In the realm where day meets night,

A dark and ominous skyline takes its flight.

Foreboding storm clouds gather, heavy and low,

But amidst the darkness, a glimmering glow.

Bright sunlight pierces through the shroud,

A defiant beacon, bold and proud.

It casts a golden path upon the sea,

A promise of hope, a glimpse of what could be.

The ocean below, in turmoil and rage,

Its waves dance wildly, a relentless stage.

Yet in the midst of this tempestuous scene,

The sunlight's embrace, serene and pristine.

A juxtaposition of forces, fierce and grand,

Nature's artistry upon the land.

A reminder that even in darkest strife,

There's a chance for light to shape our life.

So stand in awe of this dramatic display,

As dark and light engage in their eternal ballet.

For in the storm's heart, we may yet find,

The strength to endure and leave no dream behind.

Photo was shot in -Anantara Kihavah, Maldives , Baa Atoll

TIMOR LESTE: While today Timor-Leste is proud of being rated as the strongest democracy in Southeast Asia, yet as it prepares to receive Pope Francis, tensions between activists and the authorities are rising.

It was a nation torn limb from limb. Yet even back in 2008, it was living with hope of a new tomorrow. I was working on the creation and building of a just-peace in Timor Leste in 2006, 2007 and 2008.

Immediately prior to my visit in 2008, rebel soldiers of the Timor Leste Defence Force invaded the home of the President and shot and seriously wounded President José Ramos-Horta. Much of Dili had been arsoned. Many people had been killed and most had been compromised because of the identity based conflict. I selected some key courageous people and we trained them as peacebuilders, healing much of hurt in the process and creating in them a strengthened resolve to create a just peace. Thirteen years on I have been reflecting on those years and the wonderful outcomes. But a most poignant moment (among others) for me was when I retreated to this beach after a tension filled day. I "received" this image through my camera lens and thoughts flooded my mind.

My Reflection written in 2008:

"An acacia tree grew near the waterfront. During its early life it was sheltered by a building against which it grew. But then a long period of violence overwhelmed the community and the building was destroyed. But the tree continued to grow. Now it became the feed for the goats that roamed, and the lower foliage was eaten. The children now played on the beach and the acacia became a plaything. Children often climbed and sat on its lower branches. An occasional desperate fuelwood collector removed some of its dead wood. But the tree continued tenaciously, an ugly, distorted thing on the waterfront.

"Then after a thunderstorm, the sunset painted a pink and purple backdrop across the western sky. And the ugly, deformed tree framed the sunset for those who would see, creating a picture of glory. After the storm, even the ugly may contribute to glory, so let us envision hope. Those who have eyes to see, let them see.

"There are real signs of hope for Timor Leste especially in regard to the recent conflict between Lorosae and Loromonu allegiances. It appears to me that both sides now bear an underlying sense of shame and therefore would prefer to create peace than go onto new fighting.

"It was during one of my interviews with a young gun runner who had aided the Loromonu rebels that I realised there was a sign of hope. With the failure of the Loromonu attempt to take the President and others hostage resulting in the death of the Loromonu leader and the attempt on the life of President Ramos-Horta, Loromonu people feel the deep humiliation and shame not only of failure but that it led to the attempted assassination.

For the Lorosae people their shame arose from the slaughter of 9 Police by the pro-Lorosae army on 25 May 2006.

"That President Ramos-Horta returns to Dili with a martyr’s status reinforces this hope, especially as he together with the Prime Minister, is known to have turned away from militancy towards peaceful ways of building a democratic society."

Then after a thunderstorm, the sunset painted a pink and purple backdrop across the western sky. And the ugly, deformed tree framed the sunset for those who would see, creating a picture of glory. After the storm, even the ugly may contribute to glory, so let us envision hope. Those who have eyes to see, let them see.

"There are real signs of hope for Timor Leste especially in regard to the recent conflict between Lorosae and Loromonu allegiances. It appears to me that both sides now bear an underlying sense of shame and therefore would prefer to create peace than go onto new fighting.

"It was during one of my interviews with a young gun runner who had aided the Loromonu rebels that I realised there was a sign of hope. With the failure of the Loromonu attempt to take the President and others hostage resulting in the death of the Loromonu leader and the attempt on the life of President Ramos-Horta, Loromonu people feel the deep humiliation and shame not only of failure but that it led to the attempted assassination.

"For the Lorosae people their shame arose from the slaughter of 9 Police by the pro-Lorosae army on 25 May 2006.

That President Ramos-Horta returns to Dili with a martyr’s status reinforces this hope, especially as he together with the Prime Minister, is known to have turned away from militancy towards peaceful ways of building a democratic society." Ian

and so it says to itself, it says,

I AM: flinging flights of feelings, reeling toward wreckage

and it gasps a gurgle and head falls under until antique patinas

fan feathers all along the bunching brain muscle

[corridors and crevices]

and it can so plainly see up out of fine, crisp, thin air

giant rudders cutting confusion with swift rights and lefts and drop down diving- feelings feeling along in the dark for a foothold,

a toe touch,

a wheel by which to steer and propel,

project and prosper like a bird just tips the tips

and banks and

spins.

04.29.2013

но кто я Вам?

Maybe a ghost amongst so many others hugging books in the night

You know I could wander in the dark castles and the ruins of your dreams

Ask me to be your Muse and I will write till blood for you

I will write the lakes in which you soak and quench your thirst to my black thoughts

I will write the forests where pieces of my heart are hanging like garlands to the dead tree branches

and you won't ever be hungry you will remain at my ends that will be lies

for you to dream better higher painfully again and again

as if here I die

close your eyes softly

and I rebirth in your words the end of your sighs

in your paintings and the slightest of your regrets

I am like a mirror

I am a puddle of whispers that you never dare write

utter the worse

cut her for the best

fading sparkling poems in the floating hearse

and to you I give myself

and for you I forgive myself

As I chose insanety to tread your worlds

So tell me who I am there

why are you looking at me

tell me what do you see

write me an old fashioned sonnet or two

paint my disenchanted garden of dew

take my hand in my dreams

let it caress yours

the pen will sign each of my lies

your gaze will tell my truth

I will be your little black dove coveting the white light of the mind

the peace of your hells

give me the dresses of soul they think I cannot wear

and you'll see me dancing undulating coiling crawling

kissing your shadows & marvels

digging pages of my story in your well of sparks

and pouring myself in your arms tears after tears

choose me a name and a pair of wings and I will forever be your Innamoramento

Standing alone on that pier, Pierre ponder a plethora of problems. Mostly, his wife.

It’d be real easy to end it. Just…. jump in and swim to Canada… She’d report him missing, the news would cover it… “More on the story of the despondent man who jumped in to the lake and has been missing for several days… The search has been called off.” And just like that, his new life would begin…

“If only I could swim.” thought Pierre. “If only…”

FOR THOSE INTERESTED I HAVE AN EXHIBITION AT THIS LINK <a href=" www.flickr.com/groups/inspiringcollection/discuss/7215762...

Reflections On A Question Not Asked (JHWatkins)

I would not worship nature,

but

watch the firestorms

of evening Eden’s

colliding with collars of stars,

bordering the spreading blankets...

flowing......floating on mist.

Here deep spells

speak to rising hearts

of early years... tears...

and beginnings,

failed then

flourishing

in fading light.

Many the meetings in mirrors,

Reflection souls,

Broken and healed,

Sing out, having heard the cry

Wishing, then wondering-

Then washed by

colors of the night.

I would not worship nature

but cry quietly at

whispers of deep dreamy forests

drumming with wooden warmth

lost in caverns,

ascending in autumns,

forsaken in fragments

and

flames of the glowing day.

Come softer than nature,

with wounded revelations,

Waves of somber subtle summers,

winters, and springs-

Come straighter and stronger,

on strict lines of deft decisions

resting by quietest waters

of heart streams

that have come home

to the

fountain of the universe.

