Beautiful Rust
by ~R~
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Come away, O human child: To the waters and the wild with a fairy, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand
-- William Butler Yeats
BeautifulRust @ Flickr
May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
And may your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young.
-- Bob Dylan
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Tip-toe onto the Tulip Tree
I thought this bald eagle was carrying a fish, but it was just his huge rear end... It was still very exciting. :)
9th Mar 2010, 20:11
| tags:bald,eaglecomments (6)
Lunch was Geese and Quackers
9th Mar 2010, 19:59
| tags:"snow geese",bufflehead,duckscomments (4)
Sleepy-face Sunny-boy
Owen, less than 5 minutes out of bed; shot #2 is a total blur, but when I see it, I hear his high pitched puppy yawn, "y-eee-ooOoow". :) Then we escorted Sammy part-way to the bus stop.
I cropped that first one because it was crooked as heck, but the colours haven't been altered at all...We were all that bright. :)
I cropped that first one because it was crooked as heck, but the colours haven't been altered at all...We were all that bright. :)
9th Mar 2010, 13:30
comments (4)
Sunshine in a Bag
It's really in the bag, HERE, if you'd like to see my sunrise in motion.
8th Mar 2010, 13:50
| tags:sunrise,mondaycomments (14)
Spring?
It might sneak up on us yet! :)
*crossing fingers and hoping hoping...okay uncrossing fingers and typing typing...now back to hoping...
*crossing fingers and hoping hoping...okay uncrossing fingers and typing typing...now back to hoping...
7th Mar 2010, 20:52
| tags:pussywillow,owen,yardcomments (6)
Sunshine on the Water
If I had a tale that I could tell you, I'd tell a tale sure to make you smile.
-- John Denver
-- John Denver
6th Mar 2010, 12:23
| tags:sunrise,saturdaycomments (16)
All the Earth Enchanted Ground
(viewed 46 times)
COME, my beloved, hear from me
Tales of the woods or open sea.
Let our aspiring fancy rise
A wren's flight higher toward the skies;
Or far from cities, brown and bare,
Play at the least in open air.
In all the tales men hear us tell
Still let the unfathomed ocean swell,
Or shallower forest sound abroad
Below the lonely stars of God;
In all, let something still be done,
Still in a corner shine the sun,
Slim-ankled maids be fleet of foot,
Nor man disown the rural flute.
Still let the hero from the start
In honest sweat and beats of heart
Push on along the untrodden road
For some inviolate abode.
Still, O beloved, let me hear
The great bell beating far and near-
The odd, unknown, enchanted gong
That on the road hales men along,
That from the mountain calls afar,
That lures a vessel from a star,
And with a still, aerial sound
Makes all the earth enchanted ground.
Love, and the love of life and act
Dance, live and sing through all our furrowed tract;
Till the great God enamoured gives
To him who reads, to him who lives,
That rare and fair romantic strain
That whoso hears must hear again.
-- Robert Louis Stevenson. Come, My Beloved, Hear From Me.
Tales of the woods or open sea.
Let our aspiring fancy rise
A wren's flight higher toward the skies;
Or far from cities, brown and bare,
Play at the least in open air.
In all the tales men hear us tell
Still let the unfathomed ocean swell,
Or shallower forest sound abroad
Below the lonely stars of God;
In all, let something still be done,
Still in a corner shine the sun,
Slim-ankled maids be fleet of foot,
Nor man disown the rural flute.
Still let the hero from the start
In honest sweat and beats of heart
Push on along the untrodden road
For some inviolate abode.
Still, O beloved, let me hear
The great bell beating far and near-
The odd, unknown, enchanted gong
That on the road hales men along,
That from the mountain calls afar,
That lures a vessel from a star,
And with a still, aerial sound
Makes all the earth enchanted ground.
Love, and the love of life and act
Dance, live and sing through all our furrowed tract;
Till the great God enamoured gives
To him who reads, to him who lives,
That rare and fair romantic strain
That whoso hears must hear again.
-- Robert Louis Stevenson. Come, My Beloved, Hear From Me.
5th Mar 2010, 21:04
comments (4)
Strawberry Sunrise
(viewed 49 times)
Jane Awake
The opals hiding your lids
as you sleep, as you ride ponies
mysteriously, spring to bloom
like the blue flowers of autumn
each nine o'clock. And curls
tumble languorously towards
the yawning rubber band, tan,
your hand pressing all that
riotous black sleep into
the quiet form of daylight
and its sunny disregard for
the luminous volutions, oh!
and the budding waltzes
we swoop through in nights.
Before dawn you roar with
your eyes shut, unsmiling,
your volcanic flesh hides
everything from the watchman,
and the tendrils of dreams
strangle policemen running by
too slowly to escape you,
the racing vertiginous waves
of your murmuring need. But
he is day's guardian saint
that policeman, and leaning
from your open window you ask
him what to dress to wear and
to comb your hair modestly,
for that is now your mode.
Only by chance tripping on stairs
do you repeat the dance, and
then, in the perfect variety of
subdued, impeccably disguised,
white black pink blue saffron
and golden ambiance, do we find
the nightly savage, in a trance.
Frank O'Hara
The opals hiding your lids
as you sleep, as you ride ponies
mysteriously, spring to bloom
like the blue flowers of autumn
each nine o'clock. And curls
tumble languorously towards
the yawning rubber band, tan,
your hand pressing all that
riotous black sleep into
the quiet form of daylight
and its sunny disregard for
the luminous volutions, oh!
and the budding waltzes
we swoop through in nights.
Before dawn you roar with
your eyes shut, unsmiling,
your volcanic flesh hides
everything from the watchman,
and the tendrils of dreams
strangle policemen running by
too slowly to escape you,
the racing vertiginous waves
of your murmuring need. But
he is day's guardian saint
that policeman, and leaning
from your open window you ask
him what to dress to wear and
to comb your hair modestly,
for that is now your mode.
Only by chance tripping on stairs
do you repeat the dance, and
then, in the perfect variety of
subdued, impeccably disguised,
white black pink blue saffron
and golden ambiance, do we find
the nightly savage, in a trance.
Frank O'Hara
5th Mar 2010, 12:36
comments (6)