll in over the surface of the water. There were groups of bats skimming over the surface of the water feeding on unsuspecting insects.

Follow me on instagram: @sagesolar

With the exception of their mother, they are the only other souls in the world that they trust. Inseparable from the start, they tend to touch and hold each other even when their attention is focused on other things. Touch provides them with a sense of safety and security. When their mother pushes them away in two years, they will tend to stay together to survive, but time and maturity will drive them slowly apart until they become the solitary creatures we know as brown bears.

with Lily B

__________

Image received a group cover honor

from the SL Playmates Network!

Faithless - „Insomnia“

www.youtube.com/watch?v=P8JEm4d6Wu4

Deep in the bosom of the gentle night

Is when I search for the light

Pick up my pen and start to write

I struggle, I fight dark forces in the clear moonlight

Without fear

Insomnia

I can′t get no sleep

I used to worry

Thought I was going mad in a hurry

Getting stressed, making excess mess in darkness

No electricity, something's all over me, greasy

Insomnia, please release me

And let me dream of making mad love to my girl on the heath

Tearing off tights with my teeth

But there′s no release, no peace

I toss and turn without cease

Like a curse, open my eyes and rise like yeast

At least a couple of weeks since I last slept, kept taking sleepers

But now I keep myself pepped

Deeper still, that night

I write by candlelight, I find insight

Fundamental movement, huh, so when it's black

This insomniac, take an original tack

Keep the beast in my nature under ceaseless attack

I gets no sleep

I can't get no sleep

I can′t get no sleep

I can′t get no sleep

I need to sleep, I can't get no sleep

I need to sleep, I can′t get no sleep

"Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare,

And left the flushed print in a poppy there:

Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came,

And the fanning wind puffed it to flapping flame.

With burnt mouth red like a lion's it drank

The blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank,

And dipped its cup in the colored shine

When the eastern conduits ran with wine".

- Francis Thompson

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Thanks to all for 13,000.000+ views and kind comments ... !

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close bosom friend of the maturing sun

conspiring with him how to load and bless

Harvest

“fragments...the indefinite layers of Time and Space…show themselves to be the bosom which gathers together the separate fragments of a huge Consciousness in process of growth...coils in collectively upon itself above our heads, in the direction of some sort of higher Mankind.”

-Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

on Black: Ode to autumn

Ode To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

John Keats

Happiness is a sunbeam which may pass through a thousand bosoms without losing a particle of its original ray; nay, when it strikes on a kindred heart, like the converged light on a mirror, it reflects itself with redoubled brightness. It is not perfected till it is shared.

~Jane Porter

qui la traduzione italiana

nopenguinsincalifornia.wordpress.com/2015/10/31/ode-to-au...

J. Keats (1795-1821)

CCLV. Ode to Autumn

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 5

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease; 10

For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 15

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day 25

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river-sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 30

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Sunrise over the Firth of Forth

"Paloma" the statue I rescued from the council tip has found her place in the garden and made some friends : o ) Happy Wing Wednesday folks x

Polder de Hooge Boezem (translated: the Upper Bosom) near Haastrecht serves as a overflow area when there is an abundance of water in the area between the Hollandsche IJssel and Lek. An abundance of water is due to heavy rainfall or due to high waterlevels in the rivers, as a result of heavy rainfall upstream of lots of ice water from the source of the river.

This area, purchased by the province of South Holland, is created in 2014. It is filled by water from the little river Vlist, which is connected to both rivers. There are three areas in this polder. The deepest is under water in the photo. Purpose is to have this part constantly under water in the winter, so animals can settle themselves here.

Then, closer to the windmill is the middle area, that is filled when the deepest area is full. Then there is the highest past of this polder, close to the windmill. That is only filled in extreme cases. When the water levels in the river are back to normal again, the polder is drained to the Hollandse IJssel with help of a pumping station near Haastrecht.

The lowest part of the polder attracts lots of birds and other animals, because the wetlands are an excellent habitat for them.

For more info (in Dutch): www.zuidhollandslandschap.nl/actueel/opening-hooge-boezem/

Crossview: Gently converge (cross) your eyes and focus on the middle image that appears while ignoring the outside.

Crossview: Gently converge (cross) your eyes and focus on the middle image that appears while ignoring the outside.

Thy hand Belinda, darkness shades me, on thy bosom let me rest. More I would but death invades me, death is now a welcome guest. When I am laid, am laid in earth, may my wrongs create no trouble, no trouble in thy breast. When I am laid, am laid in earth, may my wrongs create no trouble, no trouble in thy breast. Remember me, remember me, but, ah, forget my fate. Remember me but, ah, forget my fate. Remember me, remember me, but, ah, forget my fate. Remember me, but, ah, forget my fate.

Mist rising from Victoria Creek this morning, and ice on the footbridge. But that's another story.

To Autumn

John Keats

1795 –1821

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,

Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West,

That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,

Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?

Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest,

When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling,

Wilt thoù glìde on the blue Pacific, or rest

In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.

I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest,

Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air:

I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest,

And anchor queen of the strange shipping there,

Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare:

Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capp'd grandest

Peak, that is over the feathery palms, more fair

Than thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest.

And yet, O splendid ship, unhail'd and nameless,

I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine

That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless,

Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.

But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine,

As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding,

From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line

In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.

We're Here: Roonespism

Walk and talk ~ Poughkeepsie, NY

… her stunning eyes catch mine… her ample bosoms busting through her top… playfully asking… knowing I can’t resist her offer… and opens the door for me… as I crawl in beside her… her delicious feminine scent fills the car… and she puts her hand on my leg… close to my manhood… as it begins to swell with desire… she leans over… presses her gorgeous lips against mine… and kisses me deeply… her hand move between my legs… and she admires my desire…

Because I couldnt resist Putting Bosom in her name!

In the pink.......Edinburgh Castle

Josh Arment eagle.