James Watkins 12-31-08

Not your Barbie girl, I don’t play nice, Too much fire, too much spice. 🔥✨

Neon glows, I shine too bright, Break the mold, rewrite the fight.

You want perfect? I’m too wild, Sugarcoated ain't my style. 🍬💥

No fake smiles, no quiet game, I take up space, I make my name.

Plastic world? Not my scene, Dripping colors, neon queen. 🌈👑

So keep watching, stare all day, But you can’t mold me your own way.

I glow fierce, I break the mold, Too untamed to be controlled.

Better Large-A closeup and panorama of the back hill at my mother's home in Georgia. A place of rest at a very colorful time of year. She probably has a fire going right now!

FOR THOSE INTERESTED I HAVE AN EXHIBITION AT THIS LINK www.flickr.com/groups/inspiringcollection/discuss/7215762...

Keeping The Colors Of Light I Saw (JHWatkins)

Keeping the colors of light I saw,

Hidden deep in my heart-

Here, chambered in silence they grow-

Where, watered by time they flow,

To places concealed at the start.

Each shade, a life of its own,

Gathering force like the wind,

Bursting with promise

And purpose renewed,

In heavenly dreams they ascend.

Returning to sources of similar schemes,

Gliding down currents of circular themes,

Reveried ideas of wondrous things,

Calling me now to attend.

Revelation perpetually rose,

From comical cracks and poetry prose,

Fractured infighting,

Formidable foes,

Deceived by games they portend.

Up through atmospheres,

Right through the stars,

Backed-down multitudes,

Battered and scarred-

Groaning, condoning,

Conditions bizarre,

Where correctional forces contend.

Keeping the colors of light I saw-

Hidden deep in my heart-

Here, chambered in silence they grow-

Shaping the future with wisdom I know,

In places concealed from the start.

J.H.Watkins 01/10/10

Better Large. This is looking West over Lake Cushman toward the Olympic National Park mountains. Although the lake is low until summertime, it has beautiful color and shape-surrounded by mountains and looking through to a snow-capped mountain through the gap. The rain, sunlight, and clouds are an added bonus here to help feather the light a little. Shot through consistent raindrops! In this area you better shoot fast...it rains constantly. As mentioned before, this is in one of the few (if not only) northern latitude rain forests in the world. A special place...in a huge area...with endless photo ops!

FOR THOSE INTERESTED I HAVE AN EXHIBITION AT THIS LINK www.flickr.com/groups/inspiringcollection/discuss/7215762...

Reflections On A Question Not Asked (JHWatkins)

I would not worship nature,

but

watch the firestorms

of evening Eden’s

colliding with collars of stars,

bordering the spreading blankets...

flowing......floating on mist.

Here deep spells

speak to rising hearts

of early years... tears...

and beginnings,

failed then

flourishing

in fading light.

Many the meetings in mirrors,

Reflection souls,

Broken and healed,

Sing out, having heard the cry

Wishing, then wondering-

Then washed by

colors of the night.

I would not worship nature

but cry quietly at

whispers of deep dreamy forests

drumming with wooden warmth

lost in caverns,

ascending in autumns,

forsaken in fragments

and

flames of the glowing day.

Come now,

softer than nature,

with wounded revelations,

Waves of somber subtle summers,

winters, and springs-

Come straighter and stronger,

on strict lines of deft decisions

resting by quietest waters

of heart streams

that have come home

to the

fountain of the universe.

James Watkins 12-31-08

A sparkle in his eye, never say die,

Just live—don’t hesitate, feel time fly.

He strides through the dusk with a laugh in his chest,

Chasing the next tale, giving each one his best.

The stars lean in close when his thoughts ignite,

He paints every moment in silver and light.

The past is a whisper, the future his gate

Cause while he still breathes there are stories yet to create.

MD

7 Years ♪♪

I do not want your words: they are the answer

To the questions I never asked or posed.

I am the one who plays, and you the dancer

Performing songs that anyone composed

And yet we know by heart their sound and beat.

Try to listen to me: I swear I'll try

To watch inside the words you will repeat

And understand the meaning you imply.

In her dark voice (and she was ill) she stated:

"We are alone, when living, when we die"

These were the words of someone who was fated,

An answer to your answers, her outcry.

The offspring of two lonelinesses, I am the consequence

Of rocks and stones around me, in a permanent fence.

(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)

We sat on the rooftop. Around, the town

Was white and grey, waiting for the new lights.

And as we talked, watching the eaves and down

You kept on asking: “Are you afraid of heights?”

“Actually, I can fly: I’m going to teach

Your body and your brain to surf the air.

Just keep in mind the place you want to reach

And don’t relax: your muscles taut, beware!”

Leaving the roof, my thoughts was on the sill

I decided to stop and perch upon.

I did not turn. I had to show my skill

Stretching my ego in a flying swan.

You waited on the roof: I wonder if you coped

Seeing me sailing higher. Maybe that’s what you hoped.

(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)

This is a dream I had a couple of nights ago.

I wrote more of Krylova (and it isn't looking good for her) - drive.google.com/open?id=0B-cW5EaEaqAId1lBVGh0dkx6TkU&...

… Sous le pommier | Under the apple tree.

__________________________________________________

© Tous droits réservés / Tutti i diritti riservati / All rights reserved

DON'T CLAIM AS YOUR OWN | NON-COMMERCIAL PURPOSE

Please, don't copy and use this image on websites, blogs or

other media (such as Facebook, Instagram, PicsArt, Pinterest, Tumblr, Blogger, WordPress, Google+, … ).

All my images are protected under international authors copyright laws and may not be shared, downloaded, reproduced, copied, or edited without my written explicit permission. Any unauthorized use is strictly illegal and can be punishable by law.

If you want to use my photographs, you must request my permission via Flickr Mail or using my website's Contact Form : → HERE

(I speak french, italian and a little bit of english).

Website | Blog | Guestbook

better large-non hdr-A final shot of Drayton Bay with an overhanging moon. A magical place to shoot from the hillside overlooking the bay and the harbor...especially with sun setting and moon rising. Many colors of light...plus fireflies (the twinklies)

FOR THOSE INTERESTED I HAVE AN EXHIBITION AT THIS LINK www.flickr.com/groups/inspiringcollection/discuss/7215762...

Keeping The Colors Of Light I Saw (JHWatkins)

Keeping the colors of light I saw,

Hidden deep in my heart-

Here, chambered in silence they grow-

Where, watered by time they flow,

To places concealed at the start.

Each shade, a life of its own,

Gathering force like the wind,

Bursting with promise

And purpose renewed,

In heavenly dreams they ascend.

Returning to sources of similar schemes,

Gliding down currents of circular themes,

Reveried ideas of wondrous things,

With all of my mind to attend.

Revelation perpetually rose,

Comical cracks and poetry prose,

Fractured infighting,

Formidable foes,

Deceived by games they portend.

Up through atmospheres,

Right through the stars,

Backed-down multitudes,

Battered and scarred-

Groaning, condoning,

Conditions bizarre,

Where correctional forces contend.

Keeping the colors of light I saw-

Hidden deep in my heart-

Here, chambered in silence they grow-

Shaping the future with wisdom I know,

In places concealed from the start.

J.H.Watkins 01/10/10

View Large........To observers on the rim anyone riding the Colorado appears as a speck...that is how far away the river bed is from the rim...miles....so...you can observe the river and everything on it..but not well. But, from the top, you can see how the river fits into the surrounding environment and the particularly how it moves through the area. The observer is often tricked into seeing or not seeing based on distance and perception of size......binoculars help......a telescope is better.....being there is the best! To me, it looks like these hills were painted in behind the river...what a contrast with the rough foreground areas with jagged edges and rough appearance. And these ARE the colors..the river color is just right...

THE OBSERVER (James Watkins)

(Thanks to that great photographer and preacher Albert Einstein) and observer

Standing…point in time…the observer changes what he sees.

Nothing is observed without changing it.

What do you change?

What do you see?

