View allAll Photos Tagged tinytales
Between fabric and light, life dries its tears and finds its colors anew.
Even life’s simpler moments feel this wind carrying our dreams forward, which gives meaning to our dreams and carries them forward
⁛ A gust of wind becomes a timeless trace.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
Υπάρχει ένα παράθυρο που δεν κλείνει ποτέ.
Στολισμένο με όνειρα, γεμάτο με χρώματα αναμνήσεων,
μένει πάντα ανοιχτό να καλωσορίζει ψυχές
που ξέρουν να αγαπούν τη ζωή.
Εκεί, ο αέρας του κόσμου γίνεται δροσιά·
οι θάλασσες φέρνουν μηνύματα από μακριά,
κι ο ήλιος αφήνει κάθε πρωί ένα χαμόγελο
στο περβάζι.
Το παράθυρο αυτό δεν είναι από πέτρα ούτε από ξύλο·
είναι από πίστη, φως και καρδιά.
Κι όσο υπάρχουν μάτια που κοιτάζουν με ελπίδα,
θα μένει πάντα ανοιχτό.
⁛ Στην ανάσα της ελπίδας γεννιέται πάντα η αρχή.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
With eyes full of mischief
and a smile dripping sunlight,
she holds secrets only she knows,
while her little goats
become the most loyal audience.
No words are needed
only laughter, play,
and a soul that turns
each day into a fairy tale.
⁛ Innocence is life’s most beautiful song.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
Εκεί που η σκέψη πετά, oλα φαίνονται πιο ελαφριά από ψηλά.
Ο φόβος μικραίνει, τα προβλήματα μαλακώνουν στις άκρες των συννέφων, και η καρδιά θυμάται πως γεννήθηκε να πετά.
Όταν αλλάζεις το ύψος σου, αλλάζει και η αλήθεια. Και τότε, βλέπεις καθαρά τι αξίζει να κρατάς και τι ήταν απλώς ζεστός αέρας.
⁛ γραμμένο με αέρα, όχι με αγωνία
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi. All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Everything I share here comes from my own soul and my own journey.
Please don’t copy or rewrite my texts as your own.
Your own voice deserves its own space.
In the turquoise hush of a distant reef, a malarial-bay sighs into velvet blue, and depths cradle a moonlit rumor of song.
There, a tiny island lifts a wooden smile, green breath of palms, a hush of quiet bloom, a dream house stands like a glad, patient vow, its carved eyes listening to tides that forget time.
A lonely palm sways in thought, not wind, the turquoise sea, a cradle for forgotten hours, where longing wears the gentleness of drift.
No storm can dim this fragile, shy glow, a harbor for hopes that never reach the shore, a moment you borrow to forget your name and become a breeze in a world made whole.
⁛ A fragile glow remains, where the sea teaches silence to dream.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
I love the little verse printed at the end of this Whitman Tiny Tales Book, "The Mockingbird's Joke". I have accumulated a nice collection of these childhood favorites. I plan to scan and post some photos of them soon!
"Mom, I'm scared! What’s that lady doing?!"
"Ugh, not the paparazzi again! Don't worry, my little one, I’ve got you." She squawks at the woman, "These waters are ours, move along, human!"
"Kids, hurry! Let’s go! Can’t even get a minute of peace around here!"
As they waddle off, Mama Duck shakes her head, muttering, "Just wait until tomorrow at 4 a.m., I'll give her a wake up call she'll never forget! Let’s see how she likes being disturbed."
© 2024 Lorrie Agapi. All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Everything I share here comes from my own soul and my own journey.
Please don’t copy or rewrite my texts as your own.
Your own voice deserves its own space.
Where the flow never ceases, the soul learns that strength can also be gentleness.
⁛ In quiet waters, the heart opens its sight.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
Even the smallest petal contains an entire universe of colors.
⁛ a petal dropped from the garden of myths
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
A lonely, injured fox hobbled past a cottage, dragging its tail behind it like a silent question.
It found a hollow under a garden shed,
where the warm footsteps of strangers had once been heard,
and rested there, listening to the rain.
Exhausted and in pain, he felt two gentle hands lift him up, speaking softly in a language without words.
It sounded soothing, as if he understood what was being said.
