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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.
Trees are poems that the earth writes in the sky. But not this one anymore, it's dead wood.
In the Inn floodplains near Urfahr / Malching
La palabra inglesa para pesadilla es “nightmare”, que literalmente significa “la yegua de la noche” Hay un verso de Shakespeare que dice “I met the night mare”, “me encontré con la yegua de la noche”. En otro poema ya dice deliberadamente “the nightmare and her nine foals”, “la pesadilla y sus nueve potrillos”, volviendo a considerarla como una yegua nocturna.
No soy etimólogo y según la palabra que para pesadilla tiene cada país se consideran otros orígenes, la mayoría relacionados con demonios, pero reconozco que este origen y significado es el que más me gusta. Me parece incluso poético.
No se trata de un trabajo de edición. Es el reflejo de una columnata en un gran recipiente de bronce pulido en un templo de la India.
No one remembered to put in their original teeth
at the plant nursing home
so they can’t tell the nurses and aides
to turn off Fox news
and they wither like they’ve been
left for an eternity to suffer
for all their long lost sins.
**All poems and photos are copyrighted**
__________________________________________________
OROPESA DEL MAR- CASTELLÓN -- COMUNIDAD VALENCIANA
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LAS NUBES
Inútilmente interrogas.
Tus ojos miran al cielo.
Buscas, mirando a las nubes,
huellas que se llevó el viento.
Buscas las manos calientes,
los rostros de los que fueron,
el círculo donde yerran
tocando sus instrumentos.
Nubes que eran ritmo, canto
sin final y sin comienzo,
campanas de espumas pálidas
volteando su secreto,
Palmas de mármol, criaturas
girando al compás del tiempo,
imitándole a la vida
su perpetuo movimiento.
Inútilmente interrogas
desde tus párpados ciegos.
¿Qué haces mirando a las nubes,
José Hierro?
Autor del poema: José Hierro
===========================
" 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
'Poem in Pink' is a macro photograph of Bougainvillea leaves. (The leaves are colorful, but the flowers and small, white and within the leaves).
Time, just a bodily experience;
With the change of times...
Events unwarranted , undesirable
Mere glimpses as it appears,
Of ever-changing substance...
The viewer and the view
Change like a flicker
Every perception an illusion
Every perceiver the same
Certain is the state
Before birth and after death
Uncertain is the state
In between birth and death
Look at those changes
Like an entertainment
Scenes changing in a play
Queer, and a source of enjoyment
Open the inner eyes
Awaken the Soul
You are neither body nor a living being
Your power knows no bounds.
- Anuj Nair
------------------------------------------------------
© 2011 Anuj Nair. All rights reserved.
-------------------------------------------------------
________________________________________________
© 2011 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- isg 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.
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.
The park's has a collection of over 1,000 statues and 150 giant tableaux centered around Chinese folklore, legends, history, and Confucian ideology.
On the pillars is a poem couplet written by Yu Da Fu, aptly describing Haw Par Villa then.
In the quietness of the hills amidst the rolling white clouds
There stand a bright glorious house like blossoming flower petals
You can see the vast and clear blue ocean
And grazes into the and ripples of the sea waves in the far horizon
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.
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.
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
------------------------------------------------------
© 2010 Anuj Nair. All rights reserved.
-------------------------------------------------------
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.
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! :-)
Así tituló el premio Nobel Juan Ramón Jiménez un poema dedicado a las amapolas. Uno de sus fragmentos dice:
Amapola del camino//roja como un corazón//yo te haré cantar al son//de la rueda del molino//yo te haré cantar, y al son//de la rueda dolorida,//te abriré mi corazón, ¡amapola de mi vida!
This is how Nobel Prize winner Juan Ramón Jiménez titled a poem dedicated to poppies. One of the fragments of it says:
Poppy of the road//red like a heart//I will make you sing to the sound//of the mill wheel//I will make you sing, and to the sound//of the aching wheel,//I will open my heart to you, poppy of my life!
Ah vastness of pines, murmur of waves breaking,
slow play of lights, solitary bell,
twilight falling in your eyes, baby doll,
snail of the earth, in you the earth sings!
In you the rivers sing, and my soul in them flees
as you desire it, and you send it where you will.