Beauty observed is beauty changed…

Observers see answers.

No answer is given without a question.

What do you change?

What do you see?

Observing, the observer is changed.

The observed changes the observer.

What do you change?

What do you see?

Observing is not limited by time…Time is a river…

Observers ride the river.

Eventually, what we observe becomes a part of us.

What do you change?

What do you see?

Observing…I have seen the Observer…

And truly…He has seen me.

James Watkins 11-13-2008

Better Large. Moon rise over Moultrie Creek in Saint Augustine, Florida looking east on the Intra Coastal Waterway. Cold night.

FOR THOSE INTERESTED I HAVE AN EXHIBITION AT THIS LINK <a href=" www.flickr.com/groups/inspiringcollection/discuss/7215762...

Reflections On A Question Not Asked (JHWatkins)

I would not worship nature,

but

watch the firestorms

of evening Eden’s

colliding with collars of stars,

bordering the spreading blankets...

flowing......floating on mist.

Here deep spells

speak to rising hearts

of early years... tears...

and beginnings,

failed then

flourishing

in fading light.

Many the meetings in mirrors,

Reflection souls,

Broken and healed,

Sing out, having heard the cry

Wishing, then wondering-

Then washed by

colors of the night.

I would not worship nature

but cry quietly at

whispers of deep dreamy forests

drumming with wooden warmth

lost in caverns,

ascending in autumns,

forsaken in fragments

and

flames of the glowing day.

Come softer than nature,

with wounded revelations,

Waves of somber subtle summers,

winters, and springs-

Come straighter and stronger,

on strict lines of deft decisions

resting by quietest waters

of heart streams

that have come home

to the

fountain of the universe.

James Watkins 12-31-08

oceans are dreams (jhwatkins)

Oceans are dreams, that rise and fall

beyond the conscious mind.

Vast volumed vaults transitioning-

rolling ridges ranging high.

Joined with all creation dance,

like liquid living beings-

quiet, dark depths of passion fire-

eternally careening.

Held in viscous vision,

caught between the separate worlds-

all heaven and earthy creature-

floating figured forms unfurled.

Ghosts-aglow and gaping-

gathered gremlins, timeless trails-

beyond all thought or reason-

hidden highways, watery veils.

Desperate, driven, hungry hunters-

casual commerce-bloody blades.

Liquid-larcened fathoms fallen,

fevered fits in cavalcade.

Contrasts, calm and constant-

consumation, cold desire-

carefully crushed by eons,

in vile volcanic fire.

Down some corridor they creep-

until in rest revealed-

unto the doubting dreamers-

caustic children, filled with fear.

Decisioned paths of plans performed,

adrift in thoughtless themes.

Gathered golden wisdom,

wrapped in scientific schemes.

Predetermined, parliamentary,

railing posted parts prevail-

racked with frail-formed falsities

in fictional detail.

Loving lost the guide unseen

that rules the changeless world-

and brings us back to view the sea

in vision's vacuumed swirl.

Childlike faith-vast beauty breathed,

an author, bold and bare-

for silence sake, stark stepping stones-

it's wealth unfolding fair.

Troll the tame and turning tide,

that flows in measured ebb.

Rolled rhythmic rows of constancy

in concentrated web.

Held hot the hidden history,

revealing holy fare-

formed fellowships and mysteries-

plain patterns painted there.

To see the unseen signature-

to touch the untouched realm-

to gaze at guardian glory...

graced...

by Starred..

Ascending..

Stair.

James watkins (April 2004)

better large-Beautiful late summer afternoon in Kansas as we were driving through. The golden fields of wheat throughout the heartland of America are beautiful all over the prairie states during this season. Kansas, Nebraska, South Dakota, North Dakota, Wyoming, Colorado, and some parts of Montana...among others really have the wheat fields.

The cloud formations at sunset and sunrise are magnificent in contrast to the fields as the changing light brings all types of contrasts and colors to play. I personally like the contrast between the green of the grass or other crops with the golden wheat. I WILL come back here and explore the plains fully on my motorcycle!

There Is No Sorrow In The Grave (JHWatkins 2/6/10)

There is no sorrow in the grave,

Or grief where death is overcome.

There is no strife where suffering

And shallow mourning are stopped

And stayed.

In living we press and battle on,

Where mercy alone can repair,

Or redeem lost cause,

The innocent crushed, or

The wounded soul in despair.

The battle may give hope,

Moving on and through,

To path where sunlight plays,

A bright day’s dawn,

Swift and strong,

In brief haven rest delays.

To bring us fact to face,

From here we must begin,

To right the wrong

We must have done,

To bring us round again.

And with mercy’s mirror,

That which has been given

Again and again-

Freely pass the blessing on-

Though duly won

By perseverance and pain.

Without return or favor named,

Grant that which we did not,

Or in our time did not restrain-

A heavenly gift tendered-

And A Life-

Regained!

(JHWatkins 02-06-2010)

not hdr-The moon rose last night just below Orion whose stars are in the upper right...that is Sirius on the mid, upper, right. I expanded the moon a little because it was about 80% full.

Jim Webb-The Moon's A Harsh Mistress

See her how she flies

Golden sails across the sky,

Close enough to touch

But careful if you try

Though she looks as warm as gold

The moon's a harsh mistress

The moon can be so cold..Jim Webb

Oceans are Dreams (James watkins) not hdr

Oceans are dreams, that rise and fall

beyond the conscious mind.

Vast volumed vaults transitioning-

rolling ridges ranging high.

Joined with all creation dance,

like liquid living beings-

quiet, dark depths of passion fire-

eternally careening.

Held in viscous vision,

caught between the separate worlds-

all heaven and earthy creature-

floating figured forms unfurled.

Ghosts-aglow and gaping-

gathered gremlins, timeless trails-

beyond all thought or reason-

hidden highways, watery veils.

Desperate, driven, hungry hunters-

casual commerce-bloody blades.

Liquid-larcened fathoms fallen,

fevered fits in cavalcade.

Contrasts, calm and constant-

consumation, cold desire-

carefully crushed by eons,

in vile volcanic fire.

Down some corridor they creep-

until in rest revealed-

unto the doubting dreamers-

caustic children, filled with fear.

Decisioned paths of plans performed,

adrift in thoughtless themes.

Gathered golden wisdom,

wrapped in scientific schemes.

Predetermined, parliamentary,

railing posted parts prevail-

racked with frail-formed falsities

in fictional detail.

Loving lost the guide unseen

that rules the changeless world-

and brings us back to view the sea

in vision's vacuumed swirl.

Childlike faith-vast beauty breathed,

an author, bold and bare-

for silence sake, stark stepping stones-

it's wealth unfolding fair.

Troll the tame and turning tide,

that flows in measured ebb.

Rolled rhythmic rows of constancy

in concentrated web.

Held hot the hidden history,

revealing holy fare-

formed fellowships and mysteries-

plain patterns painted there.

To see the unseen signature-

to touch the untouched realm-

to gaze at guardian glory, graced

by starred..Ascending..

Stair.

James watkins (April 2004)

No Hdr -There were no logs or sticks on the beach at 3 AM, and I wasn't looking for any..I just used me. Help! As bright as daylight, I could almost use sunglasses..this is a fun time at night on the beach..no one there! The best walking beach in the world (not the whitest)..50 miles south of here the Daytona 500 was run partially on the beach for years! A long time ago, the "Bluebird" ran on the beach here and held the world land speed record. It later broke its own record on the Great Salt Lake in Utah. The moon high (I filled out a half-moon), Jupiter (to the left), Saturn (under the moon), and the 2 tail stars (the eyes) of Scorpio the far right.

The amazing part of this capture is that I ran into the picture from the left and exited from the right...but spent more time still on the ground..and the camera focused on the position I was in the most...also...I sprayed a little flashlight around the entrance and exit area to "light paint" out as much activity as possible..it was hilarious because the "running like crazy" me across the shot was nothing like the man on knee!

