There is joy in late winters
And sadness in early springs …
Art – “Windflowers” by English painter John William Waterhouse (1849-1917)
There is joy in late winters
And sadness in early springs …
Art – “Windflowers” by English painter John William Waterhouse (1849-1917)
Imagination is a tricky thing. It does not breathe words all the time. Sometimes it is alive, and sometimes it is barely breathing.
When I have ideas, I write in a notebook or on my phone. After that, I transferred my thoughts to my blog.
You do not just sit at your desk and start writing a poem.
I love writing. For me, it is like living in a parallel world of my own making. Nevertheless, the walls of this new realm may sometimes appear blurry.
The idea for the following poem hit me when I looked out the window and felt the mellow shine of autumn glistening into the threes.
I don’t want the summer to end
I don’t want the summer to end
That is why I try to suspend
My thoughts of winters and grey
Garnering drops of snow and dismay.
I don’t want the summer to end
That is why I am hand in hand
With clouds and planets blue,
Roses and treasures that have no clue
Of corrupt winds and misty reign
In the apocalypse of rain.
I don’t want the summer to end…
Art – Daniel F. Gerhartz. Fair use
This is a poem I wrote a long time ago:
The Moon
In the evening
with my eyelashes
I kill all the events of the day
I choke perceptions and
reveries green
That could be real
Pending dream.
In the evening
with my fingers
I spin yarns
For your sweet bedlams…
Also published at Spillwords.com.
Also featured in Quora Digest.
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This is a poem written by AI (Gemini) following the prompt below:
Write a poem about the moon in the style of Emily Dickinson.
A Pearl upon the Velvet Night –
A Lady, shy, in gown of mist,
Her Carriage drawn by spectral light,
Across the wide, star-dusted tryst.
No Coachman bold, nor Steed of fire,
She pilots with a silent hand,
A Beacon, cold, with keen desire,
To pierce the secrets of the land.
The sleeping flowers, unaware,
Unfurl beneath her watchful eye,
And lovers, lost in moonlit snare,
Believe they share her secrecy.
A smile, perhaps, the clouds enfold,
A tear, a crescent, sharp and bright –
The Moon, a story yet untold,
In realms beyond the reach of sight.
What do you think?
Photo by the author.
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I am the lilac hunter
I prey for smells of never-ending springs
I hunt at dusk
as I grope for the blue
Forever…
Art – Vincent van Gogh
A poem written in 2016.