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Thank you for your visits, favs and nice comments. 🙏

The Wren is one of my favourite birds! They are nesting for the second time ,,,, once in a gourd and now in a little house. We so enjoy watching them scurrying around feeding their young. The verse is one from William Wordsworth poem about a Wren,,,,,

thanks so much for you visits,,, have a good day/evening...

Quien sabe donde van las musas cuando duermes..alborotan los sentidos en los hombros cansados. El tiempo se escapa entre los dedos y el cuerpo rodea los otoños tan deprisa que un parpadeo esquiva una sonrisa.

Quien sabe donde van cuando las nombras con ansia y la historia de un presente,pasado y futuro se reescriben en renglones tímidos.

Quien las crea.. algún soñador que las escucha en cada respiro del sueño .

 

Who knows where the muses go when you sleep... they stir the senses on weary shoulders. Time slips through your fingers and the body surrounds autumns so quickly that a blink of an eye avoids a smile.

Who knows where they go when you name them eagerly and the story of the present, past, and future is rewritten in timid lines.

Who creates them... some dreamer who hears them in every breath of sleep.

Moon.

 

🎶

m.youtube.com/watch?v=AhDZaoRIWQE

A WOMAN.

 

She is like that.

Of those.

It's like the times that the verse jumps from its abysses. It is thrown.

Scream, dance, jump, cry.

It's one of those.

It's like sensitivity spontaneous poetry, like that blank paper who is silent, but it knows you and keeps you. He barely reproaches, It can barely be heard.

By Gata Cattana.

We have lost even this twilight.

No one saw us this evening hand in hand

while the blue night dropped on the world.

 

I have seen from my window

the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

 

Sometimes a piece of sun

burned like a coin in my hand.

 

I remembered you with my soul clenched

in that sadness of mine that you know.

 

Where were you then?

Who else was there?

Saying what?

Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly

when I am sad and feel you are far away?

 

The book fell that always closed at twilight

and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

 

Always, always you recede through the evenings

toward the twilight erasing statues.

 

Pablo Neruda

  

Panjin - www.flickr.com/groups/panjin/, Overland Hills (248, 47, 21) - Moderado

maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Overland%20Hills/249/47/21

Du haut de ma colline ,

J'attends le Printemps...

Dans l'hiver qui décline ,

J’attends le beau temps...

J'ai la tête qui jardine,

Et mon cœur imagine

Des fleurs rouges sanguines,

Des anémones sauvagines.

Des glycines qui dégoulinent

Sur le vieux mur en ruine.

Et mon âme baladine,

Se griffe aux dures épines

De mes roses qui illuminent

Le brun vert de mes rétines .

Et ces crocus en crinolines.

Et ces tulipes rouges aubergines.

Et ces dizaines de capucines ...

Et le muguet qui prend racine ...

Et dans les branches fines

De doux chants me fascinent,

Aussi suaves qu'une mandoline...

Mais..... OUI....j'hallucine !!!!

30 degrés dans ma piscine ??

Cette fois , il me faut une médecine !

Pour calmer mon cerveau qui turbine !

Faut -il peut -être qu'on me vaccine ?

Qu'on m'isole, qu'on me confine ?

NON...je vais être plus maline...

J'ai une autre combine...

Viens Lily....on se débine...

On va prendre une bouffée de vitamines.

On va respirer les aubépines,

Regarder les juments qui poulinent,

Et les vaches qui ruminent.

On va mettre nos plus belles bottines.

Oublier les usines, la benzine et les voisines.

Effacer les Méssalines ,

Et tout ce qui nous chagrine.

Marchons sur ce sentier qui chemine

Au milieu des étamines.

Et au retour...on mangera

Des tartines et de la mousseline !!!

ET....

On plongera dans la piscine !!! 😉

Joélisa

A conversation with a deep hollow in the chest while the rain accompanies with a caress on my cold cheeks this January afternoon.

 

How to be at odds with conscience and dreams, my reflection in a glass smiles at me while the rain in tiny drops blurs it.