DOORWAYS (JHWatkins)

Our lives are spent near doorways,

Corridors between heaven and earth-

Mechanisms of the spirit-

Power grids with junctions-

On the borders of decisions-

And destiny generations.

Many have sensed them,

Watched and known

Channels of change,

Releasing forces,

That seasons have sown

Since the beginning-

Leaving footsteps to follow.

Some found them

Under redwood cathedrals,

Soft canopy mists,

Where winter rains washed

The soul survivors,

That could not have grown

Until they had gone

To sing in arenas of angels.

Others surprised the morning,

Resisting by rolling waters,

Speaking to dawn stars,

Bidding the night adieu-

Where the quiet

Was louder than the roaring future,

And, left with one clean choice,

Lit the fuse

That started the fire-

And changed the world.

James Watkins

Every Season Has Its Own Glory (JHWatkins) not hdr

Every season has its own glory,

Every purpose has its own time,

Every moment has its own story,

Every story has its own line.

I have walked deep into cities,

Shining brightly never to fail,

Listened to heart cries,

Lost in the morning,

Standing on corners

Stagnant and stale.

Where is the hope

That brought forth the laughter?

Where is the song?

The music unveiled?

Why are the choices so

Wasted and bitter?

Gathered in hatred,

Broken and pale.

I have seen (new) stars on the mountains,

Fed on the movement of heaven and earth-

Fired by the framework

Of perfect perspective,

Fueled by the turning of terrible truth.

Come now and sing of mists in the forest,

Sensual sonnets of songs in the dirt-

Come and behold the delicate balance

Of seasons and reasons and rhythms

And birth.

There are the voices lost in confusion,

Crushed in the thriving, deepening swale-

Calloused and cold the circling convenience,

Crippled commotion emotions prevail.

Beacons in quiet of last true performance,

Heralded nature in singular cause-

Perfect and pure

Though wasted and slandered.

Washed by confession

In smoldering awe.

Severed connections, squandered projections-

Revered reflections by stammering tongues-

Coined by controlling contriving convections,

In different directions now written in stone.

Now is the time to look to the heavens,

Now is the moment to take up the cause,

Now is the voice of blazing amazement,

Borne on the winds of the gathering storm.

Listen to stream, listen to forest,

Listen to flower, and staggering fawn-

Listen to voices rolling like thunder,

Come drink of the waters

And dance with the dawn.

Wrapped in the garments of natural beauty,

Facing the force of the burgeoning call-

Strong in the seasons of life and creation,

Firm on foundations that never will fall.

James Watkins 09-01-08

February 2008

AM Radio has come up with another interesting idea, and has set up an old signboard in the Wheatfield with notices about a creative writing contest that he is sponsoring. There is a time limit, and entries have to be in by March 7, so all those out there who enjoy writing, stop by the Wheatfield and get all the info there about entering.

A Morning Walk (James Watkins)

Waking words, swirling sweetly,

Singing in my ears-

Rolling wonders, strong and straight-

Beaconed bright and clear.

Inviting me to wander,

Down to shining shore-

Where convocating castles call,

To open ocean roar.

On the edge of dreaming,

I felt myself fall in-

Down through dangered,

Damaged doors-

Viscous, veiled, and thin.

Forces of reality-

Razored helms of hate-

Shifting, sandy, shapeless shadows,

Slipping through the gate.

Beyond the blackened border,

I gazed at gloried land-

Felt the touch of morning-

Held fast to heaven’s hand.

Poured out on the altar-

Refreshed-refueled I ran-

Head first into battle-

Possessed by present plans.

Suddenly I saw it-

Though fifty three is late-

Fast forward towards forever now-

This dream can hardly wait.

Gathering at the seashore,

The ships by night came in,

And rested casually by the bay,

Protected, proud, and trimmed.

Persevering presences,

Provided none too late,

The moment we were waiting for,

Has finally taken place.

So let this light come forth and shine,

Confusion fading fast-

Let this hope begin to rise,

Let this morning last.

Pure and plain provision,

Coming down the line,

Cutting every corner,

Assimilating time.

Striking down each enemy,

Aroused by fear and haste.

Completely done-

A remnant run-

Compelled by boldest faith.

Sudden change is coming-

Champions will arise-

From victored fields of battle-

Free from compromise.

Balanced on the lightning edge,

Finished and refined-

Its getting near, this much is clear-

Its coming just in time.

Something big, something bold,

Beyond horizon’s floor-

Rising slowly, like the dawn-

Beckoning before.

Prepared by patient promises,

Just around the bend-

We had to wait,

But not too late,

Well worth it in the end.

James Watkins

With No Shuttle, No Rocket Trail, and No HDR home here..........The Moon, Orion, Sirius rising...Canopus (which is as bright as Sirius) just out of picture to the right..there were a lot of very bright stars out last night...on a clear cold (for Florida) evening. I had this same shot 2 nights ago with the shuttle launch.it went right up through the moon from the lower right. Took wonderful pictures...went home to unload...and saw that I had left the Memory out of the Camera. Soooooooooo...just imagine there is a rocket trail with golden blue light going from the bottom right, through the moon to the top left corner..blazing away...isn't it beautiful.......this shot is a reminder of that historical blunder. Filled in moon (it 85% full and highlighted EXISTING STARS.)

FOR THOSE INTERESTED I HAVE AN EXHIBITION AT THIS LINK <a href=" www.flickr.com/groups/inspiringcollection/discuss/7215762...

Words (James Watkins)

There are words above all others-

that fix themselves like stars-

bright beacons in the darkness-

heights hidden in the heart.

They alone take awesome stand--

against the tides of life-

in armed array of power-

an army clothed in might.

Like seeds that fall on watered ground-

form fertile flowing fields-

grown gentle- guides in patience pruned

with perfect plural yields.

Established on foundations strong-

bold buildings built to last-

against the rule of raging time-

eternally recast.

Triumphant- time-transcendent-

translucent, touched and twirled-

the truth unbound and glorious-

runs rampant through the world.

To conquer mountain standing tall

across the pilgrimed path.

And bring to birth the vision small-

the unseen to our grasp.

And leaving doubt behind us-

chaff driven by the wind-

each enemy of hope and faith-

unchallenged to an end.

Now standing hard behind us-

there thronged by secret thralls-

authority and mercy meet-

beyond the cloistered walls.

To loose the power petrified,

by fear’s unyielding grip.

Torn from years of solitude-

this single silent trip.

Bought before on battleground-

beyond the mortal veil-

pursued by death- prevailing -

through ancient rights assailed.

Passed from grave to live again-

new formed the narrow path.

Within the reach of every man-

a gateway firm and fast.

Now brought to bear the tidings glad-

entrenched in solid ground-

in waking realms of glory-

a kingdom newly found.

Where promises now harvested,

join late and early rain-

appearing at the altar bold-

the circumstances plain.

To stand behind each spoken word-

against the darkened lie-

that proudly boasts against us-

before an open sky.

And crushing all resistance-

bring victories large and small-

to every realm of being-

delivered from the fall.

Extending out beyond ourselves

we yield to greater need-

To find that loss, in giving,

Makes every word-a seed.

JHWatkins 7-04

S16: Stanzas, Sonnets, Sailboats, Seas & Skies (Poetography) - IMRAN™

It is an unusual day outside my blessed home. What was simply a few words of cute alliteration in the title of he photo quickly becomes a stanza, then a poem, and suddenly a sonnet with a semantic structural reference couplet for good measure!

Stanzas, Sonnets, Sailboats, Seas & Skies (Poetography)

by Imran Anwar

Sensor Spies

Spirit Sighs

Soul Sees

Stormy Seas

Sailing Sailboat

Shiny Skies

Shimmering Shallows Sparkling Shadows

[Stanza Spencerian]

Semantically Shaping

Spellbound Spelling

[Sonnet Stretching]

Stunning Shades

Saturday Seaside

Strangely Serene

Surreal Scene!

© 2021 IMRAN™

A Morning Walk (James Watkins) hdr not!

