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I’ve seen a white man with ocean blue eyes, and golden blond hair. I’ve felt caressing breeze from the blue skies, from way out there. I’ve seen the sun shine like there’d be no tomorrow. And i’ve closed my eyes, and dreamed dreams that could erase all sorrow. I’ve seen such variety of beauty, of honor, of astounding grace. I’ve experienced an all-
encompassing unseen embrace. And there… stood a white woman… who stared into the nights sky from afar. She appeared enamored… by all the stars. Gazing at an extraordinary sight above us… the night sky. But a glimpse of the universe. A veil to the hidden, the sacred, the unseen. A secret world of knowledge… True Riches; Pristine! And
beneath the skies there was a darkness hidden in the shadows, moving about discreetly, watching; as if to be seeking prey. This darkness appeared to be trying to siphon off light from the woman’s soul. And him? Well, he was almost blinded. For the darkness seeks to blacken an ocean so blue! And once the darkness takes over, the purity of truth drowns…
and out comes the voice of darkness, speaking from the blackest ocean to spirits who will hear. With a voice that could throw you into the deepest fear; and make you tremble… at the sound waves. After seeping inside; and distorting the subconscious, this voice speaks many lies… and seeks out any living to enslave! But the woman… she was one of True
Discernment. One that Feels… The Language of the Heart. She Knows of the Truths that are just Beyond the Veil. And she knows of the Lies that spew forth from the darkness. She knows that her Skin does not fully Define her Existence, or Anyone Else’s. And that the Flesh… is Just As Fleeting as the Dust in the Wind. She is Aware of Great Spirit, and of
her connection to All that Exists. All such spirits as hers are as Anchors, Helping to Save the Living from Drowning. For She… is Not Blinded, and will Never allow herself to be. And she could Never Be Compared to those who are blind, and Can Not See! Oh yes, she
Truly sees. She looks with eyes upon All the Living, and does not unfairly Judge. And All Around Her she can Feel a Presence that makes her Soul sing, because her white skin
was spun… from Angels Wings.
– Creative Writing By China Alicia Rivera
Read More Here:
chinaaliciarivera.wordpress.com/2020/06/22/white-skin-som...
or here:
chinaaliciarivera.wordpress.com/
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Peace and Love. ❤️💕
Eat my bones.
Shred my skin.
A few lessons are learned within.
Cuts and corridors,
failing and falling,
laughing at it all, at last.
Please the pain.
Please, the pain.
No matter the gain.
Minutes on the screens
enveloped in my dreams.
Word is new,
ending too soon.
Beginnings forget
to remember it all too.
End it to start a new.
New is just another lie too.
Travel the clock,
afraid of time,
remember to hold back,
trying not to cry.
At arms length an open book,
feel the ink drip down my throat.
No matter the difference,
deserve the change,
Paint chips collecting lead,
a lie as you hold that pencil near your head.
Language speaks,
lacks remorse,
changes our memories,
changes the course.
Not straight or narrow,
but forward on.
Follow me on
into this storm.
CC0 - PUBLIC DOMAIN
Tomaszów ♥ Mazowiecki, central Poland, EU
The oldest high school (1903) and top ranked in Poland I lyceum in Tomaszow Mazowiecki
(Poilish) pl.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Liceum_Og%C3%B3lnokszta%C5%82c%C4...
--
EN /All of my photos are free of copyrights, you can use. Also commercially. PL / Wszystkie moje zdjęcia są w domenie publicznej. Można wykorzystywać w dowolnym celu
Join our group / dołącz do naszej grupy:
Short URL / krótszy adres:
Sethos Lionheart takes us on a journey through the art of Michael Delmar, exploring the delicate balance between beauty, myth, and control. Whether it’s a regal gaze or a dancer bound by strings, Michael’s work resonates with a deep, human truth that stays with you long after you leave the gallery.
Explore the full interview and gallery feature on the blog today! ✨
Read more: iloveevents.online/carriers-of-the-unspoken-journeys-of-d...
Spring is the birth for a new beginning.
Life starts from a passion of affection.
Pollination begins with life’s connection.
Plants bud, flowers bloom, and birds start singing.
Mating rituals start with a dance of love.
He sings his song to the one of his choice.
She beckons his calling with sounding voice.
A new generation they are thinking of.
Hurry! Hurry! We need to make this nest.
For I am with family can’t you see.
I will build this nest from the very best.