 

How to be in agreement and promise the inner voice that a path rejected by equal parts of the soul does not happen in the same life. Hesitations of apprentices, no one knows what is coming when ink spills prose and they themselves recite so that speech creates bonds.

 

While the rain falls, I count backwards jumping in the puddles... my silhouette dissolves in the asphalt, caressing my cold cheeks while my inner voice forgot my name."

Moon.

 

youtu.be/6omDdpsZWls?si=UFJM3R8WFIBNw_S6

Image taken from Fort Canning Park in Singapore .

The job

There is nothing more lonely than writing a poem.

Although the outside screams are present there.

 

There is nothing more alone than to write a picture although the noise of the world wants to interfere. Nothing but loneliness in this language game.

 

There is no one lonelier and silent than a poet in the craft of writing the world, again, to imagine its beauty.

By Carmen Yañez.

 

youtu.be/yOhY9DbACSw?si=AXwm1Q5KYts5LOkB

We put ourselves together

Close enough to feel the heat

and the maelstrom of emotions

What are bodies anyway

Except storage units for

Our thoughts and entropy

Take the top off and

The darkness is released

Into the universe

 

It starts with a clinging and

A sense that this

Can’t be happening

Reality has never been this cruel

Could we have done

Something more?

Something different?

Is it somehow our faults?

What is this black hole we’re slipping into?

Will we even be human when we emerge?

 

The thing is this:

Hope is like a dear friend

And when you lose her it is

Worse than losing your favorite lover

As if she had a body, all the messy bits

The substance was there and now

All we have is despair

So we ache against each other

The ashes congregate and rise

To build something new

  

**Photos and Poems are Copyrighted**

Trees are poems that earth writes upon the sky. We fell them and turn them into newspapers that we may record our emptiness.

 

-Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931)

 

Suddenly the smell of mimosas

like a breathing torch

or like an immemorial wave

that kisses the expectant nudity of the beach.

 

It's just the door

that opens, but sets in motion

an air where it curdles

all the sweetness of this precarious autumn.

 

by Jorge Riechmann

 

::Bella's Lullaby:: www.flickr.com/groups/14818647@N22/, Forks (125, 128, 30) - Moderado

maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Forks/125/129/30

In your darkest hours

Try to be hopeful

As you pace for hours

Try to be hopeful

Try not to imagine the worst

Gnash your teeth

Throw your head in your hands

Give up

Scream into your pillows

Google "How do I change my mood?"

Try to be hopeful

Despite it all

These energetic plants will applaud

 

Just think

We are constantly destroying

The Earth with our human nonsense

Their habitat is always in flux

and disappearing

And yet, they still manage to

Survive and grow

And so will you

  

**All photos are copyrighted**

Et je m'en vais

Au vent mauvais

Qui m'emporte

Deçà, delà,

Pareil à la

Feuille morte.

 

Paul Verlaine (Chanson d'automne)

🎵

 

Imagine the world, the world, the world without a song

Without a bass, a bass, a bass without a drum

Can you imagine the night, the night, the night without the moon

And when the daylight comes, it comes, but it comes without you?

See you are the song, the bass, the drum, the moon

You are the song to

Remember me, remember you, discover you

And the world is and we are so in move

 

So this is the place that always seems to be better than where you have been

So you run towards the new day rising in the distance

And you walk away from the days that found and fought you

You always seem to hear God when it comes

Even when it comes from the millions of voices that call to you

 

You make me want to listen for him a little bit harder too

You are a rose that blooms for a second chance on the all of the seasons

A wave that breaks on a shore left for decades deserted

You make me feel like you waited for us to exist

We are a translation of a perfection that just is

So take this hand from me,

Show me to your world

 

Bring this dance alive

Your love can paralyze my feels of falling

Carry my heart slow, see

See, I swear where you go, I'll follow

See into my soul

And I will take you home to love you

Coz this is a poem for love

 

Well, I can take one more day

Got to find my way with this one

To see the things I'm not great

All it leaves is a world falling apart

Falling into the deepest part of my heart

I can take my time

The life won't, won't just pass me by

I'ma stop tracing outlines

See this is the beauty of flowers growing underneath the sunshine

 