Waking words, swirling sweetly,

Singing in my ears-

Rolling wonders, strong and straight-

Beaconed bright and clear.

Inviting me to wander,

Down to shining shore-

Where convocating castles call,

To open ocean roar.

On the edge of dreaming,

I felt myself fall in-

Down through dangered,

Damaged doors-

Viscous, veiled, and thin.

Forces of reality-

Razored helms of hate-

Shifting, sandy, shapeless shadows,

Slipping through the gate.

Beyond the blackened border,

I gazed at gloried land-

Felt the touch of morning-

Held fast to heaven’s hand.

Poured out on the altar-

Refreshed-refueled I ran-

Head first into battle-

Possessed by present plans.

Suddenly I saw it-

Though fifty three seems late-

Fast forward towards forever now-

This dream can hardly wait.

Gathering at the seashore,

The ships by night came in,

And rested casually by the bay,

Protected, proud, and trimmed.

Persevering presences,

Provided none too late,

The moment we were waiting for,

Has finally taken place.

So let this light come forth and shine,

Confusion fading fast-

Let this hope begin to rise,

Let this morning last.

Pure and plain provision,

Coming down the line,

Cutting every corner,

Assimilating time.

Striking down each enemy,

Aroused by fear and haste.

Completely done-

A remnant run-

Compelled by boldest faith.

Sudden change is coming-

Champions will arise-

From victored fields of battle-

Free from compromise.

Balanced on the lightning edge,

Finished and refined-

Its getting near, this much is clear-

Its coming just in time.

Something big, something bold,

Beyond horizon’s floor-

Rising slowly, like the dawn-

Beckoning before.

Prepared by patient promises,

Just around the bend-

We had to wait,

But not too late,

Well worth it in the end.

James Watkins

better large-Beautiful late summer afternoon in Kansas as we were driving through. The golden fields of wheat throughout the heartland of America are beautiful all over the prairie states during this season. Kansas, Nebraska, South Dakota, North Dakota, Wyoming, Colorado, and some parts of Montana...among others really have the wheat fields.

The cloud formations at sunset and sunrise are magnificent in contrast to the fields as the changing light brings all types of contrasts and colors to play. I personally like the contrast between the green of the grass or other crops with the golden wheat. I WILL come back here and explore the plains fully on my motorcycle!

Every season has its own glory (James Watkins)

Every season has its own glory,

Every purpose has its own time,

Every moment has its own story,

Every story has its own line.

I have walked deep into cities,

Shining brightly never to fail,

Listened to heart cries,

Lost in the morning,

Standing on corners

Stagnant and stale.

Where is the hope

That brought forth the laughter?

Where is the song?

The music unveiled?

Why are the choices so

Wasted and bitter?

Gathered in hatred,

Broken and pale.

I have seen (new) stars on the mountains,

Fed on the movement of heaven and earth-

Fired up frameworks

Of perfect perspective,

Fueled by the turning of terrible truth.

Come now and sing of mists in the forest,

Sensual sonnets of songs in the dirt-

Come and behold the delicate balance

Of seasons and reasons and rhythms

And birth.

There are the voices lost in confusion,

Crushed in the thriving, deepening swale-

Calloused and cold the circling convenience,

Crippled commotion emotions prevail.

Beacons of quiet in last true performance,

Heralded nature in singular cause-

Perfect and pure

Though wasted and slandered.

Washed by confessional

Smoldering awe.

Severed connections, squandered projections-

Revered reflections, stammering tongues-

Coined by controlling contriving convections,

In different directions now written in stone.

Now is the time to look to the heavens,

Now is the moment to take up the cause,

Now is the voice of blazing amazement,

Borne on the winds of the gathering storm.

Listen to stream, listen to forest,

Listen to flower, and staggering fawn-

Listen to voices rolling like thunder,

Drink of the waters

And dance with the dawn.

Wrapped in the garments of natural beauty,

Facing the force of burgeoning call-

Strong in the seasons of life and creation,

Firm on foundations that never will fall.

James Watkins 09-01-08

This is the first time that I have been proud to post my pictures of the Redwoods. It has been so hard to get the bright light and dark shadows right. HDR has really made it a lot easier. Some things are better non HDR...not these beautiful trees. It is the only easy way to capture the large swings in the high dynamic range during daylight hours...and bring out/justify what the floor of the forests really look like when standing in them.

These massive trees can live to be a thousand years old...and were just about made extinct before individuals and the Fed stepped in to save the remaining groves. They are most prominent in Northern California and Southern Oregon...though smaller groves and isolated trees are found much further south and north.

FOR THOSE INTERESTED I HAVE AN EXHIBITION AT THIS LINK www.flickr.com/groups/inspiringcollection/discuss/7215762...

Every Season Has Its Own Glory (JHWatkins)

Every season has its own glory,

Every purpose has its own time,

Every moment has its own story,

Every story has its own line.

I have walked deep into cities,

Shining brightly never to fail,

Listened to heart cries,

Lost in the morning,

Standing on corners

Stagnant and stale.

Where is the hope

That brought forth the laughter?

Where is the song?

The music unveiled?

Why are the choices so

Wasted and bitter?

Gathered in hatred,

Broken and pale.

I have seen (new) stars on the mountains,

Fed on the movement of heaven and earth-

Fired by the framework

Of perfect perspective,

Fueled by the turning of terrible truth.

Come now and sing of mists in the forest,

Sensual sonnets of songs in the dirt-

Come and behold the delicate balance

Of seasons and reasons and rhythms

And birth.

There are the voices lost in confusion,

Crushed in the thriving, deepening swale-

Calloused and cold the circling convenience,

Crippled commotion emotions prevail.

Beacons in quiet of last true performance,

Heralded nature in singular cause-

Perfect and pure

Though wasted and slandered.

Washed by confession

In smoldering awe.

Severed connections, squandered projections-

Revered reflections by stammering tongues-

Coined by controlling contriving convections,

In different directions now written in stone.

Now is the time to look to the heavens,

Now is the moment to take up the cause,

Now is the voice of blazing amazement,

Borne on the winds of the gathering storm.

Listen to stream, listen to forest,

Listen to flower, and staggering fawn-

Listen to voices rolling like thunder,

Come drink of the waters

And dance with the dawn.

Wrapped in the garments of natural beauty,

Facing the force of the burgeoning call-

Strong in the seasons of life and creation,

Firm on foundations that never will fall.

James Watkins 09-01-08

Better Large-beautiful movement and lights at a local carnival/amusement park on a chilly early spring night...this is probably what it looks like from the inside out as a rider on this THING! Centrifugal force and moving lights...a cunningly disguised torture chamber!

FOR THOSE INTERESTED I HAVE AN EXHIBITION AT THIS LINK <a href=" www.flickr.com/groups/inspiringcollection/discuss/7215762...

I’VE FALLEN UPWARDS (James Watkins)

I’ve fallen upward,

Into the lights,

Slipping away from

Darkness and night.

Up through the evening,

Into the clouds,

Faster and faster,

Spinning around…

Celestial highways,

Smoother than sound,

Daylight and darkness,

Turned upside down!

I’ve fallen upward,

Flung from the earth

Leaving the ground

Of original birth…

Kaleidoscope colors,

Circling clowns,

Blended with backgrounds,

Faces and crowds.

Just one step forward,

A turn to the right,

A slight separation,

And I will take flight!

James Watkins 03-09

Yesterday I received a copy of Fifteen One Act Plays, a collection of Sam Shepard's work. I've just read one of those plays, 'Short Life of Trouble'. The two characters are Bob & Sam. Dylan & Shepard. Sam has a tape recorder & is interviewing Bob who leaves the stage a couple of times to make inconsequential telephone calls during which the audience hear his voice. Otherwise he engages in conversation with Sam whilst picking a guitar. They discuss James Dean & Hank Williams. Nothing much really happens but the feeling is that this might have actually happened.