This is for you, me and the other three.
Babies nestled under their mother’s breast.
The fledglings were loved, nourished and had no need.
Photo and poem by me ()
Photo was taken with a Sony A77II, Sony lens 70-400mm, ISO 800,
400mm, f/7.1, 1/1000 of a sec.
Dr Jahnavi Barua is an Indian author from Assam. She is the author of 'Next Door', a critically acclaimed collection of short stories set in Assam with insurgency as the background. She studied creative writing in the United Kingdom. Barua lives in Bengaluru City.
We are passionate about bringing a relaxed approach while creating beautiful, natural and vibrant images.
We play our little games, from day to day.
Yours is your job, while I desire to sleep.
He’s on his PC, and she prefers to play
The piano. Someone likes to weep.
Typically, we despise the others’ game
We think it’s silly, just a waste of time:
We value our behaviour as a claim,
And all the others’ as an awful crime.
Sometimes I am an alien with four eyes
Considering the exotic culture – strange –
While other aliens watch me with surprise
Because I am beyond they own right range.
Sometimes I like to write, revealing bit by bit
This odd life, out in space: the errors I admit.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
Bullseye’s on Challenge TV today. It starts at 2. I’ve been watching it every day this week, and I know that this afternoon’s one will be the one me and my best mate Tony were on 30 years ago.
I’m retired now. And Tony and my wife and my daughter are all gone. Usually I spend my afternoon watching telly with a can of lager, a cuppa and a Mars bar. I got a freeview box around Christmas time, I’m glad of it, I’ll follow a series like I never used to. Telly’s only atmosphere; it’s not like being back in the pub after work or anything, but it’s good. This afternoon I’m going to have that time when we were on Bullseye all to myself.
I remember it all so well. I’ve been thinking about it a lot the last few days. We set out at 6 that morning. Me, the wife, Tony, Deborah Tony’s wife, both sets of kids, and both sets of parents. Our mates from the pub followed a few hours behind in another minibus. It was a brilliant journey. Simple. Uneventful. But with a camaraderie that must have gone right through every one of us. I remember being excited as we approached the spaghetti junction, that we were being part of something of Britain in the big cities. We had no trouble finding the TV studio in the centre of Birmingham. Tony parked, and we all stepped out of the minibus, thumping the doors shut in an exquisite cosy unison. I remember we all looked at each other amidst an assortment of flash cars in the car park. It was one of those times in a group when everyone was momentarily truly alone. Then I started striding through the car park to the studio entrance, and my friend and my family followed. As we approached reception, Tony now alongside me, we were nervous, but I think we hid it well, like you’re supposed to. 10 minutes later we were in a room with the other contestants. We’d been last to arrive, we waited, and we made small talk with the others, our wives more than us. And then Jim Bowen walked in wearing a green suit. Bowen worked that room for a good half hour. He was an impressive guy really. I think if you thought about it you’d wonder how people have the confidence to be on telly, to go on the telly; how to act. But after half an hour we were ready. Like the man said “IT’S EASY, JUST THROW YOUR BEST DARTS, TAKE YOUR TIME WHEN ANSWERING THOSE QUESTIONS, AND KEEP THOSE BIG SMILES ON YOUR FACES.”
We walked on set straight after the pep talk. On Bullseye, one threw the darts and the other answered the questions. The darts were Tony’s job. Neither of us was the sharpest tool, but I had a definite edge trivia wise. I took my seat between the other contestants, and looked out at the audience, and our mates from the pub were there. They’d clearly had a few drinks on the minibus. I wished I’d had just one. Bill waved at me. I remember he looked like he was drowning in a large lemon-coloured polo shirt. I felt strangely adrift at that point. The first team (a husband and wife from Darlington) got off to a great start when the guy hit the £100 bed, and the wife, who had chosen books, correctly answered a question about some writer called Virginia Woolf. It was our turn next. I chose sport, and Tony hit the £50 bed. I got a question about Brian Clough which was really easy. The third couple, they failed. Nigel from Slough, who was still on our Christmas card list when my wife died, well he hit the £50 bed as well. But Joe, his partner, chose spelling and couldn’t spell PSYCHOLOGY, and they were out in 3rd place. It felt good to not be first out. We did ok in the Pounds for Points round, but went out in 2nd place, and the couple from Darlington went through to play for the prizes. We won £330 each. Jim Bowen said “YOU MUST BE DISAPPOINTED BUT £330 IS A LOT OF MONEY FOR WORKING CLASS LADS.” Bowen did the usual speech about counting our money over the ad break. And that was it. We would use the money to go on a holiday to Corfu. All of us. The two families. The Darlington couple went on to win the star prize, a Ford Fiesta. And there was a buffet with some free bubbly afterwards. Everyone had a really good time, although nobody seemed to like the winners that much.
