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Flying Poem - Leg Tattoo - Color [CAROL G] @ Blue Event
All the details:
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.
🎶
Groundskeeping
Throughout a lifetime
Our garden prose
Has carried heart weight
And it has been amongst the boughs
And arbors and mindful footfall
That new seasons are nourished
And my fingers are rooted in yours
.
Happy Valentine's Day to my love. xoxoxo
.
.
©Christine A. Owens 2.14.18
.
I really appreciate your comments and faves. I'm not a hoarder of contacts, but enjoy real-life, honest people. You are much more likely to get my comments and faves in return if you fit the latter description. Just sayin. :oD
.
If you like b/w photography and/or poetry check out my page at:
expressionsbychristine.blogspot.com/</a
¿Qué hacer?
Aprender los huecos
caminar
hacia lo que se fuga
inventarse en el devenir:
que la tensión sea simiente
fruto
árbol al que trepamos
para ver más lejos y
seguir soñando.
Arturo Borra
To do?
Learn the gaps to walk towards what escapes,
invent in the future:
let the tension be seed
fruit
tree that we climb to see further and keep dreaming.
Arturo Borra
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
The cure of time
taken with early stops from the November dew to the uproar when spring awakens.
It pauses in the embrace, exhausted, waving on the shores until the full moon of August sinks into the sea.
Then the decayed arrives, and the earth once trodden by bare feet is renewed...and even the most melancholic recites a poem to the love that departed on the last summer night.
How many will remain to come, walking with different skins and forgotten footprints from childhood.
Will this cure have a sweetness on still-juicy lips or will it bring forth some furrow, shy and salty, in that same mouth.
It is a heartbeat in the chest
a creation without absence
the train of life.
Møøn.
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.
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
You squeeze your eyes shut tightly,
like a little girl summoning
a figure, a little star, her blood capillaries,
branches of electricity from the brain,
clouded inner girls,
so you squeeze them shut tightly
so that the light cannot pass through.
However, the light
penetrates the fabric of your eyelids
and reveals you.
Even if you don't want it to.
By Marta Sanz.
Aprietas los ojos muy fuerte,
como niña al convocar
figura, estrellita, sus capilares sanguíneos,
ramalazos de la electricidad del cerebro,
obnubiladas niñas interiores,
así, los aprietas mucho
para que la luz no pase.
Sin embargo, la luz
traspasa la tela del párpado
y te descubre.
Aunque no quieras.
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.
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)
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone:
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie wither'd,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
Poem by Thomas Moore
She was not alone
but had aphids of her own
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
Has heat that cuts through the static sky
With its coffee stained clouds
Breathes an uneven dust
Will not back down even if you
Offer him a Stroopwafel
It’s a pity he’s wrecking the city
But he is honestly just a big angry kitty
Who holds grudges over hundreds of years
Senses our utterly human fears
No flood here
But flames and the Black Death may abound
Wherever Dutch monsters are found.
**The above photo was taken in Amsterdam and is a remnant of fliers left on a telephone pole, conveying secret messages and urban fairy tales that very few people pay attention to.**
**All photos and silly poems are copyrighted**
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
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 !
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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.
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
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
Fortepiyano çalıyor
Gittikçe umutsuz bir müzik
*
Taklacı güvercin havalanır
Birisinin beyaz avucundan
*
Gece çiçeği gibi açık
Kendimi bırakıyorum
By Javier Velaza:
We don't know how to love, we just plagiarize.
We love as we believe it should be done,
with other people's words, with caresses
copied and borrowed gestures,
we emulate the kisses, the postures,
the gasps, the protests, the goodbyes.
Yes, we also unlove by imitating,
our cruelty is also mimetic,
mannerist the oblivion we suffer.
Don't let them teach you how to love,
disobeys Ovid. May your hug
be different from everyone else,
innovates in every care, creates unprecedented
tenderness, reinvent passion,
be original, inimitable, unique.
May everyone have to say about you
that love did not exist until you loved.
No sabemos amar, solo plagiamos.
Amamos como creemos que ha de hacerse,
con palabras ajenas, con caricias
copiadas y prestados ademanes,
emulamos los besos, las posturas,
los jadeos, las protestas, los adioses.
Sí, también desamamos imitando,
nuestra crueldad es también mimética,
manierista el olvido que sufrimos.
No dejes que te enseñen cómo amar,
desobedece a Ovidio. Que tu abrazo
sea diferente a todos los demás,
innova en cada mimo, crea inéditas
ternuras, reinventa la pasión,
sé original, inimitable, único.
Que de ti tengan todos que decir
que no existió el amor hasta que amaste.
............................................. “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....
facade-painting by Eric van der Vegt,
poem "Heel Dichtbij" by Hans and Monique Hagen,
painted by Jeroen Paulussen,
located in Hilversum, unfinished when I took the shot
Steeped
Emotion realized
Her mouth was parched and bruised
The same as the hibiscus petals
In a heap on the table
Awaiting sympathetic water
To revive pink affections
And refreshment to satiation
.
.
©Christine A. Evans 10.12.17
.
I really appreciate your comments and faves. I'm not a hoarder of contacts, but enjoy real-life, honest people. You are much more likely to get my comments and faves in return if you fit the latter description. Just sayin. :oD
.
If you like b/w photography and/or poetry check out my page at:
expressionsbychristine.blogspot.com/</a
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...
Rabbicorn story poem two
brynoh.blogspot.com/2019/05/the-rabbicorn-story-scene-two...
When she was done
she knew the Rabbicorn must go
and that the government
must never know
For they would not
care about her heart
they would rather
take her apart
So she gave her to
a man she met that day
who had mentioned that
it was his son's birthday
She made him promise
to look after her
and for the first time
the Rabbicorn's heart did whir
As she looked back
she said "Please don't fear"
and as they drove away
wiped away a tear
Trees are poems that earth writes upon the sky,
We fell them down and turn them into paper,
That we may record our emptiness.
~Kahlil Gibran
Um poema
Não tenhas medo, ouve:
É um poema
Um misto de oração e de feitiço...
Sem qualquer compromisso,
Ouve-o atentamente,
De coração lavado.
Poderás decorá-lo
E rezá-lo
Ao deitar,
Ao levantar,
Ou nas restantes horas de tristeza
Na segura certeza
De que mal não te faz.
E pode acontecer que te dê paz...
Miguel Torga