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Discoholic đȘ©
titsay
Sade Olutola
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cherry valley forever
pixel skylines
tannertan36
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
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Jules of Nature
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Today's Document
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
dirt enthusiast
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One Nice Bug Per Day
DEAR READER
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@rogermoorepoet
Tuseday's Child
Tuesdayâs Child 1 Thursdayâs Child has far to go âŠso too does Tuesdayâs child,especially this one, when he sets outon a Tuesday on a long journey. Just by chance, I caught this cormorant.âBehind you, quick,â said Clare.I turned and âClick!â 2 Such a miracle:the first steps of flighttaken over water.That first step heavy,the second one lighter,and the third onescarcely a paint brushpockingâŠ
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(via Patience)
Patience and shuffle the cards - Cervantes
Patience
  âPaciencia y barajar,â / Patience and shuffle the cards Miguel de Cervantes wrote, a long time ago, in the early seventeenth century. I think of it as watching and waiting. We must learn to observe, to stand still and watch the world around us. Who knows what lies there, just beneath the surface, waiting for us to find it? We know our work is lonely and we thrive in the loneliness of theâŠ
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All About Angels
I first saw the Black Angel in AldebarĂĄnâs cultural store in Ăvila (2006). She sat there, in the shop window, along with several other angels, and I worshiped her from the distance of the street. Her image was taken from an original painting from Rogier van der Weyden (1399/1400-1464). This was turned into a 3-D image and then converted into the statue I saw in the shop window. I brought theâŠ
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(via In a country garden ...)
A Golden Oldie -well worth a click!
In a country garden ...
Each day sees another spark of brightness in the grass, in the trees, or at the feeder. Where, I wonder, have they been? In whose back yard did they winter? Some, stray thoughts perched for a moment on a branch in the mind, fluttered last fall in the falling snow and melted away. Others, I know, stayed here with us and we fed them throughout the short cold days. The robins, even though they areâŠ
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Sometimes
Sometimes the road seems uphill all the way. Lungs burn. Breath comes hot and hard and chunky in the throat. Legs hang heavy, muscles will not obey the ownerâs instructions. Consult the operating manual: âTake a break,â it says. âRest now. Donât push too hard.â But to rest is to give in, to come to an abrupt halt, or to drift backwards down the hill. What stubborn streak is painted so deep inâŠ
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Rain Stick
Rain Stick The bruja tilts her rain stick.Rain drops patter one by one,then fall and faster untilher bamboo sky world fillswith the sound of rushing water. Sun-dried cactus thorns beatagainst wooden prison walls. Above me, heavy black cloudsrelease their pent-up rain Scales fall from my eyes.They land on the marimbas,dry beneath the archeswhere wild music sounds.Its half-tamedâŠ
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Dreams
Dreams Dreams are important in Oaxacan mythology. Do we create them ourselves? Or do they come to us as celestial messages? Can they exist without us? Or do we form a symbiotic relationship each dependent on the other? Eight Deer or Tiger Claw / Ocho Venado or Garra de Tigre is a Mixtec Hero; his name is composed of two parts: (1) day name (ie the name of the day on which he was born) EightâŠ
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An Angel at Jarea
https://rogermoorepoet.com/2020/05/23/an-angel-at-jarea-2/?page_id=20830
(via Railway Station 2)
Don't get off the train until you reach your destination!
Railway Station 2
Railway Bridge 1 walking awayfrom Swansea sandsme crossing the bridgeshaking sandfrom my sandals a rare eventSwansea Bay StationCline Valley Linea train at the platform the station masterblows his whistledoors closeslowly the train goesunder the bridge I stand in a cloudwrapped uphalf-blindedin huge puffs of smoke filling my lungsassaulting nostrils and eyeswith the sting of cinderstheâŠ
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(via Railway Bridge)
How could we not write poetry about such things?
Railway Bridge
Railway Bridge walking awayfrom Swansea sandsme crossing the bridgeshaking sandfrom my sandals a rare eventSwansea Bay StationCline Valley Linea train at the platform the station masterblows his whistledoors closeslowly the train goesunder the bridge I stand in a cloudwrapped uphalf-blindedin huge puffs of smoke filling my lungsassaulting nostrils and eyeswith the sting of cindersthe stenchâŠ
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(via Swansea Sands)
âto see the world in a grain of sandâ
Swansea Sands
Swansea Sands walking homeover the railway bridge sand in my hairsand in my socks sand in my sandalssand like sandpapersanding me down tides rise and fallsea gulls callthe bay so bigand me so smallas tiny as a tinygrain of sand Comment: Not Swansea Sands at all, sorry. But a sandy beach all the same, here on the south coast of New Brunswick. The theme of the poem is sand â a grain of sand ââŠ
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(via Pot Holes)
âWatch out for that pot hole!â âWhich one?â Snap, crackle, pop! âThat one.â