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Today, I felt like playing with color and flower motifs. This poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge got me started.....
"What if you slept?
And what if,
In your sleep
You dreamed?
And what if,
In your dream,
You went to Heaven
And there plucked
A strange and
Beautiful flower?
And what if,
When you awoke,
You had the flower
In your hand?
Ah, what then?"
Agias Varvaras waterfall, Drama, Greece - October 2016.
One of the many waterfalls in Rhodope Mountain and one of the many wonderful landscapes! The waterfall of Agia Varvara is one of the best-known and easily accessible. It has a height of about 15 meters, but because of the lack of rains from summer until the period we went, resulted in few water that can not show its size.
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Poem
There are no words in
this poem
only small shifts in stance
like quick hand signals against
the light
there are no words
in this poem
only what these seeds
whisper when wind,
like breathing, sighs against
their softness
Translation: One Man & his Dog was a popular TV show, hedgehogs are regular found as roadkill, The Gherkin is a famous London building & The London Eye is a massive ferris wheel on the River Thames near Westminster.
Merkillinen tapiiri
Borneossa, Borneossa,
sademetsän sydämessä
paikassansa kätketyssä,
oksan alla, juuren alla
onnellista unta nukkuu
kivi punainen.
Merkillinen tapiiri
(se kaksivärinen),
ihmeellinen tapiiri
(se monivarpainen)
puuta kiertää, puuta kiertää
sana pieni kärsän päässä.
Näin puhuu outo tapiiri
(se kaksivärinen):
Tiedän , että olet siellä
oksan alla, juuren alla,
tiedän , että sinä olet
kivi punainen.
Pyöreä ja punertava
oikea on sadun sana.
kenenkään ei kärsää loukkaa
pieni, punainen
kivi, joka unta nukkuu
oksan alla, juuren alla,
paikassansa kätketyssä,
sademetsän sydämessä,
Borneossa.
Helvi Juvonen
last year I wrote this poem with chalk on the fence and liked it too much to let the rain wash it away. So I painted it over the next day to keep the poem in my garden.
Lean out to see the world
From every possible spot
Lean out to see the world
From each and every perspective
Lean out every day to look at the world
And never ever you´ll stop marveling...
-
El mundo detrás de tus ojos
Asómate a ver el mundo
Desde todos los rincones posibles
Asómate a ver el mundo
Desde todas las perspectivas
Asómate cada día a mirar el mundo
Y nunca jamás dejarás de maravillarte...
---
Channeling Sylvia
When I searched her face,
She smiled a lot;
More than me.
And I realized
Sometimes
Poetry grows claws
And turns the knob
On the gas stove.
.
.
©Christine A. Evans 11.10.17
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This poem has an interesting footnote. For someone who writes poetry I haven't read much in my lifetime other than bits and pieces of Frost or Whittier here or there. I believe I only have two poetry books on my bookshelf; one is Charles Bukowski and the other is an antique book of poetry written by a Civil War soldier. About two months ago I decided to read "The Bell Jar" by Sylvia Plath. After I read the way she turned metaphors I was hooked and drawn to buy a book of her poetry and I'm currently 44 pages into the book "The Collected Poems". The only thing I knew about Sylvia Plath was that she committed suicide by sticking her head in a gas oven. The other morning I was thinking about that and wrote this poem. Then I started Googling more information about her life. I came across this entry in her journal regarding depression as "owl talons clenching my heart". Odd that I used the words about claws turning the gas knob in my own poem and therefore titled my poem, "Channeling Sylvia"
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I really appreciate your comments and faves. I'm not a hoarder of contacts, but enjoy real-life, honest people. You are much more likely to get my comments and faves in return if you fit the latter description. Just sayin. :oD
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If you like b/w photography and/or poetry check out my page at:
expressionsbychristine.blogspot.com/</a
Poem by Tom Lee
My goodness, are you hoi polloi?
My word I think you are
The tradesmen’s entrance’s round the back
This really is bizarre
I thought you were the countess
She’s due here for high tea
She doesn’t visit many
But she calls to visit me
Are you still here? Well really
One ought to know one’s place
You really should be out of sight
(You should call me ‘Your Grace’)
You see I am the Duchess
Of course noblesse oblige
But please can you go round the back
So you don’t me displease
What’s that you’re from the Premium Bonds?
My number has come up?
The house needs renovation
Well there’s some bloomin’ luck
You should have said so sooner
Is that the cheque? Please show
Thank you, now I’ve got it
Goodbye, yes you can go.