The fox was so grateful and kept coming back to that cottage, somehow sensing that home is not a place, it is often a patient, listening presence that forgives every limp on the path to belonging and welcomes you as you are, with everything that brought you here.
⁛ with the faint touch of understanding, for those who listen with wounds still open
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
Ἐνὸς λεπτοῦ κόσμου ὁ ψίθυρος
ἡ ὕφανση μιᾶς ἀπουσίας
ποὺ μοσχοβολᾶ ὄνειρο.
Μὲ χέρια ποὺ δὲν ἀναστενάζουν
ὑφαίνει δὲν εἶναι ἡ πλάνη,
ἀλλὰ ἡ μνήμη ποὺ προσποιεῖται ζωὴ.
Φορᾶ εἴδωλον ἀπό παλιό νερό,
μὲ φόρεμα σιωπῆς,
κι ὅμως, σὲ κάθε ἀόρατη βελονιά
μια μοῖρα λικνίζεται.
Ἔξω, τὰ ρόδα ὑποκλίνονται
στὴν ἡσυχία τῆς γυναικὸς ποὺ περιμένει
τὸ νῆμα νὰ γίνει ψαλμὸς,
καὶ τὸ πανί νὰ θυμηθεῖ
ἕνα παραμύθι ποὺ ἀκόμα γεννιέται.
⁛ σκιὴ φωνῆς, στὸ μεταξωτὸ τοῦ μύθου
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi. All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Everything I share here comes from my own soul and my own journey.
Please don’t copy or rewrite my texts as your own.
Your own voice deserves its own space.
Take the little boat, and the waters will guide you through the gate. Beyond it lies a realm where the sky never darkens, and every horizon glows with golden fire.
There, time rests, and the heart learns only the language of light.
A world entirely from sunsets, waiting just for you.
⁛ Every journey begins where wonder dares to open.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
They sat where the roots had counted centuries,
yet in their eyes time held no claim.
The lines upon their faces spoke of journeys,
and their silences guarded tender secrets.
Love had not faded with the years
it had only deepened, like the tree that sheltered them.
⁛ Some hearts never grow old.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
Wild horses glide where the horizon breaks, manes like banners, bright with the sun’s own kiss. They know no doors, no locks, no guards, only the open sky and the thunder’s hiss.
Hooves drum earth in a heartbeat’s chant, bridges of wind between each fearless stride, a pulse of wild light, a roaring tide.
They carve their names on meadows wide, teaching the heart to leap, to dare, to roam. In their unbound song, we hear our own longing for release, for a life called Freedom.
⁛ Thought of freedom that escaped time
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
Waiting is a joyful hope,
patience a chant, steady and clear.
Each thought a seed, shaping the year,
blossomed and known yet still the horizon lingers near.
⁛ echoes beneath the quiet light
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
Once upon a time, in a bustling town of iron rails and gaslight, a young ringmaster named Elias ran a traveling circus. His eyes shone with the gleam of a dreamer who believed the world could be pieced together with courage and laughter. With a bow, he strode through the tent aisle.
His mascot, a white duck named Alabaster, waddled beside him every morning, perched gently on Elias's gloved hand.
Elias believed passionately in two things, The show must be grand, but the heart must remain soft. As the crates shook with the roar of lions and the drumbeat pounded like rain on a tin roof, he spoke to the animals as if they were old friends. And when the crowd fell silent, their eyes wide like coins, alabaster slipped into his palm, and magic flowed through the crowd.
Thus, beneath the striped banners and the breath of heaven, a ringmaster and his white duck sewed joy into the cityscape. In the candlelight of the finale, as the curtain fell and the applause rolled like warm thunder,
Elias lifted his hat to the heavens and thanked the quiet courage of a simple bird who believed with him that happiness could be passed from hand to hand, from heart to heart, until every face wore a smile so radiant it outshone the stars.
⁛ A true story, stolen from a dream’s pocket.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
May joy illuminate your days, gentle softness embrace each moment, and kindness guide you toward the dreams your heart holds dear.
⁛ a thought carried by light and feeling
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
A gentle feeling shines, delicate as morning dew. It tickles my soul, gives me courage like wings of light and dances gently through every heartbeat within me.
Freedom comes from the heart, no one can take it away from you.
⁛ What you carry within you becomes your world.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi. All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Everything I share here comes from my own soul and my own journey.