All that was 30 years ago; since then I’ve lost my wife to cancer, my daughter and her husband were killed in a car crash, Tony went from asbestos poisoning, and today our episode will be shown just as it was - half an hour’s telly with a break in between.
I fill the kettle. I pace up and down the kitchen. My whole life is in my head, everything’s accessible, the hopes, the dreams, the colours of different decades. The 1980’s were a golden decade for me, nothing went wrong. My first car; Tony and I huddled against the cold and the awkward silence as I took the few moments to say YES to that battered blue fiesta. An early date with Sandra, and sitting down to order fish and chips; the realisation that talking to a beautiful woman could be light and easy. Escorting Sandra across the darkening hospital car park, our daughter in her arms.
The kettle clicks and reminds me of doors thudding shut in a car park 30 years ago. I feel alone. I thought that’s the way I wanted it. Today anyway. I settle in my chair, switch on the telly, and pick up my tea cup. It’s hot and a bit uncomfortable to hold. I sip, and then tear open my Mars Bar. These are the sensations of now. It’s grim when you realise that these are the sensations you are latching onto to make now what it is. The tear of a sweetie wrapper set against all the upset in my head. The music is starting. Our episode is beginning.
I've signed up for an online creative writing class that starts next week, but the instructor has given us a preliminary exercise to bring into the first discussion. It's simple enough, but it's doing my head in trying to come up with something...
ugh.
~!~!!~!!!~!!~!~
Strobist info:
Nikon D90 on tripod, on second desk across from me. ISO 200, 31mm f/5.6 at 1/4. (I wanted to shoot a little slow to get some motion blur.) Nikon SB-800 with diffusion dome, at 1/32 power 14mm f/4, sitting upright on the desk between me and the computer monitor. (The screen was not actually on.) Second light — i originally intended for it to be a practical light, but i recomposed — camera left, provided by existing LED desk lamp. I set the white balance on the camera at 3050K to give the flash a more bluish cast. Camera was triggered with Nikon ML-L3 wireless remote; flash trigged by PocketWizard PlusX units on camera and speedlight.
Le 1er Mars 1983, Marie-Elizabeth Alacoque (1959-2009) écrit et publie 41 poèmes Haiku inspirés par et basés sur ses rêves ... avec en bonus 3 illustrations de Johanne Berthiaume.
In March 1983, Marie-Elizabeth Alacoque (1959-2009) wrote and publishes 41 Haiku poems inspired by the memories of her dreams ... Plus three illustrations drawn by Johanne Berthiaume.
(700 page views on April 4th, 2021, Easter Day!)
(1,113 page views on April 1st, 2023)
Feel free to use this JPG format graphic electronically or for print purposes.
Black & white version is available at www.flickr.com/photos/vblibrary/6322368951
Bright Angel trail goes from the south rim all the way down to the Colorado River..I believe it is a 10 mile trek..could be wrong on that...but it looks like that is about right..the river is so far down from this viewpoint, that it can't be seen. I have hiked it when younger in the middle of the summer and it is a brutal trip at that time of year....mules and donkeys are an option, leaving every morning at about 6 or 7 AM...You can see the trail in the middle here and the people on the trail are so far away that they can hardly be seen, even with binoculars. I am standing on the south rim in the park overlooking this beautiful shot, enjoying a raspberry mocha in the cold air..enjoying the picture once again, but that is a long way down there with camera and tripod in tow!
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 steams-
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-
this 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
Grab a stone
and place it upon another
stone
and another
stone and another
will give way
and another
will decay and another
grabs a stone
Buds are bursting and spring has sprung.
The glum winters’ end has come.
Spring winds blow to welcome a generation of new.
Chirrup! Chirrup! I chirp this song for you..
Said the Sun to the Moon: I love your style,
The way you wake up late and yawn and stretch.
Your round plain face is pure, and makes me smile.
I like the nets you draw the bats to fetch.
Said the Moon to the Sun: You’re born to scare
My peaceful ways, and still I like your force.