Mark for me my road on your brows of hope
and I in my delirium will release the flock of arrows.
Around me I see your waist of fog
and your silence accosts my troubled hours,
and you are with your transparent arms of stones
where my kisses anchor and my damp desire nests.
Ah your mysterious voice that love colors and tolls
in the resonant and dying evening!
Thus in deep hours over the fields I have seen
the ears of wheat tolling in the mouth of the wind.
Pablo Neruda
Lemon Trees Mediterranean, Auto 1 (122, 83, 22) - Moderado
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!
I've reached the 1000 photos limit (for non-Pro accounts, 950 public and 50 private or shared only with friends), and I have no more photos to erase, each of the ones that are still here represents a special moment for me or contains a special comment or tag, which I feel it's sincerely written.
This photo stream ends here, after almost eight years on Flickr, with wholehearted thanks for your friendship and encouragement.
I was lucky to meet fabulous people, learned so much, and my gratitude is immense.
I will return soon with a new photo stream and it will be a joy and an honor to regain my friends.
I will not erase this account, it is so precious to me for the reasons previously described, and I will return to it from time to time just to remember the good old days ❤
Best wishes to all,
Love
Ela
Ascendant - My Garden Nails 07
IKON Sovereign Eyes
Romazin - Necklace(1)
Tableau Vivant \\ My Day @ Gym
YELIZ MESH "Teresa" Shorty
YELIZ MESH "Teresa" Top
^^Swallow^^ Shiny Elf Ear
Hush babygirl, just lean against me,
I will hold you till you sleep, and your dreams set you free
Cuddle me sweet one, know your not alone anymore,
I will show you why they were all losers that came before,
Close your eyes sweet kitten, listen to the beat of my heart,
You have always been loved by me, even though we have been apart,
Take a deep breath my beautiful girl, let the calm take you away,
Know I am here forever and more, I am not those that left you at bay,
Say you love me, my little one, say you will love me forever more,
Know I will show you what true admiration is, you I do adore.
Sleep sweet my precious girl, let your beauty take flight,
Tomorrow is a new day, but until the new light,
Imagine your creativity, as it blossoms and it grows,
I have complete faith in you my good girl, faith only a true daddy knows
,
*
*
* Fantasía de la Alhambra 02. Vista, a través de un arco, de la Fuente del Patio de los Leones en el Palacio Nazarí de La Alhambra. Ciudad de Granada. Andalucía.
* A finales de 1370, Mohamed V emprendió la edificación de un nuevo palacio, conocido como Palacio de los Leones por las doce esculturas de la fuente que centra su patio.
La Fuente de los Leones tiene una taza dodecagonal y está ejecutada con una gran perfección técnica. Doce versos se hallan inscritos en ella. Seis de estos versos, Ibn Zamrak los aprovechó para la fuente. Esta obra de arte es a la vez un surtidor, y simboliza el poder real del sultán asociada con el suministro del agua, uno de los bienes más preciados por la cultura islámica.
Traigo de nuevo, a evocación, los versos de Ibn Zamrak dedicados precisamente a esta fuente.
Poema de la taza de los leones
«Bendito sea Aquél que otorgó al sultán Mohamed
las bellas ideas para engalanar sus mansiones.
Pues, ¿acaso no hay en este jardín maravillas
que Dios ha hecho incomparables en su hermosura,
y una escultura de perlas de transparente claridad,
cuyos bordes se decoran con orla de aljófar?
Plata fundida corre entre las perlas,
a las que semeja belleza alba y pura.
En apariencia, agua y mármol parecen confundirse,
sin que sepamos cuál de ambos se desliza.
¿No ves cómo el agua se derrama en la taza,
pero sus caños la esconden enseguida?
Es un amante cuyos párpados rebosan de lágrimas,
lágrimas que esconde por miedo a un delator.
¿No es, en realidad, cual blanca nube
que vierte en los leones sus acequias
y parece la mano del califa, que, de mañana,
prodiga a los leones de la guerra sus favores?
Quien contempla los leones en actitud amenazante,
(sabe que) sólo el respeto (al Emir) contiene su enojo.
