I see her from afar, Sitting alone in the early day, Tracing gossamer thoughts And hearing the whispers Of her heart. Her muse is the One Who is not there, The One who is Inaccessible, Yet whose presence Is so real that He stirs the deepest passion Of her womanly soul. Thoughts shape images, Murmurs, words And she sings Of smoke and fire, Incandescent and all-consuming, Of drink so concentrated One sip intoxicates. I listen, taken by her music Toward her heart’s Center, Hoping for invisibility, That my presence not Disturb her muse, Hoping to be unseen By her consort, Shiva, Should he return While she is in her Bliss. ©sealanehill, 2017 For @soulreserve
In the solace of mist
Rhine full of emaciated ghosts , clear faces with manic hatchets , disappointed trunks , floating flowers , agonizing masks , rustling dreams , palpitating empty baskets , plodding branches & thoughts of blithe martyrs
Like all the rivers
I admit to being slightly obsessed with taking photos that have crooked horizons and squaring them to horizontal. I know there’s a notion that a cock-eyed frame makes a more dramatic photo, but it often seems to me that the result just looks lazy or sloppy, like a snapshot, of which there are plenty with crooked horizons. Here’s one where I question whether inattention to the horizon is an improvement—a fashion photo with a world champion skydiver (link below). Left, as published (in Tumblr): what’s going on?; right, with horizon horizontal: the model is now clearly arrowing toward the ground.
Yellow rose, Wytheville, VA, 8/19/2017
Ma confiance dans la poésie est sans limite. Elle est seule capable de me consoler de l’horreur du monde.
Dany Laferrière
(via mignonne-allons-voir-si-la-rose)
A non-sorted terrigenous deposit of large clasts in a matrix of fines.
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