Bäume sind Gedichte, die die Erde in den Himmel schreibt. Wir fällen sie und verwandeln sie in Papier, um unsere Leere darauf auszudrücken.
Khalil Gibran
Model: Julia Hofstetter
Foto+Bea: www.facebook.com/unplugged.photo
A most unexpected and pleasing find in Morecambe (near the site of the old station) this was one of several ,all with poems ...
Not visibly seen to the eyes.
Whatever bird it might be
Chirping partly high pitched,
It is perched on a Bodhi-tree
"The oldest living city in the world".
Those three sarees are drying at the upper terrace nearby the Bivi Razaia Masjid, a small mosque located in the chawk of Varanasi (Benaras).
It was two days ago at sunset, a few hours before Mumbai’s tragedy.
Everything seemed to be so peaceful then, it was a moment frozen in eternity with those three poems in silk, light like chiffon.
Each tells a different story with it’s weaven motives and colours.
Mister Kamaludin Khan, the colour magician, was asking some of his workers to fold them; I just had the time to take a few pictures and to enjoy those shades of blue and purple which were flying like butterflies...
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The body has death, but not the soul.
The body sleeps, the soul flies.
Death is at once
The end of the body's
Old journey
And the beginning of the soul's
New journey.
~~~~
Death is not the end.
Death can never be the end.
Death is the road.
Life is the traveler.
The soul is the guide.
~~~~
I know I will love death.
Why?
Because death too
Is God's creation
And because death reminds me
Of the existence of her sister:
Infinity's Life immortal.
~~~~
The soul-stirring words on death and the soul in this chapter of the Gita, let us recollect.
Even as man discards old clothes for the new ones, so the dweller in the body, the soul,
leaving aside the worn-out bodies, enters into new bodies.
The soul migrates from body to body.
Weapons cannot cleave it, nor fire consume it, nor water drench it, nor wind dry it.
This is the soul and this is what is meant by the existence of the soul.
by: Sri Chinmoy
You will find 184+ of my poems HERE. fno.org/poetry/index.html
This is a recent poem.
Wrinkles
As age creeps up
Upon us
All of us
Eventually
Think about
And notice wrinkles
Some from smiles
Others from frowns
As well as those wrinkles on shirts
No longer ironed
Or pants
Just hung out to dry
Simply
Like some memories
Not so pleasant
Now faded
Or forgotten
We’ve erased or laid aside
As the end nears
We can buy age defying lotions
Can try to erase these marks of times
Of indecisions
And indiscretions
We might pretend these wrinkles are temporary
Botox them and any bad memories away
As if life would permit a clean slate
A fresh start
And a past free of blemishes
But truth is an unwilling player
History a stubborn witness
And wrinkles are here
To stay
© Jamie McKenzie, all rights reserved
You will find more of my poems and songs here
and in The Storm in Its Passing and Flights of Fancy.
My songs are at
Angels
White angel wings
Painted in brick alleyways
And in my realism
I reminisce on Haserot;
Distant, cold,
Smudging out a flame
.
.
©Christine A. Owens 1.6.18
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I really appreciate your comments and faves. I'm not a hoarder of contacts, but enjoy real-life, honest people. You are much more likely to get my comments and faves in return if you fit the latter description. Just sayin. :oD
.
If you like b/w photography and/or poetry check out my page at:
expressionsbychristine.blogspot.com/</a
Found in an old book from the 1910s or 1920s and scanned for your delight. I'm not sure what I was going to use these for. But instead of deleting them, here, you can enjoy them. And memorize them. Next week you'll get up in front of all your other Flickr friends and recite them from memory.
Or take a zero for the day.
Poem by Tom Lee
I’ve been pulling this from Florence
(or Firenze ‘should be called)
And you know? It’s bloomin’ heavy
At a snail’s pace we’ve crawled
This foot is made from marble
From the Dolomites ‘twas hewn
And what’s the bloomin’ reason?
It’s just for this cartoon
‘tis by a famous sculptor
Called Michelangelo
They want me to go faster
But I only could go slow
It’s part of his portfolio
Add to his other works
I’m told that it’s a privilege
And that I’ll get some perks
At last we’ve finally made it
But I’ve had it now with feet
Ooh look there are some carrots!
My reward, for me to eat
Nom, Nom, Nom.
Coloured version here www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=1814640862210110&set=a.1...