Please don’t copy or rewrite my texts as your own.
Your own voice deserves its own space.
Where there is shadow, there is also mysterious clarity.
Through the lens of the soul, colors shine brighter and clearer,
nothing escapes, even wilted leaves become eternal flames.
⁛ Where the gaze deepens, eternity unfolds.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, story, and thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me,
a piece that will always remind you that these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you change them, it is still my soul, lingering and whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and so you copy what belongs to others.
Feedback geben
Why does the pebble not wear out,
while time scratches it endlessly?
Maybe because it does not resist.
Maybe because it remembers
how to be water,
without ceasing to be stone.
⁛ What is balanced, does not fear wear and tear.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi. All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Everything I share here comes from my own soul and my own journey.
Please don’t copy or rewrite my texts as your own.
Your own voice deserves its own space.
A gentle heart, patient and full of quiet joy, she watches them playfully, curiously,
as they glide across the pond
knowing their moods by the sound of their quacks.
And when the cold wind blows,
she shelters the small and the shy, holds them close, and warms them tenderly
so gently, so lovingly,
that even the water sparkles with joy.
⁛ Even softness has strength, just look closer.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
Steam rises from the cups, sweet as chocolate, while tiny wings transform everything into melody.
Where mountains guard the horizon, even the smallest moment tastes sweet and eternal.
⁛ In simple joys, the soul finds its feast.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
"A Little Mother Goose"
Illustrated by Janet Laura Scott
Whitman Publishing Co., 1959
This little book includes the following nursery rhymes:
"Little Miss Muffet"
"Once I Saw a Little Bird"
"A Little Boy Went in the Barn"
"Two Little Dogs"
"Little Tommy Tittlemouse"
"Little Bo Peep"
"I Had a Little Hobby Horse"
"Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star"
"Little Robin Redbreast"
"Little Tommy Tucker"
"I Love Little Pussy"
"Little Dame Crump"
"A Little Cock Sparrow"
"Little Jack Horner"
"Little King Boggen"
"There Was a Little Maid"
Στο χωριό το πάνω πάνω, εκεί που τελειώνει ο δρόμος και αρχίζουν οι γαϊδουροπατημασιές,
ζει ο κυρ Θανάσης, γνωστός και ως «Αεράτος».
Όχι γιατί έχει κανένα αμάξι, όχι!
Γιατί καβαλά τον γαϊδουράκο του, τον Τρύφωνα,
με τέτοιο ύφος, που ο αέρας ντρέπεται να φυσήξει δίπλα του.
Μια μέρα λοιπόν, να σου τον, κατηφορίζει το μονοπάτι γελώντας, τραγουδώντας
και με ένα φανερά “δανεισμένο” φαναράκι στο χέρι,
κρατημένο σαν λείψανο φωτεινό,
λες και μόλις επέστρεψε από πανηγύρι τριών χωριών.
«Έλα τώρα, ένα φαναράκι είναι», μουρμουρίζει με χαμόγελο,
«Και φέγγει και καλοστέκει, γιατί να κάθεται μόνο του στον κήπο;»
Ο Τρύφωνας δεν μίλησε. Απλώς βάδιζε περήφανα,
σα να ήξερε πως για πρώτη φορά στη ζωή του
ήταν μέρος θαύματος και όχι γεωργικής μεταφοράς.
Η κυρα Ευγενία, βέβαια, που το ‘χε στον κήπο της,
δεν είπε κουβέντα μόνο που από τότε, κάθε βράδυ,
κάθεται λίγο πιο κοντά στο δικό της φως.
⁛ Το φαναράκι ακόμη φωτίζει. Ίσως όχι τον δρόμο,
αλλά σίγουρα το κέφι του κυρ Θανάση.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi. All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Everything I share here comes from my own soul and my own journey.
Please don’t copy or rewrite my texts as your own.
Your own voice deserves its own space.
Once upon a time, there was a feeling, gentle and timid, that lit up the sky. A word born in the first glow of the heart, a tender touch known only to lovers.
It carried the softness of dawn’s first light, pure and bright.
Swirling thoughts embraced them both, until time fell like rain on tender roots, patience, understanding, and so love blossomed in full splendor.
Now it lingers, warm and true, marked by the morning dew.