Knowing, water takes water to wine

Wine takes the grapes, grapes make the wine

And the wine breaks, breaks, breaks my veins

I see my, my name inscribing concrete walls

A day beyonds and centuries beyond

I can take myself away but not be gone

If I see my mind, hope on this time

Read the book each page and line by line by line

I can take my time or day to time

I speak my mind, I speak it all high

I speak this rhyme this time and never again, never again

 

Imagine the world, the world, the world without a song

Imagine the bass, the bass, the bass without the drum

Can you imagine the night, the night, the night without the moon

And when the daylight comes, it comes, but it comes without you?

See you are the song, the bass, the drum, the moon

You are the song to

Remember me, remember you, discover you

And the world is and we are so in move

 

Take this hand from me

Show me to your world

Bring this dance alive

Your love can paralyze my feels of falling

Carry my heart slow

I swear where you go, I'll follow

See into my soul

And I'll take you home to love you, love you, love you

I'll follow you yeah, I'll follow you yeah, yea

I'll follow you, I'll follow you, I'll follow you, I'll follow

 

No poem can save us but can say:

on sunday nights

I am a specialist in absence

I can dissect it analyze its parts

and see it multiply all over the house.

 

The seed in the wound of the earth blooms.

 

it is possible that the time take root in unusual places while you fix your hair to contemplate the plants in the garden life may be nothing more than that.

By Nadia Sol Caramella.

 

Ningún poema

puede salvarnos

pero puede decir:

los domingos por las noches

soy especialista en la ausencia

puedo diseccionarla

analizar sus partes

y verla multiplicarse

por toda la casa

***

la semilla

en la herida de la tierra

florece

***

es posible que el tiempo

eche raíces en lugares insólitos

mientras vos acomodás tu pelo

para contemplar las plantas del jardín

puede que la vida no sea más que eso

 

youtu.be/Ebi9cx6HbL0?si=NkVg-Rpx2D9F-hhc

Sometimes, you find the right place to go hang out just to let go of the day.

 

This quote is at Poesy Sim, I just had to alter it so it could be read easier slightly. The sim has all kinds of Poems to read in such a fantastic atmosphere.

 

The arts.. photography, and poetry can let you breathe like no one else can.

 

This is where the Grove Photoclub on the Run will go this Sunday...

 

This is such a beautiful sim Poesy sim. Let the poetry fill your mind and soul ♥

 

🎼: Say Goodbye~ Mckinley James*~

i know more than i think i know,

and i know less than i want to know . and it continues slowly.

 

i try to keep up

 

.

 

.

 

no big glittery icons or invitations , please !

“La tristeza ha venido como un buque vacío”

Francisco Umbral.

youtu.be/sUwH7wjH4Mo?si=vOjRFKIA_LMTXZYH

 

Porque somos de quienes

nos buscan en los días averiados.

De quienes se enamoran

de nuestra ruina

como si paseasen por Pompeya.

 

Igual que cuando Miguel Hernández

recitó su duelo por Sijé

subido en una mísera escalera.

 

Qué desconocidos fuimos

si tan sólo llegamos a amarnos.

También debimos ser

cómplices en la decadencia.

By Francisco Javier Fernández Espinosa.

  

Sadness has come like an empty ship” Francisco Umbral.

 

Because we are the ones they look for us on bad days.

 

Who they fall in love with of our ruin as if they were walking through Pompeii.

Just like when Miguel Hernández He recited his mourning for Sijé climbed a miserable ladder.

 

How unknown we were If only we come to love each other. We should also have been complicit in the decline.

 

Thank you very much for inviting my photo to groups❤️

Little Southern Toad. Having toads in your yard means a healthy environment.

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E.Marie - Library Books - Poems

Spoiled - Messy Gamer Cable Wrap

Rama Salon - Angie Hair

Phedora - Zoey Platforms

Causa imperfecta, descolorido sin la luz que sale del cuadrante de esta casa... el silencio es el santo grial a guardar en lo más profundo del pecho.

