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“How to Write a Poem

 

Catch the air

around the butterfly.”

 

― Katerina Stoykova Klemer

  

"A picture is a poem without words."

Quote - Horace

 

Ice-abstract.

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.

Papilio thoas — Porte-queue thoas

Événement : Papillons en Fête au Cente Jardin Hamel

Ville de Québec (Québec) Canada

 

Papillons en liberté provenant des 4 coins du monde

 

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© Guylaine Bégin. L'utilisation sans ma permission est illégale.

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Papilio thoas — Thoas Swallowtail

Event : Papillons en Fête au Cente Jardin Hamel

Quebec City (Quebec) Canada

 

Butterflies from the 4 corners the world

 

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© Guylaine Bégin. Use without permission is illegal.

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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, Morning Poem

 

taken at stunning :

Visit this location at Witch`s Rock Costa Rica - Pura Vida! in Second Life

Macro Mondays - Book

Love Poem is a macro photograph of an anthurium.

" 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

Enjoy your weekend!

youtu.be/F73TrMcdaCk

T'was the night before Christmas

he lived all alone

In a one bedroom house made of plaster and stone

I had come down the chimney with

presents to give

and to see just who in this dweling did

live

I looked all around a strange site to

see

No tinsel, no presents, not even a

tree

No stockings on the mantle just boots filled

with sand

On the wall hung pictures of far

distant lands

Medals and Badges, Awards every

kind

A sobering thought came alive in my

mind

This house was different, it was

dark, it was deary

I had found the home of a

soldier

I could see that most clearly

The soldier lie sleeping, silent, alone

Curled up on the floor in this one

bedroom home

His face was so gentle, the room in

such disorder

Not at all how I pictured a

United States Soldier

Was this the hero of whom I'd just read

Curled up on a poncho, the floor for

a bed

Then I realized the other families

that I saw on this night

Hold their lives to soldiers, who are

willing to fight

In the morning around the

world, the children would play

Grown-ups would celebrate a bright

Christmas Day

But they all enjoy freedom each

month of the year

Because of soldiers like the one lying

here

I couldn't help but wonder, how many

lay alone?

On a cold Christmas Eve in lands far

from home

The very thought brought a tear to my

eye

I dropped to my knees and I

started to cry

The soldier awakened, I heard his

ruff voice

Santa don't cry, this life is my

choice...

...I fight for freedom, I don't ask for

more...

...My life is my God, my country, my

core

The soldier rolled over and drifted to

sleep

But I couldn't control it and I

continued to weep

I kept watch for hours... so silent and

still

as both of us shivered from the cold

nights chill

I didn't want to leave him on that cold

dark night

This guardian of honor, so willing to

fight

then the soldier rolled over with a

voice soft and pure

He whispered Carry on Santa, it's

Christmas Day...

...all secure One look at my watch

and I knew he was right

Merry Christmas my friend, may God

Bless you this night

   

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.

When someone is inspired to create a Poem, he/she is uplifted!!

 

When someone is uplifted, he/she is temporarily found in a very original, private, personal world of Beauty (or not…), inspiration, and refinement, extreme pleasure (or not…). He/she feels strong emotions and sensations, while creating his/her poem; a huge creativity!!

 

Poetry in Nature is the creation of Mother Nature’s upliftment!! Which creates enchantment, creativity and inspiration in certain humans..

 

Lake Genval in Autumn is a Pure Poetry!

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.

-------------------------------------------------------

www.anujnair.net

________________________________________________

 

© 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.

Maybe I wasn't listening,

 

Or maybe you weren't saying anything important.

 

Either way.

 

I don't hear you.

 

Credits . . .

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

I see you again I believe, in a sleepless night

Just by closing my eyes, blinding myself from the sky

But I have to get used to it, far from you I fall asleep

 

Inspired by Allen ZIMME poem

   

Algún día

 

Algún día te escribiré un poema que no

mencione el aire ni la noche;

un poema que omita los nombres de las flores,

que no tenga jazmines o magnolias.

 

Algún día te escribiré un poema sin pájaros,

sin fuentes, un poema que eluda el mar

y que no mire a las estrellas.

 

Algún día te escribiré un poema que se limite

a pasar los dedos por tu piel

y que convierta en palabras tu mirada.

Sin comparaciones, sin metáforas;

algún día escribiré un poema que huela a ti,

un poema con el ritmo de tus pulsaciones,

con la intensidad estrujada de tu abrazo.

Algún día te escribiré un poema, el canto de mi dicha.

 

DARÍO JARAMILLO A. ( Colombia 1947 )

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.

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! :-)

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.

  

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.

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!

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

maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Auto%201/122/83/22

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Blog Featuring brands are

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220ml in Man Cave Event

More Detail credit in blog.

This is a river in Skjåk, Norway. At Billingen pensjonat you can eat good food and enjoy this view. There's also a path where you can read poems mounted to poles along the path. Fantastic stuff :)

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

maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Life%20Island/89/133/23

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

A wonderful gift from our friend Steffen. The poems are awesome, every time I read them I find something new. They're great inspiration. Thanks a lot Steffen and David Merritt!

 

Link below:

The David Merritt poetry experience

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

maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Pemberley/105/196/23

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

"I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree"

This picture only needs a few lines of poem as a companion.

Both light and shadow are the beginning of all beginnings,

and their tendency to clash is natural.

No one has abolished their values.,

And yet the sun dominates the shadow.

 

This Higher Light holds the world in its palms,

descending from heaven, spreading across the seas and lands,

Hope, faith - as a guide.

Kindness inspires, heals the soul...

 

for everyone who has lost someone that they care about i have written this hope you like it. jean

She often forgot that her body (like all of ours) was a house of sand.

That it had been and was crumbling.

That it slipped tirelessly through her fingers.

By Han Kang, Nobel Prize in Literature 2024.

(White ,2016)

 

Ella se olvidaba con frecuencia de que su cuerpo (como el de todos nosotros) era una casa de arena. De que había estado y estaba desmoronándose. De que se escurría incansable entre los dedos(Blanco, 2016)

 

 

m.youtube.com/watch?v=3gu7FVsC8y0

Midjourney, watercolour, Venice

From the Series "Urban Poems"

Tulip Festival

Myriad Botanical Gardens

Downtown, OKC

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