Generative Art
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Made with Stable Diffusion, edits and post-processing done by me.
♫♬♪♩Ich gehör nur mir - Roberta Valentini
Maya Hakvoort - Ich Gehör Nur Mir (Sólo Me Pertenezco A Mí Misma)
Johann Strauss：Emperor Waltz Op. 437
If I had a Wish (about Sisi, Empress Elisabeth of Austria) Petra Berger♫♬♪♩
Made with Stable Diffusion, edits and post-processing done by me.
‘ ophelia ‘ (slowed + faded) || the lumineers
♫♬♪♩
Made with Stable Diffusion, edits and post-processing done by me.
Made with Stable Diffusion, edits and post-processing done by me.
♫♬♪♩Who Is She (Cinderella 2015)♫♬♪♩
In a peaceful meadow, under a calm blue sky,
two prairie dogs stood with quiet dignity—
—which lasted
approximately half a second.
Because one of them
moved closer.
Closer than necessary.
Closer than reasonable.
Closer than any creature in nature
has ever needed to be.
Its face expanded into legend.
Its nose became… a concept.
Meanwhile, the second prairie dog
stood behind,
witnessing events unfold
with the exact expression of someone
who will absolutely deny involvement later.
The grass swayed.
The flowers remained innocent.
The horizon kept its distance.
Only one thing in this world
had absolutely no sense of personal space.
And now—
unfortunately—
we all have to look at it.
In winter’s quiet, carved in bark and time,
A secret breath of spring begins to climb.
Where frost still lingers, silver on the skin,
A hidden garden wakes itself within.
A hollow heart, once worn by wind and years,
Now glows with light that softens all its scars.
White blossoms whisper through the golden flame,
And one red rose remembers love by name.
A small bird pauses, witness to the grace—
How life can bloom in the most broken place.
In the garden of stillness, where calm is the rule,
Sits one enlightened, unbothered, and cool.
Eyes gently closed like a wise little sage—
(He checked his fitness stats twice this stage.)
Behind him, chaos in fluffy disguise:
One wobbles dramatically, questioning thighs.
One’s fast asleep in a spiritual flop,
Achieving nirvana… or just a full stop.
Another’s stretched out like a melted loaf,
Determined, but shaped like a yoga goof.
One peeks mid-meditation, breaking the pact—
“Enlightenment’s great, but… who just snacked?”
And there in the back, round cheeks slightly tight,
A secret hoarder mid-breathing exercise plight.
Inner peace? Maybe. Inner snacks? Yes.
Balance is key… and so is excess.
Meanwhile, our guru, serene and composed,
Pretends not to notice what’s clearly disclosed.
For true mastery lies, as legends impart—
In calming the mind… and hiding the part.
Among the blossoms soft and white,
Where spring breathes gold through morning light,
A fragile nest of woven thread
Cradles two small, hungry heads.
Their tiny voices rise and call,
Open beaks and wings so small,
Trusting hearts that know no fear—
For love has built their shelter here.
With patient care and tireless flight,
She brings the day, she guards the night,
A humble gift within her beak—
The tender strength the younglings seek.
Above them, like a watchful flame,
A crimson guardian gently came,
Silent eyes upon the sky,
Where drifting clouds and dangers lie.
Blossoms fall like whispered grace,
Soft petals drifting through this place,
While life unfolds on fragile wings
In quiet, ordinary things.
For in this nest the world is small—
A branch, a song, a loving call—
Yet here the deepest truth is known:
No heart begins this life alone.
In the hush of the golden wood,
Where ferns bow softly in the light,
A humble hand descends with care
From the quiet edge of sight.
Upon a moss-worn forest throne
Where ancient roots remember rain,
The small bright keepers of the grove
Gather without fear or strain.
A tiny paw meets open palm,
A peanut passed like sacred grain—
Not taken fast, nor snatched away,
But shared in trust, without domain.
For in that sunlit forest breath
No creature rules, no creature owns;
The earth provides, the hand returns,
And kindness seeds what kindness sows.
So let the offering be small—
A nut, a crumb, a moment's grace—
For even in the quiet woods
The wild remembers every face.
~Arisa Kiko~
He did not fall—
he simply stopped,
as if the universe had whispered
enough.
Back against a stranger tree,
helmet dimmed by breath long gone,
he sat with the patience of stone,
waiting for nothing.
Time passed without asking.
Vines learned his shape first,
tracing ribs like forgotten constellations,
threading gently through the hollow
where a heart once kept rhythm.
Something bloomed behind the glass.
Petals pressed to bone,
soft as memory,
color where there should have been only absence—
as if the planet mistook him for soil
and chose kindness.
No signal returned.
No footsteps came.