When you’re awake, I sleep. With you in the air
I was but once. I have no remorse.
Your long fair hair, your white tapered fingers
Caressing my bright locks, for precious bits
Of time… the eclipse forever lingers…
We were together as the time permits.
A smile on her clear face, the cool Moon went on, steady.
Blushing, the red Sun dived: he spoke too much already.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
It’s been one year since I left my job. One year since I packed up my bobble heads, cleaned out my desk and walked out of a building that was my home away from home for three and a half years. I left a job that looks great on paper, security that I would always have more than enough (sometimes even too much) work to keep me busy and employed, and approval of my choice of profession in the eyes of my peers. I walked out of certainty, and into the unknown. No job lined up, no fixed income, no knowledge of where I was heading. All I knew was that it was time for me to leave, that God was calling me to get up and follow Him.
So I did. Through various part time jobs, continuous hours at a coffee shop, and whatever other little lines of payment that fell in front of me, I made it through the spring, then summer, and then the colder months. Sometimes I’d have multiple days off during the week, hanging on twentyish hours of work. Other times, it was seven days a week for months, sometimes working from early in the morning until late at night. But through all of the hours, or lack thereof, God was ever present and mindful of me. Gloriously enough, as I battled the horrific monster that was my checkbook, God provided just enough for me, exactly when I needed it, almost to the dollar. Whenever bill time arrived, God gave me the funds to pay. And so I got by month to month.
What I did isn’t exactly what some might call a “wise decision,” especially in these times of economic somersaulting. To walk away from what I had and make a u-turn to walk down the path of faith is unusual, and when I first started telling people I left my job, they looked at me with sympathy pooling in their eyes. They didn’t understand that it was actually my choice to leave, to follow a calling I felt was much bigger, by a boss who ruled not only my life, but the universe as well. There have been times where I have been questioned, where I’ve been made to feel like serving coffee wasn’t good enough, and asked when I would be getting a real job. My response to these people? I do have a real job. Because to me, going out and serving God in whatever way I can, however He calls me to live as His light, is the most real and awakening life I’ve been privileged to have.
Believe me, it hasn’t been an easy trek. There are times where I wonder if I’m doing the right thing, if I’m living out my life in a way that glorifies Him. I know He has something in store for me, and I have a tendency to strain my eyes down the road. But I can honestly say that I have never relied on Him more and taken satisfaction in the little moments He graces me with, because without His provision, and the affirmation that I am walking in His footsteps, I couldn’t get through the days that turn to weeks, which mold into months.
One of the most amazing things that I’ve been learning, and I’ll write it in stone because this is a definite learning process, is that He is faithful. He cares, and He comforts when some days it's doubt, and other days it's destiny, that battles within me.
Do I know where I’m going? Absolutely not. Do I know where I’ve come from? Most certainly. And the distance between these two places of my life is not measured by my accomplishments, but rather what God is able to accomplish through me. Because He’s in the driver’s seat; I’m just along for the ride.
***
Thanks to Lenabem-Anna for the texture.
My story on Monday began:
Mountainous seas crashed on the cliffs,
And the desolate land grew wetter ...
The teacher wrote a little note: Remember the capital letter!
My poem on Tuesday began:
Red tongues of fire,
Licked higher and higher
From smoking Etna's top ...
The teacher wrote a little note: Where is your full stop?
My story on Wednesday began:
Through the lonely, pine-scented wood
There twists a hidden path ...
The teacher wrote a little note: Start a paragraph!
My poem on Thursday began:
The trembling child,
Eyes dark and wild,
Frozen midst the fighting ...
The teacher wrote a little note: Take care - untidy writing!
My story on Friday began:
The boxer bruised and bloody lay,
His eye half closed and swollen ...
The teacher wrote a little note: Use a semi-colon!
Next Monday my story will begin:
Once upon a time...
Bourbon on the rocks
A loon wails in the distance
Sunset at the lake
If you've ever sat along the shore of a lake in northern Minnesota or Wisconsin and heard a loon wail, it's one of the most beautiful and haunting experiences you can ever have
Haiku written by me, Scott Henderson
Friday January 30th, 2026
Feel free to print or use electronically.
Go to this set for this image broken down into individual graphics that can be printed and posted as a bulletin board.
A drop runs from the lids: it’s only sea
Water, it’s cold and salted: it will dry
Down on my neck, my shoulder, down on me.
My eyes are reddened but I will not cry.