 

Efecto perfecto, deslumbrado en el alféizar de la ventana por el tímido rayo, como una llama... los susurros son la partitura de una frase inacabada en los labios temblorosos.

 

Moon.

  

Cause imperfect, discolored without the light that leaves the quadrant of this house... silence is the holy grail to keep in the depths of the chest.

 

Perfect effect, dazzled on the windowsill by the timid ray, like a flame... the whispers are the score of an unfinished phrase on the trembling lips.

Moon.

  

youtu.be/jBbWy1DH4x4?si=ou7eiiPqgLddSNN7

Photos for Poems

 

(...)

Rente às árvores vamos, húmidos humildes

Dizem que é outono. (...)

 

(Ruy Belo, in "Boca bilingue", Todos os Poemas, vol. I, 2ª ed., Assírio & Alvim, 2004)

-----------------------------------------------------------

(rough translation)

 

Close to the trees we walk, wet humble

They say it's Fall.

 

(Ruy Belo)

 

Taken last sunday at a Portuguese Flickr Friends meetup. Fun and a lot of misty shots.

 

I THINK

by Clancy (Fancy-Pants) Donnelly

 

I think that I shall never find

An owner who could be more kind

 

"Aw, that's sweet--wait, did you break something?"

 

I think that I shall never fail

To love the Prescott-Russell Trail

 

I think that for an active dog

The place to be is Mer Bleue Bog

 

I think it would be tough to find

A dog brain intelligent as mine

 

"Oh, brother."

 

I think no matter where you roam

You'll find nothing wonderful as my poem

 

"You done?"

 

Yes. What did you think?

 

"I think that I shall never see

a bigger ego than has Clancy."

 

Hey, not bad, I can use that!

 

(Two milestones reached with Clancy's previous photo (Stop and Smell the Echinacea): First photo with 50K+ views; and 1M+ total views. Who'da thunk it almost two years ago when we started this whole thing? Not us. Thank you!)

________________________________________________

 

Mer Bleue, Ottawa, Ontario

 

283. Clancy, 4yrs 23wks

 

Clancy's YEARBOOK 5: www.flickr.com/photos/130722340@N04/albums/72157675110790161

 

Recently this wooden plaque with a poem by Mary Oliver, appeared on one of the old ash trees on the Iron Age ramparts, in Ham Hill Country Park, here is a link to details about the author. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Oliver

Fortepiyano çalıyor

Gittikçe umutsuz bir müzik

*

Taklacı güvercin havalanır

Birisinin beyaz avucundan

*

Gece çiçeği gibi açık

Kendimi bırakıyorum

To see the Summer Sky

Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie -

True Poems flee.

~Emily Dickinson

Today I thought, I'll put the German original Poem underneath the English version. Hope, you enjoy this. Have a wonderful Sunday!

 

Upward Bound

 

A hot air balloon in morning light,

Drifts through skies of endless height,

Its colors bold, its path unknown,

A symbol rising all alone.

 

No tether holds, no voice commands,

It floats above the shouting lands—

Where minds are free to soar and speak,

And truths are neither mild nor meek.

 

Each gust of wind, a thought set free,

Each flame, a word in liberty;

Together rising, thought and voice,

In silence, noise becomes a choice.

 

So may we lift, with hearts unbound,

Where dreams and speech and thoughts are found—

A sky where minds, like balloons, glide,

Unafraid, and dignified.

  

Aufwärts Getrieben

 

Ein Heißluftballon im Morgenlicht,

Schwebt durch den Himmel, weicht der Sicht,

Sein Farbenspiel, sein freier Lauf,

Ein Zeichen, das sich hebt hinauf.

 

Kein Seil, das hält, kein Ruf, der lenkt,

Er fliegt, wo niemand ihn bedrängt—

Wo freies Denken leise spricht

Und Wahrheit flackert, hell im Licht.

 

Ein Windstoß – wie ein freier Sinn,

Die Flamme – Worte, klar darin;

Gemeinsam steigen sie empor,

Gedanke, Stimme, leises Chor.

