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Dawn & poem. Tuscany.CF011538
Ogni giorno è diverso dall’altro, ogni alba porta con sè il suo speciale miracolo, il suo istante magico, in cui si distruggono gli universi passati e nascono nuove stelle. I Navajo,infatti, insegnano ai loro bambini che ogni mattina il sole che sorge e’ un sole nuovo. Nasce ogni giorno, vive solo per quel giorno, muore alla sera e non ritornera’ piu’. Dicono ai loro piccoli: Il sole ha solo questo giorno, un giorno. Vivi bene la tua vita in modo che il sole non abbia sprecato il suo tempo prezioso.
Hello everyone,
Thank you so much for your visit and support ..
All Right Reserved. Pictures can not be used without explicit permission by the creator .
Fabrizio Massetti.
The things that make us different
Are things that make us the same
We don’t share a first
Or even a last name
You don’t dress the way that I do
And my music hurts your ears
But as the earth is spinning
We share all seasons and years
Listen to my story
I want to hear all yours too
Then maybe at the end you’ll see
I’m just the same as you. . .
" I was born on the holy ground,
Running wild and free,
Across wide meadows by the stream,
Between the mountains and the sea,
I grew up there in boyhood days,
Filled with sights and sounds,
My roots run deep here in the clay,
Upon this hallowed ground,
Our children came in the early years,
They ran wild but not so free,
For the meadows gone and the stream lies still,
Between the mountains and the sea,
Now I am old and not so wise.
As I am supposed to be,
And the nights draw in and the wind blows cold,
Between the mountains and the sea,
I was born on this holy ground.
And once ran wild and free,
Across wild meadows by the stream,
Between the mountains and the sea "
© Pat Hogan
My Photos on FLICKRIVER;
flickriver.com/photos/137473925@N08/
Keep well and positive everbody!!!
Best of everything!
Pat
Poem
From the short and intense evening,
your light seeps into my face,
the smell of your hair is strong
like the smell of the sea
In the minds of mad men
Echoes the darkness of wars,
And in that dark grows the
Media images of death and destruction.
And from the shade of our limitations,
we will scream into the void, peace and freedom, then close our eyes and pray, his,
is not the hand that stops the ticking clock.
When the bidding is done, the madness will stop, but only for a while, and we will try and release this Dove with a broken wing, and call it peace.
Words by, Broken Beacon.
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches–
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead–
if it’s all you can do
to keep on trudging–
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted–
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.
~ Mary Oliver.
Lies waiting a spark, to invigorate a flame
A spark pervasive, in darkness always
Every atom advancing, perpetual in ethereal waves
Every Sun an atom and every atom a sun
Though candles are different, with same fire they burn
Like atoms of life of vain personalities
Every living being, deriving motivating force
From the living ocean of power, the unlimited source
All bodies are mine, one and same consciousness pervading
'Beyond' is just what the senses can't perceive
- Anuj Nair
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© 2010 Anuj Nair. All rights reserved.
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Contact : www.anujnair.net
________________________________________________
© 2010 Anuj Nair. All rights reserved.
All images and poems are the property of Anuj Nair.
Using these images and poems without permission is in violation of international copyright laws (633/41 DPR19/78-Disg 154/97-L.248/2000). All materials may not be copied, reproduced, distributed, republished, downloaded, displayed, posted or transmitted in any forms or by any means,including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording without written permission of Anuj Nair. Every violation will be pursued penally.
This is my favourite poem by Joseph Freiherr von Eichendorff:
Schläft ein Lied in allen Dingen, die da träumen fort und fort, Und die Welt fängt an zu singen, Triffst du nur das Zauberwort
This is my TRANSLATION:
There sleeps a song in all things that are dreaming on and on, and the world starts singing when you only find the magic word.
My little black panther 8
Happy Caturday 11.1.2020 "Poem"
Nik Silver efex pro 2
A poem from Mr. Goethe:
Zum Fressen geboren, zum Kraulen bestellt
in Schlummer verloren gefällt mir die Welt.
Ich schnurr' auf dem Schoße, ich ruhe im Bett
in lieblicher Pose, ob schlank oder fett.
So gelte ich allen als göttliches Tier, sie stammeln
und lallen und huldigen mir, liebkosen mir
glücklich den Bauch, Öhrchen und Tatz
ich wählte es wieder, das Leben der Katz.
translated by deepl.com:
Born to eat, ordered to crawl
lost in slumber I like the world.
I purr on your lap, I rest in bed
in a lovely pose, whether slim or fat.
So I am considered to all as a divine animal, they stammer
and slur and worship me, caress me
happy belly, ears and paw
I chose it again, the life of a cat.
Happy Caturday! :-)
This first edition of the poems of Nathan Lanesford Foster was printed and bound in 1841 in the print shop in Philadelphia where my great-great-great grandfather worked at the time.
For those of you who know Philly: the print shop was located in what is now the 'Old City' section of Philadelphia, near the Betsy Ross House and Independence Hall.
More modern editions of this volume are available at select booksellers:
www.abebooks.com/book-search/author/nathan-lanesford-foster/
In real life, the horizontal dimension of the photo is about 2.5" (6.3cm)
HMM!