I saw the short play in my head while I read it. I could hear Dylan's voice delivering the lines. I can't imagine it ever being performed but I enjoyed it. I don't really know why. Nothing much really happened.

What Good Are Trees

What good are trees,

If I miss the heart that spun the seed,

That dreamed the dream,

That danced nuclear in first fiery moments,

Before colors collided on patterns woven in atomic autumns

And stardust stellar stadiums of wintry dawns-

When moons rose only on waters that stilled the night,

Reflecting the light that ended eras,

That moved the mountains,

Before the oceans swept canyons clean of crust

And prepared tables for grasses to grow?

What good are wings,

If wonder does not take flight,

In wild woods bearing the breath of winds,

That hang cloud soft in southern summers,

Where soaring birds draft

Towering tides of unseen waves

Riding currents, swirling in springs of hope,

Hidden in hills, that no one knows?

What good is hope

That shares nothing in conception,

And wonders without warm witness in cold stolen hours,

Longing in lonely moments, that come only once,

Heave hot and holy breath for seconds,

Then pass without planting or gathering

From the soil of life and the strength of tears

That know the awe of this moment’s birth.

J.H. Watkins 01-09

Alternate title: "Bear River Writers Conference"

(not because there was a conference, but because it was the Bear River and it looks like a good image for a writers conference poster)

One last frame from the typewriter at the river series. This one is a closer view and I like how the typewriter really looks like it is perched precariously on the edge of the rock (because it was!). Let me know which one you prefer between this one and the previous image.

.Florida in the winter has some of the most beautiful sunsets that I have seen. My wife and I travel a lot..and we have seen some nice sunsets..but these in Florida and the sunsets in the deserts of the Western US are "neck and neck" in being the prettiest. (Haven't been to Hawaii or Alaska..and I am sure they are wonderful, too.) Again..feet and camera on tripod standing IN the Inland Waterway looking SouthWest with the Atlantic Ocean to the rear of camera about 100 yards.

Creation Spoke to me at Sunset (James Watkins)

Creation spoke to me at sunset,

under canopy of fading sight,

in groves of winded whispers,

ancient oaks waiting for the night.

Sun-bathed clouds through

dazzling leaves,

dazed and dancing free-

brilliant evening glories,

rhymed in poignant harmony.

Sequinned, fragranced beauties-

set in ocean dreams-

softly magnified by waters,

running slow to salty streams.

Lingering beside them,

to breathe the evening sea,

i listened to the placid voice

that feathered on the breeze.

“Remember what you see here-

do not forget this place-

write it on your memory-

do not let time erase”-

a victory won in silence-

as patience conquered haste-

foundationed now

in sacred soil,

solidified and safe.

Still delving deep through solid sod,

continuing to bend,

beneath the ground

it rooted down,

to build its strength again.

Did not begin to prosper,

until its hold was right-

then slowly grew in majesty,

upward to the light.

To flourish for

a thousand years,

before the sons of men-

and quietly tell its story,

to all that pass within.

.

James watkins 05-07

Better Large-A beautiful fall day at my mother's home in Georgia. The leaf colors make this shot of the lake and dock an ideal occasion for hdr to bring out detail and balance light/contrast.

FOR THOSE INTERESTED I HAVE AN EXHIBITION AT THIS LINK www.flickr.com/groups/inspiringcollection/discuss/7215762...

Every Season Has Its Own Glory (James Watkins)

Every season has its own glory,

Every purpose has its own time,

Every moment has its own story,

Every story has its own line.

I have walked deep into cities,

Shining brightly never to fail,

Listened to heart cries,

Lost in the morning,

Standing on corners

Stagnant and stale.

Where is the hope

That brought forth the laughter?

Where is the song?

The music unveiled?

Why are the choices so

Wasted and bitter?

Gathered in hatred,

Broken and pale.

I have seen (new) stars on the mountains,

Fed on the movement of heaven and earth-

Free on the framework

Of perfect perspective,

Fueled by the turning of terrible truth.

Come now and sing of mists in the forest,

Sensual sonnets of songs in the dirt-

Come and behold the delicate balance

Of seasons and reasons and rhythms

And birth.

There are the voices lost in confusion,

Crushed in the thriving, deepening swale-

Calloused and cold the circling conveyance,

Crippled emotion commotion prevails.

Beacons in quiet of last true performance,

Heralded nature in singular cause-

Perfect and pure

Though wasted and slandered.

Washed by confession

In smoldering awe.

Severed connections, squandered projections-

Revered reflections of stammering tongues-

Coined by controlling contriving convections,

In different directions now written in stone.

Now is the time to look to the heavens,

Now is the moment to take up the cause,

Now is the voice of blazing amazement,

Borne on the winds of the gathering storm.

Listen to stream, listen to forest,

Listen to flower, and staggering fawn-

Listen to voices rolling like thunder,

Come drink of the waters

And dance with the dawn.

Wrapped in the garments of natural beauty,

Facing the force of the burgeoning call-

Strong in the seasons of life and creation,

Firm on foundations that never will fall.

Messent has me rethinking my crops on all my pictures! On this one , I like the original, but I like the crop, too. Thanks Mike my friend.....

Reflections On A Question Not Asked (James Watkins) not hdr

I would not worship nature,

but

watch the firestorms

of evening Edens

colliding with collars of stars,

bordering the spreading blankets...

flowing......floating on mist.

Here the deep spells

speak to rising heart

of early years... tears...

and beginnings,

failed then

flourishing

in morning light.

Many the meetings in mirrors,

Reflection souls,

Broken and healed,

That sung out

having heard the cry

Wishing, then wondering-

Then washed by

Calls in the night.

I would not worship nature

But cry at quietest

Whisper of deep dreamy forest

drumming with wooden warmth

lost in caverns,

ascending in autumns,

forsaken in fragments

and

flames of the glowing day.

These flew upward

and rose

towering in grief,

Spending last hours in the

presence of the rising moon,

roaring like hatred from

doom destined disasters

which waited like the wolves

of wicked years.

Who, after violence came

to gentler portions

and reverences-

Listened to

voice that broke

the chain of fears,

messed up by

Messianic molecules,

riding silver linings,

linked by lizards

and snakes in the grass..

That tore at seasons

then slithered away to

cold corners

waiting for easier prey.

Come softer than nature,

with wounded revelations,

Waves of somber subtle summers,

winters, and springs-

Come straighter than stronger

on strict lines of deft decisions

resting by quietest waters

of heart streams that

have come home to the

fountain of the universe.

James Watkins 12-31-08

36/365

tumblr blog

instagram

wordpress blog

etsy shop

twitter

oceans are dreams (James watkins) not hdr

Oceans are dreams, that rise and fall

beyond the conscious mind.

Vast volumed vaults transitioning-

rolling ridges ranging high.

Joined with all creation dance,

like liquid living beings-

quiet, dark depths of passion fire-

eternally careening.

Held in viscous vision,

caught between the separate worlds-

all heaven and earthy creature-

floating figured forms unfurled.

Ghosts-aglow and gaping-

gathered gremlins, timeless trails-

beyond all thought or reason-

hidden highways, watery veils.

Desperate, driven, hungry hunters-

casual commerce-bloody blades.

Liquid-larcened fathoms fallen,

fevered fits in cavalcade.

Contrasts, calm and constant-

consumation, cold desire-

carefully crushed by eons,

in vile volcanic fire.

Down some corridor they creep-

until in rest revealed-

unto the doubting dreamers-

caustic children, filled with fear.

Decisioned paths of plans performed,

adrift in thoughtless themes.

Gathered golden wisdom,

wrapped in scientific schemes.

Predetermined, parliamentary,

railing posted parts prevail-

racked with frail-formed falsities

in fictional detail.

Loving lost the guide unseen

that rules the changeless world-

and brings us back to view the sea

in vision's vacuumed swirl.

Childlike faith-vast beauty breathed,

an author, bold and bare-

for silence sake, stark stepping stones-

it's wealth unfolding fair.

