View allAll Photos Tagged broken
A cute little box crafted by my granddaughter but which somehow jumped off my deck. I found it on the grass downstairs with the missing piece nowhere to be found. A quick text message to my daughter with this photo confirmed it was our family heirloom.
Added DoF with Aviary which stripped my EXIF info. I hate when that happens. Taken on August 29, 2013. EXIF below.
47/366
alexis while running @ recess was accidently bumped and....
ouch :O
doctors + x-rays agree :: it's definitely broken
specialist on wednesday.
ODC - BROKEN - June 6 - 12, 2022 - My daughter sent me this bowl about 10 yrs ago and it arrived broke in half, my sweet hubby glued it back together for me. It was handmade and painted!
10. Mai 2018
Photo by Hagen Hoppe . www.hagenhoppe.com
More Larp-Photos: www.exploregraphy.com/category/stories/larp/
Nutzungsrechte: Creative Commons BY-NC-ND
All rights reserved. Please do not use or reproduce this image on websites, blogs or any other media without my permission.
Another casualty of careless equipment handling - this time I accidentally dropped the camera on the patio, lens first. I quickly caught the camera after the first bounce and, at first, was relieved as I popped off the lens cap and saw that the glass wasn't broken. It only took a moment, however, after turning it on, to realize something was wrong. I tried using the autofocus and, while it worked, it made the most sickly sounding grinding noise you could imagine. A quick inspection revealed a healthy crack through the plastic near the base of the lens. A complete write-off, and time to start thinking about a new macro lens. The real hard part is, for the last year, this has been my go-to lens. It's going to be tough to replace.
Rhapsody on a Windy Night
Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."
The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."
The last twist of the knife.
-- T. S. Eliot
The Roll of Honour fell from its mounting, and the frame was broken. There's a metaphor in there somewhere, I fancy ...
We broke off as much of the glass as I could, and my friends Bennett and Morgan helped me sweep up what we could get out.
Just broke down in front of U-Pull-It at 7600 Stockton Blvd in Sacramento, CA.
It appears to be hoarded half full of mattresses, foam padding, tarps, and other "comforts" (compared to sleeping in a cardboard box). Just as I was snapping these pics, I heard the door slam shut on the curbside, and a woman with a drawn and scabby face disembarked with a shiny top-of-the-line BMX bike and rode off toward a burgeoning encampment area behind the Shop$mart flea market mall.
This was taken after the ice had been forming and pieces were broken off when the weather was warming up a little bit today. The ground cover was also a little icy.
Berlin (Germany)
Nikon D300S
AF-S Zoom-Nikkor 24-70mm f/2.8G ED
The name of this sculpture is "Berlin" and it is located on the Tauentzienstraße. The sculpture's principal motif, a "broken chain", was meant to symbolize the severed connections between West and East Berlin due to the construction of the Berlin Wall.
| Ricci-Armani.com | Facebook | Twitter | LinkedIn |
I repaired my phone by using a sticky cover, but it kept falling off. That was solved by some artists tape.
I didn’t see the sudden pane across her path.
But I saw it slice her flight, heard the fractured crack of it,
Witnessed the limp free-falling, unstopping dropping,
Deeper than the solid earth, which never rose to meet her.
The dread descent, the loft and lift of life
All gone.
All gone.
I cradled her pale body limp between my palms.
I felt her weakened warmth, her faint heart falter,
stammer,
stutter.
Its feeble flutter stilled my own.
I waited, watched, worried, wild with stoppered fright
For there was no fight, her dreamless sleep interred her.
One hundred days I’ve watched, now two, now three.
Her birds egg skin, dry powder blue, so thin,
Awaits the flush of blood, the rush and flood
Of life returning and an end to all my yearning.
I hold her still and will, and will, and will.
- Skye Auer