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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.
🎶
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
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.
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.
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
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
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 ♥
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❤️
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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.
(...)
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
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....
'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
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.
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 !
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...