View allAll Photos Tagged poems
Wheatfield.
Midsummer:
the blue of the sky stretches
from horizon to horizon,
fading from intense cerulean overhead,
to a gentle haze closest to the plain’s edge.
The wheat field gleams
golden in the noon light,
vast as a prairie,
the ears heavy,
bending
under their own productivity.
That was then.
Now,
in early spring, there is still snow in the north,
the pristine whiteness mired in mud,
and blood,
churned by tanks, craters, artillery,
pits blown apparently randomly,
deep and water-logged,
recalling the almost forgotten horrors
of Ypres and Passchendaele.
The woodlands give little cover,
the trees split, twigs scattered.
No birds sing.
No seeds have been planted.
The only yield will be that of death
and destruction…
yet still the flag flutters
optimistically,
hopefully,
heroically,
echoing the blue and yellow,
of sky and land:
the colours of peace.
Published in reach poetry 284 June 2022
Voted 2nd of the month by readers.
Stone Poems by Daniel Arrhakis / Karl Rudhyn (2018)
A Very Special New Series for 2018 "The Secret Gardens Of Lord Byron" - A Series about the unique Village Of Sintra and the mystic romantic poetry of their gardens and monuments.
From my photos taken in Sintra, Portugal. Quinta da Regaleira, working and recreating sculptural elements.
________________________________________________
And you are most welcome in my new limited and signed editions in :
________________________________________________
My final work for this week and weekend, i must do dome field work but i return on Monday !
A wonderful final of the week and weekend dear friends !
Thank you for your always kind visit, comments and support ! : )
Two Trees
Two Trees
Sending out shoots
Commingling underground
In flourishing existence
When purchasing the land
With its contracts and deeds
Preserves value
As growth, uninclined, continues
.
.
©Christine A. Owens 1.16.18
.
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
house holds the chill
from yesterday
while splashes of sun
warm the grass
i long to close
my eyes again
and dream of
days to come.
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
There is more sun,
Sakura has blossomed.
The mood is no longer
to close my eyes.
And not to hide my smile,
And I caught your joy
like a sweet snowdrop
pierced through the snow foliage.
Roman Asanov - Poems
My birthday began with the water
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In a rainy autumn
And walked abroad in shower of all my days
Poem in October, Dylan Thomas
and she smiled
looked away
and shook her head
i heard a foot fall
as she walked away
falling away
for miles
for days.
No poem is intended for the reader, no picture for the beholder, no symphony for the listener.
Walter Benjamin
Tuesday, January 21, 11 am - 12 pm SLt at Surreal Art Gallery
BRYN OH
The Standby Sketches
with Special Guest Performer: Rapa Tone
The Standby sketches is an exhibit of the various drawings, paintings, sculptures and even discarded poems such as the one above that were created for the artwork known as the Standby Trilogy on Immersiva. If you enjoy seeing the artists process when creating then please come visit.
I pluck chrysanthemums under the eastern hedge, Then gaze long at the distant summer hills.
-TAO QIAN
The Poem
There sleeps a poem in my mind
That shall my entire soul express.
I feel it vague as sound and wind
Yet sculptured in full definiteness.
It has no stanza, verse or word.
Ev'n as I dream it, it is not.
'Tis a mere feeling of it, blurred,
And but a happy mist round thought.
Day and night in my mystery
I dream and read and spell it over,
And ever round words' brink in me
Its vague completeness seems to hover.
I know it never shall be writ.
I know I know not what it is.
But I am happy dreaming it,
And false bliss, although false, is bliss.
Fernando Pessoa
Não resisto à estas flores. E você?
I can't resist! What about you?
Merece um Denver...
It deserves a John Denver's...
Talk of poem and prayers and promisses
And things that we believe in
How sweet it is to love someone
How right it is to care
How long it's been since yesterday
What about tomorrow?
What about our dreams
and all the memorry we share?
There is someone I love so much,
who is very close to me.
Someone so caring and so sweet,
Thoughtful and kind is she.
Who is there when I need her,
through good times and through bad.
Someone to laugh and share my tears,
The best friend I've ever had.
We have spent many years together,
ups and downs only a few.
Always standing up for me,
as I stand up for you.
So thank you sissy so very much,
one thing I want you to know.
My love will follow you each day,
no matter where you go.
<3 Angel
A transgender girl, in a world so cold
A life of conflict, of stories untold
Of sorrow and pain, passion and apathy
Admiration and loathing, in a constant disparity
Freedom and captivity, a constant fight
Discovery and concealment, hidden from sight
Joy and misery, a delicate dance
Navigating a world that gives her no chance
But she persists, with strength and with grace
Fighting for her place in this human race
A painful journey, to be who she is
In a world that refuses to give her that bliss
She may be different, but she is not alone
For in her heart, her true self has grown
And though the journey may be hard today
To become her true self, it is a price she will pay
For she is not just a label for someone to define,
She is a person that knows what it means
Her mind is clear, her heart is strong
Breaking the chains in search of her dreams
Juan Moreno (electrónica pasmosa ) y Angel Claro (bajo y voz verdosa) actualizan el sonido de 13 poemas adolescentes. Música y poesía no es como pan con tomate pero sirve para hacerse una idea.
The wide expanse of sky above me was just so lovely, early morning a week or so ago.
I have a whole series of shots of these cirrus clouds. Brushing the sky with their delicate, wispy, feather-like strokes.
It was altogether a very special moment. As if mother nature had written a poem just for me. Silence, except a few early-rising birds. One of those moments that make you feel simultaneously tiny, yet an integral part of the universe.
