Rooted #midnighthaiku

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Rooted in the past

Grown from a dark foundation

Raw and unpolished

Facets of the jewel freed

Refracting eternal light

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Thursday photo prompt: New #writephoto

willowdot21

Standing in the golden glow of dawn they felt the true meaning of “A New Day” . They could see for miles from here, sadly there was nothing much left to see.

It looks just like the books showed it to be but not as colourful. The light though, they had never seen anything like it, nor had they felt this warmth upon their faces. They were glad of their eye protectors.

Those who had last walked free up here had been dead at least fifty years now. These two, Adam and Eve, were the first two chosen to walk the earth since the nuclear holocaust had excelorated the climate change. Making planet Earth inhabitable.

They had been tasked with the job of reconnaissence to find out if it was finally safe to emerge from underground. The first couple to walk the earth for two hundred years.

They sampled the…

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Haiku: New Future

The Dark Netizen

We Have Both Survived,
And So A New Day Shines Forth.
The Future Is Safe…


Prompt:

Thursday photo prompt: New #writephoto

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Explore

Positive Side Of The Coin

Copyright Sue Vincent

I want to go to a new place with you,

I need to take path I have not taken so far,

I want to explore,

If I try to go in path I know,

Then, when will I venture out?

It is unlikely that I will reach new place,

For discovering ourselves we need to move, beside each other.

With love 💖

This is a response to the #writephoto- New curated over at Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo.

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Feature Image Courtesy: Sue Vincent
© Anjali Sharma, Positive Side Of The Coin

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“I was wrong about you” ~ Alethea Kehas

Reblogged from Not Tomatoes:

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It was like any other Tuesday morning, only it wasn’t. No two are ever exactly the same, just as each moment passes by us changed from the one before, whether we are aware of it or not. This Tuesday morning, though, was memorable in unexpected ways.

It began with a small mishap, a yoga mat de-potting an African violet that had been repotted after another de-potting from Millie-the-kitten-almost-cat a few days prior. Poor plant. Yet, accidents happen, and after a quick few swipes with the vacuum order was returned, or so I thought. Yoga with said mentioned kitten-cat Millie, and her side-kick Zelda-the-fifty-pound-dog, is never what I would call orderly. It’s a combination of laughter/hatha/kitten/dog yoga and one ever knows whose mat is going to be chosen for the Millie v. Zelda wrestling match yoga competition practice. This morning, though, Millie decided she’d rather spend the bulk of the class prowling the perimeter and upending every crystal and figurine in sight, while stealing peacock feathers and fishing in the water fountain for more rocks and crystals.

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Open Heart Surgery?…

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This letter extraction and exchange raises some ethical questions.

Is Abram the same person as Abraham?

And likewise for Sarai and Sarah?

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In our day there is increasing evidence that

donated organs bring with them the memories of their donar.

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Continue reading at France and Vincent

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Time travelling: St Wystan’s

We finally made it through the outer door of St Wystan’s church in Repton…and stopped. Two huge columns flank the inner door and, scattered around the porch are fragments of ancient masonry. carved medieval grave slabs and Saxon crosses. It was a good start.

Once through the modern inner door that replaced its heavy, barred predecessor, we were on familiar territory, though every church is different and each one holds a portion of a wider history. Repton church is dedicated to St Wystan, a son of the royal Mercian line, who was murdered in 849.

“His corpse was carried to a monastery which was famous in that age, called Repton, and buried in the tomb of his grandfather, King Wiglaf. Miracles from heaven were not wanting in testimony of his martyrdom; for a column of light shot up to heaven from the spot where the innocent saint was murdered, and remained visible to the inhabitants of that place for 30 days.” Florence of Worcester.

The church was first built in the 700s, although much the current fabric of the building is medieval, with 19th century restorations by Arthur Blomfield. The square tower now sports a tall and incongruous spire dating to around 1340 that is visible for miles around.

The font is one of the first things you notice. Like the Cross in the village, it is octagonal, but where the Cross is plain and simple, the font is richly carved and dates only to the nineteenth century.

The stained glass is spectacular. Apart from one small fragment of medieval glass, the windows are Victorian and by Dudley Forsyth and James Powell & Sons. It is unusual to find so many windows by the same maker, and while aesthetically it brings the hotch-potch of history together, it does so at a  cost. The character created by the mingling of many eras and makers cannot be replaced.

There are the usual complement of tombs and memorials in the body of the church, some of them impressive. My favourites though are somewhat simpler, although I would like to have words with Gilbert Thacker, whose memorial is an unusual, monochrome one in alabaster. The incised images show Gilbert Thacker, who died in 1563, with his wife, their  two children, and a small dog. Thacker inherited the Priory Church and monastic buildings from his father, Thomas, who was Thomas Cromwell’s steward at the time of the Dissolution of the monasteries.  The Priory was his ‘reward’ for his part in the destruction and his son, Gilbert, was responsible for pulling down most of the complex of buildings.

There is a rather endearing plaque to a priest and schoolmaster, who linked church and parish ‘by the sunshine of his presence’. Another, to a headmaster of the school, mentions his ‘strict, but kind administration of his trust’ and ‘the respect and affection of his scholars’. This is a blatant example of how the truth of history can be perverted, for the same master was ‘a big, bullying man, a strict disciplinarian and ferocious flogger’. When the boys heard of his illness, they went wild, broke out of school in search of ale and cake, and, at his death, smashed furniture. Not a great legacy of ‘kindness’ and ‘trust’…

By far the most noble of the memorials, though, is to a knight. The full length effigy sleeps to one side of the chancel arch, his armour marred by the graffiti of countless generations of schoolboys. There is no name carved upon his tomb, but from his arms and insignia, he is thought to be one of the Fraunceys of Foremark, probably Thomas, who died in 1482. Nicholas Fitzherbert married Robert’s daughter and thus inherited Tissington, where his descendants still reside and which we had visited quite recently.

Not only does Tissington give us a bit of a connection to our patch… but we had seen the family arms at Breedon and remarked upon them. The Frauncey family name is not far removed from that of my writing partner…

We wandered the church as we do, taking in all the details… but really, there was only one thing we wanted to see…the crypt. On my first visit, it had been locked and I was really hoping that this time, we would be lucky and could see it together…

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Betwixters?… Stuart France

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“We still don’t know how they did it, or why, or even if they really did it or not…

…We do know that for at least two thousand years these sort of monuments were a preoccupation, were the preoccupation of a world wide culture.

And then they were not!

The traditional supposition is climate change.

But there is another way to look it.

One that involves teleology…

And a change of state…

An evolution.

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Waking #midnighthaiku

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Breaking free of sleep

Waking slowly to the sun

Emergent colour

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Ravens Gathering by Graeme Cummings – a #Bookreview from Roberta Eaton

Reblogged from Roberta Writes:

book reviews

What Amazon says

As she let her gaze drift around her, she saw that there were more birds. Perhaps a dozen or so, perched among the trees that stood on the edge of the clearing. And yet more were arriving, swooping down through the gap overhead and landing on branches that overlooked them. The birds weren’t threatening, yet the sight of them all coming together in this dark and isolated spot was unnerving. Tanya reached a hand out towards Martin, and was relieved to feel him take it. She felt him move in behind her. After the uncertainty she’d experienced with him in a similar position only a few moments ago, she recognised the irony of her reaction. His closeness offered security.
“You know what they are, don’t you?”

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