I sense it all, and all I want is here.
Water? It’s cold and salted: it will dry
Some days. But all I see and hear
Is here and now, I made it with my eyes.
I sense it all, and all I want is here.
Over the black treetops a white sky flies
And if I see someone, its body is new,
Is here and now, I made it with my eyes
The best I could. I left around a few
Things to complete, splinters, mud and sand
And if I see someone, its body is new.
A drop runs from the lids: it’s only sea
And it is perfect. I shut my eyes to bend
Things to complete - splinters, mud and sand -
Down on my neck, my shoulder, down on me.
(Terzanelle by SiRiChandra)
I put in so much work GETTING TO this place that I had to go ahead and post process it and post it....The vines with stickers on them were horrendous...it was like cutting through a sticker vine jungle in the dark!! .....plus...if they open the dam...one could be "up the creek" so to speak...slippery dang rocks too from the stream bed....all and all..a wonderful little hike...and back up a mountain....BUT a nice quiet day....this is about 10 miles up the Lewis River from the expressway...I was in a commercial vehicle and the roads were starting to get interesting, so I stopped here..there are some very nice waterfalls on up the river....just couldn't make them today...but...I shall return!!
A Generation on Eve of Election
(A Loving Ode to Politics) (James Watkins)
This generation is stuck on the bulwark,
Frozen in headlights gathering stones-
Indiscriminate sons of the morning,
Atrophied assets with merits unknown.
Set in the light of internal combustion,
Self deprivation, contiguous bones-
Crushed in the conflict
Of rising occasion,
Lost in the moment
The monument grows.
Dancing with moonlight,
Moonbeams in starlight,
Ridiculed remnants that rattle and roll-
Quixotically quoted in
Careless convention,
National parlance
Of future payrolls.
Pay for the privilege,
Pose for the prattle,
Pause for refreshment,
That causes the cure.
Simple deliverance in
Smokescreen obedience,
Rationale railways
That run on the ruins.
Come to the purpose in patriot persuasion,
Stand in the gap with righteous reward,
Fly in the face of cupcake convention,
Pulses of power that pull
At the thorns.
Hold fast in fear; don’t fall at the junction,
Waste away weather maps
Conjugal forms-
Failing at formats with frogs in the foyer,
Padded with passive, political porn.
Packed into parlors with pigs of persuasion,
Multiplied monsters fixed to the floor-
Passed on to poundings of crux congregations,
Critical mass for the petrified poor.
Crept in concealment configured in catacombs,
Built on the fragments of families forlorn-
Terrified teamsters with tales of their talisman,
Tickled and tortured, then swamped by the storm.
Fancy faced forecasts with fabricate filters,
Lies at the bottom where captives are shorn-
Files of the caveat castaway cheviots,
Horns of the altar now cut to the stone.
Sanctified delegates step to floor-
Out on the borders, go right for the snore.
Sniping at mystical magical merchandise,
Mopping up munchkins with heroes galore.
Gift of gab purposeful prophets in paradise,
Parabolic poetry prose-
Deft and defiant in damaged delusion,
Filled up with ideas but stuck in the door.
Pamplified pollsters perched on the pedestal,
Pale prognosticates barren and bored-
Doubters and doers and leaders and lovers,
Catch me the top of the hour has flown.
Dudley dead do-rights don’t come down a crashin’
Cackling crackers conducive to scorn,
Capped out and crapped out
In Wall Street enduros,
Boiled down to futures and factual whores.
Just enough knowledge to keep them from happiness,
Just enough money to keep them enthroned,
Just enough polish to keep each one sparkling,
Just enough selfishness keeps them alone.
James Watkins 09-02-08
Flash Fiction Writing Competition at The Learning Hub - Second Life (in conjunction with Nouveau Fine Art Gallery).
Submit your entries inworld via Notecards to KellyNovy Roo (KellyNovy in SL) or Simon Garrison (garrs in SL)
Yesterday, my beautiful daughter Mara was inducted into the national honor society Phi Beta Kappa for her academic excellence and exemplary character. Today, she was graduated Suma Cum Laude from Ursinus College in Pennsylvania. Her degree is in English with a "distinguished honor" in creative writing. To say I'm proud of her is an understatement! ❤
Imagine me, so shy and shaking, rising above my fear and daring to dance with the flashing of Your eyes. Were I to lift my chin with certainty, could it stay stoic and brave?