Troll the tame and turning tide,

that flows in measured ebb.

Rolled rhythmic rows of constancy

in concentrated web.

Held hot the hidden history,

revealing holy fare-

formed fellowships and mysteries-

plain patterns painted there.

To see the unseen signature-

to touch the untouched realm-

to gaze at guardian glory, graced

by starred..Ascending..

Stair.

James watkins (April 2004)

There’s a thrill in unraveling the layers of understanding

a beautiful way to wander through this world

to glimpse the unseen

to pause and feel something shift

She came seeking inspiration through photos

and for a fleeting moment

I saw her in a way I never had before

bold, radiant, unexpected

A zebra

Not just in black and white

but in all the hidden hues that live between the lines

I hope she sees what I saw

I hope she sees herself

wild, rare, and wholly alive

Look closer

The world whispers more than it shows

Best viewed large not hdr

oceans are dreams (James watkins-april 2004)

Oceans are dreams, that rise and fall

beyond the conscious mind.

Vast volumed vaults transitioning-

rolling ridges ranging high.

Joined with all creation dance,

like liquid living beings-

quiet, dark depths of passion fire-

eternally careening.

Held in viscous vision,

caught between the separate worlds-

all heaven and earthy creature-

floating figured forms unfurled.

Ghosts-aglow and gaping-

gathered gremlins, timeless trails-

beyond all thought or reason-

hidden highways, watery veils.

Desperate, driven, hungry hunters-

casual commerce-bloody blades.

Liquid-larcened fathoms fallen,

fevered fits in cavalcade.

Contrasts, calm and constant-

consumation, cold desire-

carefully crushed by eons,

in vile volcanic fire.

Down some corridor they creep-

until in rest revealed-

unto the doubting dreamers-

caustic children, filled with fear.

Decisioned paths of plans performed,

adrift in thoughtless themes.

Gathered golden wisdom,

wrapped in scientific schemes.

Predetermined, parliamentary,

railing posted parts prevail-

racked with frail-formed falsities

in fictional detail.

Loving lost the guide unseen

that rules the changeless world-

and brings us back to view the sea

in vision's vacuumed swirl.

Childlike faith-vast beauty breathed,

an author, bold and bare-

for silence sake, stark stepping stones-

it's wealth unfolding fair.

Troll the tame and turning tide,

that flows in measured ebb.

Rolled rhythmic rows of constancy

in concentrated web.

Held hot the hidden history,

revealing holy fare-

formed fellowships and mysteries-

plain patterns painted there.

To see the unseen signature-

to touch the untouched realm-

to gaze at guardian glory, graced

by starred..Ascending..

Stair.

James watkins (April 2004)

Purple Rain Ends Blues Reign In Erotic Exhibitionism Of Nature's Raw Passion At Pastels-Filled Tampa Bay Florida Dusk At Blessed Home - IMRAN™

The sensuality-laden wetness in the air was glowing in pinks like a beautiful lover ready to be penetrated by a thunderbolt, wanting to be taken in a lightning round of lovemaking expanding the mind and stretching the core of her soul and more, to be drenched in a torrent of desire's downpour.

The heat, the chills, the light goosebumps, the heavy grinds, of unbridled uninhibited souls welding and melding. Be, coming, ones. And all in the open, for all to see, hear, smell, and be sprinkled by. Can you feel it?

A light early summer drizzle was forming at the dock of my blessed home in Apollo Beach, Florida. I was bringing the DJI Phantom 4 drone back in for a landing. K2 and Kennedy, my dolphins-loving and drone-watching German Shepherd Dogs, stood ready for its return. And I await your second coming, my flighty, breathtaking princesses, and my loves. Come back to me soon. ❤️❤️

© 2021 IMRAN™

#aerial, #ApolloBeach, #Beach, #blessed, #creativewriting, #desire, #DJI, #dock, #dogs, #erotica, #Florida, #Flying, #GermanShepherdDogs, #gratitude, #Home, #IMRAN, #JetSki, #Lifestyle, #literature, #love, #lovemaking, #lust, #Nature, #Phantom4, #prose, #seaside, #Sunset, #Tampa, #TampaBay, #WaveRunner, #Yamaha

Mountains (James Watkins)

mountains grand and gazing-

pillars standing tall-

piercing passioned histories-

hidden in their walls.

delving downward distances-

caverns large and small-

mutant molten metal streams-

fused before the fall.

decant demon-ed destinies-

cooling chasmed halls-

dinosaurs and diamond doors

in massive mirrored malls.

heavy, heaving voices

in paradisian sprawl-

fiery fumes of purity-

creation’s curtain call.

subatomic saturation,

soiled, synthetic signs.

righteous restoration

of prehistoric crimes.

tumultuous-

tempestuous-

waning, wasted pearl-

forethought, full and fragile-

foundation of the world.

hidden in the language

of nature’s cresting yore-

cracked beneath

the stress and strain-

crumbling at the core.

tiny tidbits torn and tumbling-

wiggling in the storm-

recipes and remedies-

chemically reborn.

thickened soups and swirling haze-

brooding-steaming-scorn-

clashing reams of violent schemes-

valleys ripped and torn.

balance within balances,

scrambled eggs at last-

gushing geysered marbled mud

borne before the blast.

consciences of scientists,

syncopated scuds-

bothered by the missing mass-

baffled by the blood.

leaping lemon lizards-

the barn is nearly full-

the hay is neatly in a stack-

the baby’s come full term!

common commonalities,

full circle’s come at last.

see the story in the hills-

yield before your past.

something’s broken,

something’s missing,

something’s come and gone-

something’s at the doorway-

someone’s on the phone.

someone’s at the table-

someone’s on the floor-

someone’s grass

is full of gas-

classical-and more!

rhyming with the timing,

balancing the board-

signals of a sequenced strike,

calm before the storm.

mysteries are meaningful,

when looking at the past.

the scene is somewhat circular,

when stage is come to last.

weakened, muzzled monkeys,

dance before your lord.

the gift of grace is growing cold

squirming on sword.

commentaried cavemen,

come into the fold.

your ears can hear-

your eyes can see-

so come in from the cold.

and listen with some latitude-

to knowledge held in store.

fashioned in the faceless stone

of ancient ocean floor.

squeezed in myriad molecule,

the battle rages on-

raving reverence in reverse

its relevance reformed.

and bow before the evidence-

the courtroom is restored,

through judgment passed,

the script is cast,

in elementary score.

rain fire, you veined volcanoes-

your statement’s on the floor-

and advertise what you surmise-

from secret silent store.

you’ve waltzed in dazzled wonderment-

and touched your maker’s hand,

in timeless thought-

before the fault-

and listened to the plan.

to bring all things to unity-

from eons vile and vast-

to bless-ed end

the future bends,

with glory

unsurpassed.

James Watkins May 2005

We are passionate about bringing a relaxed approach while creating beautiful, natural and vibrant images.

The Ride to the Falls is actually downhill here at the last...thought it would look a little funny flat as in reality it slopes down and to the right. Should I leave it real or level it out? Comments welcome. This is looking toward the Canadian Falls. It is behind Goat Island there in the foreground with the mist of the Canadian Falls rising in the back around the sun. Those are buildings from Niagra Falls, Ontario nearby. NOT HDR

THE OBSERVER (JHWatkins)

(Thanks to that great photographer and preacher Albert Einstein)

Standing…point in time…the observer changes what he sees.

Nothing is observed without changing it.

What do you see?

Beauty observed is beauty changed…

Observers see answers.

No answer is given without a question.

What do you change?

Observing, the observer is changed.

The observed changes the observer.

What do you change?

What do you see?

Observing is not limited by time…Time is a river…

Observers ride the river.

Eventually, what we observe becomes a part of us.

Observing…I have seen the Observer…

And truly…He has seen me.

James Watkins 11-13-2008

Every Season Has Its Own Glory (JHWatkins) not hdr

Every season has its own glory,

Every purpose has its own time,

Every moment has its own story,

Every story has its own line.

