Just before winter
Autumn’s leftover’s lay on the ground.
Whilst winter’s white shall then return.
Salmon Arm, Shuswap valley.
Canadian landscape, in BC.
Winter’s paradise in ones back yard as birds far and near take part in the festivities !
Photographer’s scout for open spaces.
U-hampered places, to capture the breadth,
the essence of where they’ve been…
what they’ve seen…
felt and heard…
They do so with-o a word…
A hushed touch;
careful steps move
forward to capture a frame,
day after day.
An image is stayed.
To be displayed;
This is photography.
Photographer’s see the beauty in things…
that otherwise, by happenstance, may be overlooked…
the lens to capture all of these.
The result, it, is sure to please.
The echo, of photos, all is sure to hear…
Sentiment felt, visually appreciated.
Memories to rush a front with a glance.
But as a photographer, their love,
for their art,
sometimes takes them to great
length’s, in stride.
Beauty, it, is seen captured by these…
the ones holding the lens…
We to replay their paradise…
over and over, at times tirelessly…
This is photography…
The artist’s heart, soul and
mind…lingers in these…
the photograph captured –
and at times crafted artistically…
depending on one’s likes or personality.
Moments are captured in time,
to bring, us, joy.
This is photography.
As long as there is breath and life,
photography will never die.
lives on, even after one’s
breath is gone.
In spring, it’s such a splendid thing
when bud or rosette
along branch-let – stem
form flora’s – leaves.
The grasses, too, start to grow.
Forage – green, starts to show.
Sprouts forming, push forth.
And spring-time floral’s, they display,
shew forth a beautiful array,
for one to see.
Our world seemingly renews, is pristine;
in the presence of all things flourishing.
Oh, so, blossom before thine death…!
Leave Mother nature to try her best…
Empty of her eggs to nest…
In a Robin’s surely home.
amber, leaves of
red swaying in the
wind as though
to offer blessing’s from above.
Adorn the world with peace & love.
Saintly is thy array, Oh, autumn…
as green’s and carmine
clothe in plaid…
in creative clad.
Water your neighbors garden,
and not your own…to see
theirs flourish as yours dies!
Don’t cry now…
when your harvest is dry…
withered and sparse…
with little to nourish…
Is is too difficult to be genuine and true?
Will it bruise your ego to love earnestly?
Is it too difficult to stand for loveliness?
Will it stagnate your putrid blood-thirst?
Is it too difficult to prove that you care?
Will it foil your plans if to offer comfort?
Is it too difficult to exoner your partner?
Will it end in wrath if to purge the past?
If it too difficult to embrace uniqueness?
Can we not, all, get along in this world?
Seedling’s grow as sprouts in the wind…
pushing through the ground and then…
wishing for more to come…
They search for the warmth of the sun…
On summer’s day, they stand tall and fay…
Floral colors to be seen by all…
But with the tiresome heat and drought…
for naught, for they see not one tiny drop…
Of rain but tis’ for later day’s.
But plight of winter does refrain…
in movement for those…
even those…as whirling wind’s
come and go…
come and go…
Factor in, this, endless time…
that Mother knows this
rhythm – rhyme.
And for Ner I write with eyes’
And watery dreams…
fade with tears…
Oh yet – yet, love me dear…
this life…our life…my life.
In spring the ground gives birth..
guided by Mother’s timely state…
A backhoe, garden hoe excavate.
Plants quiver in beds with rivers.
Drops of rain tender roots retain.
All is green, spring floras gleam.
Ah, yes, a reviving breeze blows.
Now you know spring has come.
But in summer the heat it stifles.
The ground becomes power soft.
Dust clouds roll in stormy swirls.
And seldom a bird wills to shrill.
All’s quiet along countryside hill.
Streams of gold canopy the road.
While willows offer cooler shade.
A tandem survey travelers make.
It’s autumn that offers lusty gaze.
Piles of leaves homeowners rake.
Plumbs of steam remind of chill.
A bonfire’s breath is huskier still.
Crisp frost stiffens blades, leaves.
It’s then a field becomes slippery.
Newfound colors nature receives.
Autumn, so unprecedented is she.
What comes last, it’s winter, gasp?
Layer upon layer of snow softens.
Drifts cling, a cotton-wade cover.
To contradict night is stark white.
Wool throw blankets offer retreat.
Sweaters, mittens and long socks.
Add a little shield from cold chill.
Sparks and twinkles, atmospheric.
A quiet corner for writers to get inspired one word at a time.
the stories behind the pictures, and vice versa
Lucidly in shadows. Poetry from a hand that writes misty.
A drop of ink may make a million think - George Gordon Byron
Following My Muse
Poetry From the Heart!
A PLACE FOR PROFESSIONAL & PASSIONATE POETS
flash fiction and other writing
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