¡Oh descendiente de los Ansares, y no por línea indirecta,
herencia de nobleza, que a los fatuos desestima:
Que la paz de Dios sea contigo y pervivas incólume
renovando tus festines y afligiendo a tus enemigos!»
(IBN ZAMRAK. Canto a la Alambra.)
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
September — the first golden days of Autumn where the early morning air turns crisp, fruits are ripening in the hedgerows and the fragrant hop flowers hang in giant cascades in the hop gardens of England. Hop picking used to be a traditional seasonal labour for poor families who would travel from London's East End to the hop gardens in Kent, often walking the 35 miles and sleeping rough. By the 1950s, Mechanisation and cheap imports had brought an end to the tradition. The hop vine is a rather vigorous plant — I left mine to grow, as I wanted it the hops for photographing, but it's currently attempting to eat the garden! The title is from a poem, 'The Hop Garden' by Christopher Smart, written in 1752.
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.
Illustration to poetry of Natalya Hrebionka devoted to Japan.
Paper, Ink 2010
Will
My reflection
find me?
© Natalya Hrebionka
Найдёт ли
Моё отражение
Меня саму?
© Copyright: Наталья Гребенко (Natalya Hrebionka),
“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
musipoemas2.blogspot.com/2018/10/ella-mayte-dalianegra.html
ELLA
Con cierta frecuencia escribimos
su nombre con saliva,
su nombre siempre cercano,
tan familiar
como un latido
y a la vez
tan ajeno
como un confín remoto.
Sabemos de ella
por propios y extraños,
sabemos, también,
de su infame capacidad para la réplica.
Es mar y atmósfera,
la costa de nuestra isla.
Algunas veces
la notamos pegada a la piel
y nos lacera cuando
quienes caen
—bajo su siniestra y terca alquimia—
son aquellos que nos donaron el aliento
o aquellos a quienes aliento concedimos.
Pero en ningún caso,
nunca, nunca, creemos
que se abrirá paso entre las multitudes
y nos señalará
con su dedo huesudo y franco
—en un día en que la ceniza
nublará soles y reliquias—,
dispersando la tropa de marañones
que nos escuda,
hincándonos el agudo filo de su quijada
y cerniendo sobre nosotros
su plumaje totémico
negro como la noche
y, como la noche cósmica,
eterno.
En ningún caso,
nunca, nunca, creemos
que nos llegará ella.
Ella, que es nuestra legítima
y única patria.
(Autora de la foto y del poema: Mayte Llera)
© del poema: m5xaagaxrc9owzcy
Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad nets
towards your oceanic eyes.
There in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames,
its arms turning like a drowning man's.
I send out red signals across your absent eyes
that move like the sea near a lighthouse.
You keep only darkness, my distant female,
from your regard sometimes the coast of dread emerges.
Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad nets
to that sea that beats on your marine eyes.
The birds of night peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when I love you.
The night gallops on its shadowy mare
shedding blue tassels over the land.
Pablo Neruda
Pemberley www.flickr.com/groups/pemberleysl/, Pemberley (105, 196, 23) - Moderado
M'enfilo pels pensaments
de les hores callades.
Pas a pas,
sobre la corda del silenci,
escric mots que perfilen
nous horitzons.
Enrere queden les creences
d'un temps que ja m'és llunyà.
Que n'és de savi el temps!
O som nosaltres que hem après
a desaprendre?
a desfer-nos de l'innecessari,
per tornar a l'essència,
per saber el que veritablement
ens cal...
ISABEL RIBERA I CARNÉ. M'enfilo
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
Here I am with you dear, no yesterday nor tomorrow
Hold on to my hand, close your eyes, see the glow
No stranger am I, or you, to this land
Got this birth, deputed, not for own lots to mend
See the green boughs stirred, by the gentle wind
Free the flowers dance, merrily they unwind
From interlocking leaves, by themselves, their own will
Never solitary you are here, why fear this lovely place
What is part of you, is part of everything around
See that part of whole, and the whole this Existence
The fire is always same, whatever makes it burn
Never does the light perish, nowhere does it go
- Anuj Nair
www.flickr.com/photos/anujnair/4836720405/in/photostream/
------------------------------------------------------
© 2010 Anuj Nair. All rights reserved.
-------------------------------------------------------
________________________________________________
© 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.