I have walked deep into cities,

Shining brightly never to fail,

Listened to heart cries,

Lost in the morning,

Standing on corners

Stagnant and stale.

Where is the hope

That brought forth the laughter?

Where is the song?

The music unveiled?

Why are the choices so

Wasted and bitter?

Gathered in hatred,

Broken and pale.

I have seen (new) stars on the mountains,

Fed on the movement of heaven and earth-

Fired by the framework

Of perfect perspective,

Fueled by the turning of terrible truth.

Come now and sing of mists in the forest,

Sensual sonnets of songs in the dirt-

Come and behold the delicate balance

Of seasons and reasons and rhythms

And birth.

There are the voices lost in confusion,

Crushed in the thriving, deepening swale-

Calloused and cold the circling convenience,

Crippled emotion commotion prevails.

Beacons in quiet of last true performance,

Heralded nature in singular cause-

Perfect and pure

Though wasted and slandered.

Washed by confession

In smoldering awe.

Severed connections, squandered projections-

Revered reflections by stammering tongues-

Coined by controlling contriving convections,

In different directions now written in stone.

Now is the time to look to the heavens,

Now is the moment to take up the cause,

Now is the voice of blazing amazement,

Borne on the winds of the gathering storm.

Listen to stream, listen to forest,

Listen to flower, and staggering fawn-

Listen to voices rolling like thunder,

Come drink of the waters

And dance with the dawn.

Wrapped in the garments of natural beauty,

Facing the force of the burgeoning call-

Strong in the seasons of life and creation,

Firm on foundations that never will fall.

James Watkins 09-01-08

A Better Cut..per Messent and others! thanks for the input on this one...more of a horizontal composite now --no hdr ...deserves it's own space

Every season has its own glory (James Watkins)

Every season has its own glory,

Every purpose has its own time,

Every moment has its own story,

Every story has its own line.

I have walked deep into cities,

Shining brightly never to fail,

Listened to heart cries,

Lost in the morning,

Standing on corners

Stagnant and stale.

Where is the hope

That brought forth the laughter?

Where is the song?

The music unveiled?

Why are the choices so

Wasted and bitter?

Gathered in hatred,

Broken and pale.

I have seen (new) stars on the mountains,

Fed on the movement of heaven and earth-

Fired by the framework

Of perfect perspective,

Fueled by the turning of terrible truth.

Come now and sing of mists in the forest,

Sensual sonnets of songs in the dirt-

Come and behold the delicate balance

Of seasons and reasons and rhythms

And birth.

There are the voices lost in confusion,

Crushed in the thriving, deepening swale-

Calloused and cold the circling convenience,

Crippled commotion emotions prevail.

Beacons of quiet in last true performance,

Heralded nature in singular cause-

Perfect and pure

Though wasted and slandered.

Washed by confession

In smoldering awe.

Severed connections, squandered projections-

Revered reflections, stammering tongues-

Coined by controlling contriving convections,

In different directions now written in stone.

Now is the time to look to the heavens,

Now is the moment to take up the cause,

Now is the voice of blazing amazement,

Borne on the winds of the gathering storm.

Listen to stream, listen to forest,

Listen to flower, and staggering fawn-

Listen to voices rolling like thunder,

Drink of the waters

And dance with the dawn.

Wrapped in the garments of natural beauty,

Facing the force of burgeoning call-

Strong in the seasons of life and creation,

Firm on foundations that never will fall.

James Watkins 09-01-08

I’VE FALLEN UPWARDS (James Watkins)

I’ve fallen upward,

Into the lights,

Slipping away from

Darkness and night.

Up through the evening,

Into the clouds,

Faster and faster,

Spinning around…

Celestial highways,

Smoother than sound,

Daylight and darkness,

Turned upside down!

I’ve fallen upward,

Flung from the earth

Leaving the ground

Of original birth…

Kaleidoscope colors,

Circling clowns,

Blended with backgrounds,

Faces and crowds.

Just one step forward,

A turn to the right,

A slight separation,

And I will take flight!

James Watkins 03-09

non hdr

NIAGRA FALLS AT NIGHT-Constantly changing lights..Canadian falls through light mist top right

Standing on the Precipice (James watkins)

Standing on the precipice-

balanced at junctions,

space and time-

there are no excuses here

no explanations or rhymes.

Locked in lavish rhythm

far beyond the brink-

hid from help or rescue-

on jagged edge distinct.

Weighty voices-

tomorrows bearing-

form forces by the day...

Wound tight

in folds of failure-

by faltering historic foray.

Naked standing truth-

whirl winded and filleted-

open now -

body bleeding-

clean by choice-

ruthless rights parlayed.

Ring round the

restless righteous-

tormented tongues

twisted and advanced.

Weapons trained-

fitting filled-

hopelessness entranced.

New toys

for large little boys-

clicking clocks

in finest fashion.

Positioned perspective-

poisoned possessive power-

from places unimagined.

Whining women-

worn-out white wheezers-

talking days on end-

endless hours

of wasted words-

useless air-

precious spent.

Children torn

apart at seams-

families drugged

and drenched...

Callous toned

nightmares

running wild-

seeds scattered

in the wind.

Lost by generation's

darkened doubt-

aflame

the fearless world-

tossed aside by

hellish schemes-

now rampant-

flags unfurled.

Gone the green

and yearning years-

foundations

fairly laid-

of priceless pearl

in wisdom grown,

crown jewelry

on parade.

But new

the turning earth begins-

choice

once again delayed.

Come cold and calm

courageous men-

run boldly

to your fate.

And stand in

earnest errand bare,

an era

at the end-

to bind yourselves

betrothed and braced-

now finish

without fear. (James watkins 2004)

Better Large-A large and wonderful (to look at) summer thunderstorm moves over a golden wheat field. In the spring or summer this could be the beginning of a tornado, but here just brings heavy wind and rain. The midwest plain states are famous for their thunderheads, torrential rain, and high winds. Traveling through here we really loved the contrast in colors and the soft sunset sky behind the clouds. 0130!

FOR THOSE INTERESTED I HAVE AN EXHIBITION AT THIS LINK <a href=" www.flickr.com/groups/inspiringcollection/discuss/7215762...

THE CURSE DID NOT COME UPON SATURN

(JHWatkins)

The Curse did not come upon Saturn,

Nor cover the planets and stars-

But came to the earth like the lightning

That signals the start of a storm.

It blanketed beautiful valleys

Built in creation’s fire-

Then moved ‘cross the hills

In a torrent-

Which in rapid, recession-retired.

Hating the heart of the future-

Despising all hope and desire-

Erasing eons of dreaming,

With planning and patience conspired.

To bring captivity captive-

To worship a fallen king-

To drain the last drop,

Of life and light-

To crush creativity.

Such serpentine monstrosity,

Will never be wrought again.

Plans will unfold,

But missing their mark,

Will cease to be brought

To their end.

The ignorant souls

Of the dancers-

That danced with the

Sword and the wheel-

And plowed in the fields

Of the broken-

Will never be heard from

Again.

Deceivers will flourish

And be no more.

Liars will all pass away.

Death and destruction

Will struggle and strain-

Then fail at the force

Of the flame.

The heavens are still

Rejoicing.

The stars in their glory

Still sing.

Repeating the strain,

Of original song-

Etched in aged memory.

Clothed in magnificent color-

Reveling in royal plans.

Revealing from the beginning-

The art of the Master’s hands.

As servants new, now recreate-

Envision inhabited lands.

By suffering tried, have spoken

The word-

And left their trail in the sand.

And passing beyond the physical door-

Now come to a heavenly land.

Where monuments new of faith reside-

And sacred spirits stand.

A city of golden glory-

Where day and night descend-

In the light of the great Creator-

Whose promise will never end.

Time itself will flicker and fade,

The fire of the universe wane-

Providence then will have the last word.-

And truth once more

Fall like rain.

James Watkins 11-04