Only spores drifting like quiet stars,
only roots deepening their claim,
only the slow, certain truth:
he did not leave this world—
he became part of it.
In the quiet breath of the forest,
where mist drifts across ancient water,
she stands before the keeper of ages.
The great dragon lowers its radiant gaze,
its ember-lit eye remembering
a promise spoken long before this moment.
Years may pass like falling leaves,
kingdoms may rise and vanish into dust—
but some vows are older than time.
So she returns, as promised.
And the dragon waits, as promised.
For between them lives a bond
the centuries could never break.
Along the stones where mountain waters glide,
An ancient keeper rests where worlds grow wide.
His lantern glows with amber, soft and low,
A wandering star in evening’s golden glow.
The moss remembers every careful tread,
Of pilgrim winds and seasons long since fled.
His shell, a map where silent ages lie,
Etched deep with whispers time cannot deny.
Robed in the color of autumn’s fading flame,
He walks no road for glory, wealth, or name.
The mountains bow, the waterfall grows still,
To hear the wisdom carried in his will.
For those who rush may never truly see
The patient truths that drift like falling leaves.
But he who waits where quiet lanterns burn
Knows every path will guide the heart’s return.
Behold the ring, the sacred ground,
Where mighty paws stomp thumpingly down.
But at the center, broad and grand—
A ginger cat with belly of sand.
His whiskers twitch with noble grace,
Though crumbs of lunch still grace his face.
A warrior fierce, a legend stout…
Who mostly fights to keep snacks out.
His mawashi gleams with silk and thread,
While dreams of tuna fill his head.
The crowd expects a thunderous clash—
He’s thinking more of sashimi stash.
Behind him stretch the trainee cats,
Doing drills and practicing slaps.
But Ginger just blinks slow and wise—
A master of the strategic lies.
For sumo truth, as all cats know,
Is not just strength that wins the show:
Sometimes victory’s grandest feat
Is simply… knocking your foe off balance before dinner time to eat.
So bow your head and clap your paws,
Respect the champ with fluffy claws.
The Ginger Yokozuna stands supreme—
Round of belly… and full of cream.
Under drifting petals of pale spring light,
a small warrior stands wrapped in gold and flame.
Armor gleams like the memory of old empires,
yet beneath it beats a quiet, curious heart.
Emerald eyes watch the silent garden paths,
where lanterns glow like distant stars in the dusk.
No roar, no thunder—only soft paws on stone,
and the patience of a guardian who waits.
For courage is not always loud or fierce;
sometimes it wears whiskers and gentle eyes.
And in that stillness, among blossoms and wind,
a tiny ember keeps the legend alive.
No reins between us,
no bit, no command—
only the slow exchange of breath
where your skin thins to heat.
Your eye, a dark well
holding sky, holding field,
holding the long memory of running
I will never know.
I do not ask you to carry me.
You do not ask me to lead.
We meet in the small kingdom
made of pulse and warmth,
where strength lowers its head
and finds,
not mastery—
but rest.
~Unknown~
Time leans softly on a stack of stories,
its brass bones warm with borrowed light.
The hands move, but only just—
as if afraid to disturb the quiet.
A teacup breathes in curls of amber,
holding heat like a whispered secret,
while petals loosen from their purpose
and settle into the lace of memory.
Nothing here is in a hurry.
Even the ticking feels polite—
a gentle reminder
rather than a demand.
This is where moments come to rest,
where hours steep like leaves in water,
and the world, just for a while,
forgets to rush.
In a meadow where the morning glows,
Where quiet mist and clover grows,
A little rabbit greets the day
With luck gathered along the way.
Shamrocks bright with silver dew,
White blossoms kissed by skies of blue—
A simple bouquet, soft and small,
Yet holding springtime’s luck for all.
Happy St. Patrick's Day!^-^
In a kitchen glowing soft and bright,
Where veggies dance in golden light,
A fluffy chef with a gleaming stare
Pauses mid-snipping… aware you’re there.
Snip go the scissors, slow this time,
Like part of some delicious rhyme,
He tilts his head with a playful grin—
“Now what should I be putting in?”
Beside him swings, so small, so sweet,
A tiny mouse… a possible treat,
It squeaks and spins on its little thread,
While curious thoughts fill the chef’s head.
He looks at you with a knowing gaze,
Full of mischief, full of plays—
“Ingredient… or sous-chef dear?
Hmm… decisions, decisions made here…”
The pot bubbles louder, the moment grows,
The mouse wiggles its twitching nose,
A pause… a grin… a playful sigh—
As suspense hangs thick in the cozy sky.
But whether he snacks or lets it be,
Is part of the kitchen’s mystery…
With one last wink, he turns away—
“Every recipe needs a little play.”
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid- the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunsets glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
John McCrae (1915)