It was a feeling that united two hearts forever.
⁛ Where the heart once opened, time has no dominion.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
"Little Miss Muffet"
"A Little Mother Goose "
Illustrated by Janet Laura Scott
Whitman Publishing Co., 1959
A rounded rest.
A small weight upon the windowsill
and suddenly, the world stops chasing itself.
⁛ Peace arrives without announcement.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
"Little Bo Peep"
"Little Jack Horner"
"A Little Mother Goose "
Illustrated by Janet Laura Scott
Whitman Publishing Co., 1959
In a world not built from without but born from within, there was a gate that led nowhere but to yourself. Those who passed through it found their form in dreamlike, imaginative landscapes, rivers and clouds.
It is a magical moment when one remembers who one truly is, in all its beauty... before the world forgot them.
⁛ A path remembered is never truly lost.
© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.
My heart, my words. Please respect them.
Every poem, every story, and every thought I share is a part of my soul. To take them without permission is to take a piece of me
a piece that will always remind you these words are mine and can never be yours.
Even if you alter them, it is still my soul that lingers, whispering to you: You are incapable of creating your own, and that is why you copy what belongs to others.
U, Me and Her. #Babyannouncement #MeGonnaBeMom #Tinytales #Storyteller #tejesn #instalove #ParentsToBe #Maternity #Newborn #Arrival #Outdoors #followme
It is a lesser known fallacy that most of the smallest diaries in the wardrobe are kept by socks. Here are some snippets of sock-ly wisdom and activity: "scrunched up, in a bag", "in a bag for seventeen days now, quite neat and quite quiet", "today i am the happy one, and also the happy too", "spent a great afternoon on a train, wrapped around Mister Fragile - nice fellow, very safe", "a day of struggle with my next postal pontoon move". Tiny Edward Saturday enjoys diaries (whether they be woollen or a cotton mix), but he wishes it to be known that he lives each day freely, like an eagle, and not in a shoe.
A Angela Azevedo jornalista, professora, fotógrafa e fundadora do projecto "Tiny Tales" foi a nossa oradora.
O evento foi patrocinado pela Gira Terra Oficina de Artes, e pelo Senzu Coffee.
Liga-te e partilha
Contacta-nos
porto@creativemornings.com
CreativeMornings/Porto
Angela Azevedo journalist, teacher, photographer, and founder of "Tiny Tales" was our speaker. The event was sponsored by Gira Terra Oficina de Artes, and Senzu Coffee.
Connect and share
Contact us
porto@creativemornings.com
CreativeMornings/Porto
Crunches, taps, shuffles and clacks are so often followed by fluttering. Tiny Edward Saturday saw this and it gave him cause to consider: why do tiny birds fly away from my footsteps when i am so far? After tracking down some talkative tweeters, and undertaking some whispery phone calls, he was in possession of the incredible truth. Birds beat a flapping retreat because they are constantly mistaking people for those other invisible earth walkers, the ones with 20 foot arms who love to tickle feathers. Why, they say, why wont they ever take squawk for an answer?
A Angela Azevedo jornalista, professora, fotógrafa e fundadora do projecto "Tiny Tales" foi a nossa oradora.
O evento foi patrocinado pela Gira Terra Oficina de Artes, e pelo Senzu Coffee.
Liga-te e partilha
Contacta-nos
porto@creativemornings.com
CreativeMornings/Porto
Angela Azevedo journalist, teacher, photographer, and founder of "Tiny Tales" was our speaker. The event was sponsored by Gira Terra Oficina de Artes, and Senzu Coffee.
Connect and share
Contact us
porto@creativemornings.com
CreativeMornings/Porto
A Angela Azevedo jornalista, professora, fotógrafa e fundadora do projecto "Tiny Tales" foi a nossa oradora.
O evento foi patrocinado pela Gira Terra Oficina de Artes, e pelo Senzu Coffee.
Liga-te e partilha
Contacta-nos
porto@creativemornings.com
CreativeMornings/Porto
Angela Azevedo journalist, teacher, photographer, and founder of "Tiny Tales" was our speaker. The event was sponsored by Gira Terra Oficina de Artes, and Senzu Coffee.
Connect and share
Contact us
porto@creativemornings.com
CreativeMornings/Porto