Don't forget to look up!
How lucky we are to experience and share in nature's beautiful gifts such as this.
© All rights reserved.
This is the Quilt with a poem by the irish poet Samuel Lover.
I love it.
I used a Tula Pink Plume layer cake, a grey cotton and some Plume yardage for the binding.Which I already had in my stash.
blogged here:
Next Soldiers
Outside the kitchen window
there wasn't a birdhouse,
but a German pillbox
tucked in the woods
at some strategic World War II
location
and my children stood in the
shattered glass
below the surface
and imagined they had guns
.
.
©Christine A. Owens 7.19.18
.
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
SUBEIBAJA
.
poema: divanni david
postal: se desconoce autor
.
.
Perfecto
pero criticable.
.
Genio
pero muy frío, imnutable.
.
Guapo.
(dicen las mujeres que lo admiran)
Sus ademanes son afeminados.
Será músico o poeta?
-Yo, paso-
.
Erudito
pero vacio.
Compromete en, y con las necedades.
.
Rico,
moltto corruptus.
Cosmopólita
pero sin "Suave Patria"
.
Valiente.
Sin embargo, exento de acción.
En la reacción, le tiembla el pulso.
.
Filósofo
pero incoherente,
sólo, el solo se comprende.
.
Literato
pero le huye a la idea
o no comprende a Sancho Panza y su burro.
.
Poeta o librepensador dice ser
pero le vibran de sudor
índice, pulgar y dedo medio.
(A la hora de coquetear o conquistar a la musa.)
.
Congruente,
aunque sumamente egoista.
Calculador
pero sin una hand held computer
o de perdida, un ábaco.
.
Humanista
pero, otra vez, su inmenso vacio.
.
Sin sociedades, ni siquiera la anónima.
.
Todo eso parece ser
al otro lado de la ventana
el mejor amigo de mi enemigo.
.
Mientras yo, simple soñador revisando el techo, mientras llueve.
Contando las gotas esparcidas por el suelo y por el cálido lecho.
.
A moments respite, that summer eve , I sat
Indeed mum, without a thought,
When I heard her voice, not strange
But alluring with a tinge
Of sensuality in its range,
To thrill my heart and lend my ears.
Slowly accosted she,
"Dear, I pray pardon me
For this intrusion into this hour
Of peace and tranquility, just
Worried am I , to tell you why
Words don't come, they are shy
Oh dear ! How could I, a girl
Of my age, her anguish unveil
When it touches her very heart
The soft most part of it really
With heat unbearable and alarming
Of the hurdles to be encountered on its path".
With her lying on my lap, I thought
What providence has her led
To this plight, to take rest
On my lap, sad and tired
Is it a test ? Impediments put
on two loving hearts
"Oh dear !" looking up she said,
"God bless us ! tomorrow I bid
At this hour shall we meet".
Leaving me with a sigh so quiet
She fled to join her sinless friends
The flowers and butterflies in her garden.
At twilight the next day, weeping
And pressing her plumpy breast
Against my chest, clinging tight
to my neck, she somehow said,
"Lord, I am yours I know, but
Why am I to leave you now ?"
"I believe in Love, I tell you"
With a deep sigh she said
"Be firm, bother not about me
We will meet again be sure".
She for certain spoke the Will of Love
For at last, I proceed to meet her again.
- Anuj Nair
------------------------------------------------------
© 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.
During St. George (St. Jordi) in Girona, one of the most well-known bridges of the city is full of lovely poems and stories. People leave them there for your enjoyment and I managed to get this take while the bridge was full of people trying to read the content of them.
Thank you all for your appreciation.
Follow me on:
© 2016 Jordi Corbilla - All Rights Reserved.
Do not use any of my images without permission.
*Note that groups and albums are machine handled by Flickr Photo Analytics app and we apologise for any inconveniences caused.
Poema 12
Your breast is enough for my heart,
and my wings for your freedom.
What was sleeping above your soul will rise
out of my mouth to heaven.
In you is the illusion of each day.
You arrive like the dew to the cupped flowers.
You undermine the horizon with your absence.
Eternally in flight like the wave.
I have said that you sang in the wind
like the pines and like the masts.
Like them you are tall and taciturn,
and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.
You gather things to you like an old road.
You are peopled with echoes and nostalgic voices.
I awoke and at times birds fled and migrated
that had been sleeping in your soul.
Pablo Neruda
Stepping into Spring!, St. Martin
I have fallen once
when the sky was aflame with light,
and the leaves were stirring towards the same.
The wind sighed softly
and the ground trembled
with the beating of my heart.
The nature of the earth rose and fell
with the moving of the air within my breast.
My eyes closed slowly with the dying of the light,
and I slid quietly into the ease of oblivion,
as I fell.
Poem by Tom Lee
Aunt Gertie
I’ve been visiting Aunt Gertie
We’ve had lunch out at the pub
She always has the same thing
She really likes her grub
The others there all know her
They always say “hello”
They keep a table just for her
(She sometimes meets her beaux)
The pub dates back five centuries
With old and low hung beams
I wonder who has passed through there?
I wonder what their dreams?
Now here’s her steak and kidney pie
A side of mushy peas
(She doesn’t eat them singly
She eats them all in threes)
She never discards her fine hat
And on her head it stays
And she never opens up her purse
And it’s always me who pays!
(But I don’t really mind)
Coloured version here www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=1815537705453759&set=a.1...