Oh my sweet legacy, my undeniable mistake,
We all must wade through a pit of hell, before the fallen of fate,
I trudged and tried to fly, but then regained my step,
I laugh at my misjudgements, Of promises and trust not kept,
Your stubborn and lying eyes, showed deceit and total destruction,
As you ripped apart my soul, my heart a careless abduction,
My lips now twitch in a grin, the forlorn face no longer appears,
My complete resurrection and strength reborn, I now live on the blood of your tears,
I grow stronger with every ache, I know you one day will feel,
For your loss and your horrific ways, have lost what once was real,
My esteem now blooms in thoughts of my overcoming ways,
It proves my once weakened state, Now something of previous days,
I pity your pathetic state, Your broken promises and death of tomorrow,
But my pity stops only there, for I no longer feel any sorrow,
May your karma be 10 times fold, but only to allow you to learn,
For in this place we call earth, a certain hell still truly shall burn,
So walk fast and be steady, for your insolent behavior has taught me this,
It is best to not get lost in a web of lies, and lose yourself in a depressed abyss,
As much as I let the fires burn, turning my once bright eyes to coal,
My happiness and success grows,
The ultimate revenge is the mending of my unbiding and blackened soul,
For now I leave with this, a sweet and dark good bye,
You may have harmed and broken me, but I am now to far along to cry.
It is a morning full of storms
in the heart of summer.
The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs bidding farewell,
the wind shakes them with its wandering hands.
Innumberable heart of the wind
beating upon our loving silence.
Buzzing amongst the trees, orquestral and divine,
like a language full of wars and songs.
A wind that swiftly steals away the fallen leaves
and deflects the beating arrows of the birds.
A wind that strikes her down in a foamless wave
and weightless substance, and fires bowing down.
It breaks and submerges its volume of kisses
fought at the gate of the summer wind.
Color The World Orange flic.kr/gm/3g65nd, Life Island (88, 133, 22) - Moderado
my dreams are filled with
abandoned places and
closed doors
and
realms that can't be explained in the real world.
and often,
I am curled up into a ball while Lewis screams in the background,
and still,
the echo of silence
reverberates off the walls
until I find an open door-
and ignore it.
“Gardens are poems
Where you stroll with your hands in your pockets.
(Les jardins sont des poemes
Ou l'on se promene les mains dans les poches.)”
― Pierre Albert-Birot
Light and shadow mingle with moving water and grasses by the soft, muddy banks.
This is the 3rd of 3 steps of this photo poem.
Thanks for your looks, likes and comments!
WM
Poem about Mac the Cat (inspired by me, written by ChatGPT)
Mac the cat, so ginger and old,
Sits atop the fence, quiet and bold.
In Munich town, his home and place,
He watches the world with gentle grace.
Though he cannot meow anymore,
His spirit shines, like never before.
For Mac is calm and friendly too,
And always happy to see me and you.
With each pat and stroke of his fur,
We feel his warmth, so soft and pure.
And though he cannot speak a word,
His eyes and purrs make us assured.
Assured that in this world so fast,
There's still some peace that's meant to last.
And Mac the cat, with his friendly ways,
Shows us the joy in simpler days.
So here's to Mac, the old ginger cat,
May his days be long and full of that
Warmth and love he brings each day,
To brighten up our human way.
It is a willow when summer is over,
a willow by the river
from which no leaf has fallen nor
bitten by the sun
turned orange or crimson.
The leaves cling and grow paler,
swing and grow paler
over the swirling waters of the river
as if loth to let go.
- William Carlos Williams
-------------------------------------------------
Textures by diAnNa and Joes Sistah
Fauré by
Thylacine
Music by French composer Gabriel Fauré (1845-1924).
remixed by Thylacine, French electronic music producer.
m.youtube.com/watch?v=Kuk0Bq2BMkQ&list=RDKuk0Bq2BMkQ&...
* * * * * * * * * * *
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.
By Emily Dickinson, 1862
Poems Of The Atoms — Armand Amar
youtu.be/si6rLeYU5BQ?si=o3z_wtnXWcnESZeV
O day, arise! The atoms are dancing.
The souls are dancing, overcome with ecstasy.
I'll whisper in your ear where their dance is taking them.
All the atoms in the air and in the desert know well, they seem insane.
Every single atom, happy or miserable,
Becomes enamoured of the sun, of which nothing can be said.
Another Sunday, another poem. First the English Translation, then the German original. Have a wonderful day!
Mist Over the River
The river drifts so still, so mild,
and carries dreams where they’ve been filed.
Tell me, what will lie ahead?
Words the wind has softly shed.
A silver mist wraps all around,
it makes the distant small, profound.
And though no eye can clearly see,
the current whispers: “Go on, be free…”
Each wave speaks gently, calm and true:
Each morning grants a power new.
And in the haze, the heart still knows:
The river softly, quietly flows.
Here the Original:
Nebel über dem Fluss
Der Fluss zieht still und sanft dahin,
und trägt die Träume fort darin.
Sag mir, was wird vor uns liegen?
Worte, die im Wind verfliegen.
Ein Silbernebel hüllt uns ein,
er macht das Ferne sanft und klein.
Denn auch wenn keiner klar es sieht,
der Strom uns flüstert: "Geht weiter, zieht..."
Jede Welle sagt uns sacht:
Jeder Morgen schenkt neue Macht.
Und in dem Dunst das Herz noch weiß:
Der Fluss fließt still, der Fluss fließt leis.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=zHnZP2FmLCc&list=RDzHnZP2FmLC...
The River - Bruce Springsteen