I have humbled myself in the dust, knowing my place before You. At one light kiss of air I could disintegrate into no existence, pulled away by Your power. But I have been created in Your image, and seen as good. I am part of Your people, painted into Your world and placed with purpose to fill the vacancy void.
I must be worth something. You must see me as more than cunning claims me to be. I am Your child, and as such I can be sure You want what’s best. Which means I can make my way through a bruise-filled night where a pressing pushes in around me, and I am held by iron hands. I can push back and bring a turning tide towards the dawn. And though I am weak, I will hold steady to the truth that You listen to my requests. “Bless me,” I will mutter, mutely at first, because I am uncertain myself at what I ask, but my heart will strengthen and grow grander in its gusto. “Bless me,” I will repeat, louder, steadier, matching the rhythm of my heart. Because You are good and have come to claim me as Your prize. My hands close around your coattails refusing to loosen because I believe in Your blessing, that it will fall upon me and shine like the sun.
I will receive your inheritance. I will be firm in step for following You. And I will come out touched and changed for holding You to promises You have held for me until the perfect time, after wrestling with Your wonder.
not hdr...beautiful mountains near Palisades, Colorado and close to Grand Junction.
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 steams-
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-
this 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
"You may say I"m a dreamer. But... I am not the only one..."
PHOTO:
Taken in Tel-Aviv, Israel.
'You may say I"m a dreamer' On Black
Created with Fd"s Flickr Toys
I’m trying not to turn. But here, again,
My looking back is not anger, it’s rage:
Thinking about the past shows only pain.
I had no youth. What was, was just a stage.
A stage! Portmanteau word, meaning it all:
The playing and rehearsing, the face-paint,
A platform where I stood, trying not to fall,
A journey and a coach, a loud complaint.
I drag the heavy suitcase, and pretend
To ignore the fact that I will never use
What is inside it - making up the end -
Closing the lids of it over a bruise.
But I’m quite sure I’ll lose it, leaving it on some seat
In a deserted station of glass screens, smoke, concrete.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
White walls and a white ceiling upon me,
Long tears of silver scattered around.
Even salt water wouldn’t look like sea
And walking on the grass would make no sound.
White veiled, I am the colour of the mourning:
If black is dark, than white is a dim cloth.
Over my head the sky is a cold warning
I turn and twist, my wings are of a moth.
A white chrysalis, framed in a rough veiling
Walking backwards around its evolution
Looking at its old cuts and scars that’s healing
Kneeling another time for absolution.
Oxygen and hydrogen, they’re heavy on my head:
I shake around my mane, every strand a bead.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
The "veiling" is a Sherpa scarf, gift of a friend who went to the Himalayas and brought me the stone I am looking at. The stone is granite, from Gasherbrum II, aka K4, 8035 mt.
Learn the Magic
7 Basic Writing Tips for Creating a Movie Script
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In that smile she knew that she'd breached his shell, slipped under the wire fence of his caution because in those few precious seconds when his eyes gleamed with life and turned liquid at her words, she felt the warmth between them. She was allowed into his forest of mystery, where only secret yearnings traveled.
Thanks to layoly for the texture.
www.society6.com/studio/virtuejofern
@virtuejofernart on Twitter
Virtue Jo Fern
Queensberry St Art Studios
North Melbourne
It’s not of you, but of the dream I miss
The secret joy of waking up to beam
Rising and shining out of the night to this
Day of eternal sun, the day of dream.
Remember? Then the future was a word
I never spoke of, just an illegal prize.
So was the past. I played on the same chord
From day to day. The dream brought the surprise.
I start my day with coffee and a sigh
And going to work I’m quiet. I do not speak
To strangers, nonetheless I meet the eye
Of myself in the window, an alien freak.
The dream is what comes by our humdrum life: but still
It vaporizes in bitter mist over the water mill.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
Poetry in a language that’s not mine:
It’s easier, ‘cause I’m hid behind a mask.
Speaking the tongues of Anglos, every line
Is a gift, for which I did not ask.
Because I love the words, their sound, their meaning
The way they make me listen and roll around
In tinted marbles: while I feel I’m leaning
Toward the music that is gaining ground.
I did not know I could do that, and now
I’m hooked, and I feel I need to write.
I still remember when it happened, and how…
Me, sitting on a rock: the sun was bright.
The therapy is good, it works but leaves me weak
I am but hands and eyes, the book is here to speak.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)