 

So mögen wir, vom Herz befreit,

Erheben uns zur Klarheit weit—

Ein Himmel, wo Gedanken zieh’n,

Unerschrocken, stolz und kühn.

 

www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkgkThdzX-8

 

Imagine - John Lennon & The Plastic Ono Band

   

............................................. “Midway”

  

I don’t know all the bright and shinning paths to heaven,

 

But I do know that midway along the way we choose

between shadow...and light.

 

I don’t know if a day shall be marked... "end of days"

 

But I do know that if it were so, it would fall midway

between counted yesterdays and uncounted tomorrows.

 

I don’t know if any breath bent to word can truly be true

 

But I do know the moments most pure are laid midway

between a breath drawn ...and a sigh released.

 

I don’t know if one should whisper aloud just how passionate the kiss

 

But I do know that given the chance I would linger midway

between your longest …and your sweetest.

  

I don’t know how far exactly from "here"... to "there",

 

But I do know that "midway" is charted somewhere-

between the setting of sails and the lifting of anchors.

 

...Sigh,

 

I won't pretend... I don’t know all the bright and shinning paths to heaven.

But I do know that when I follow you -

 

..."heaven" is found on a wing and a prayer, midway

-between a divided cloud, and a last sacred light of day.

 

...

.

.

.

 

Greg Hughey Revised August 29, 2004 / 2nd revision August 1, 2007 "/3rd (smile) February 18th, 2014" ** ©

* dedicated to the "soul mates", deep within us all....

Quote by J M Barrie

 

Model: Krystal Smith

'Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

  

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

  

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

  

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.'

Robert Frost

 

“Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky.”

― Khalil Gibran

When visiting Hokkaido, Japan - the dynamic colour and contrast of these wilted, dead leaves against the bright winter snow truly caught my eye.

 

© All rights reserved.

This is the title page of Bret Harte's 1871 book, "Poems"

The wind around him gently blew,

It whispered to him quite softly

'Some day from your mother

You will be free

To grow and be a mighty tree'

'Who'? 'Me'? A mighty oak'?

The little acorn thought this a joke.

 

Cruel autumn wind whistled round

And knocked the acorn to the ground.

A little girl passing by

The small acorn she did spy

She picked it up but let it fall

Down a nearby rabbit hole.

 

All winter long it lay inside

Soon it withered and turned dry

 

In the springtime a shoot of green

From the acorn could be seen.

It grew and grew, as years rolled by

Soon it reached up to the sky.

So it was a tale come true

A mighty oak

From the acorn grew.

 

Poem by -- Joseph Enright

 

~ Edited in Topaz Studio and finished in PicMonkey with a slight texture of my own applied. ~

 

Thank you very much for viewing my picture, your faves and comments. Each of you is appreciated. May you have a lovely autumn if you're experiencing it, as I know some of you don't experience the 4 seasons, or will be having a joyful spring !

... actually, I have no idea.

Here's a poem inspired by the striking sculpture in the image:

 

Echoes in Bronze

 

Carved from time, with edges worn,

A visage rises, proud, forlorn,

Half a face, yet wholly wise,

Bearing witness with hollowed eyes.

 

Chiseled lips, a silent song,

Of days endured, of nights too long,

A sentinel of fleeting grace,

Time etched deep upon its face.

 

Green with age, yet fierce with fire,

A monument to dreams, to ire,

Cracks and shadows softly tell,

Of stories lost, of hearts that fell.

 

Yet still it stands, bold and clear,

A fractured form, but whole in fear,

For art is not what’s left complete—

It’s in the voids, the breaks, the beat.

To feel poetry is all around you,

the music flows from everywhere,

that you are inside a romantic painting

and emotions overwhelms you!

That's what I wish, that's what I lived there...

 

Sentir que la poesía está a tu alrededor,

que la música brota de cada rincón,

que formas parte de una pintura romántica

y tus emociones te embargan!

Eso es lo que deseo, eso es lo que viví allí...

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