The insults poured from their mouths like dark water cascading in a torrent, tumbling on top of him and those he loved.
The more they beat him down, the more determined he was to stand up.
In the end, like the rocks worn down by years of abuse from a waterfall, he could take the punishment no longer.
Continue reading at Iain Kelly
*
…St Lawrence on the Hill finally yields to our belated scrutiny after two unsuccessful attempts at entry and proves something of an enigma. On the one hand it is an old church on an ancient site and the energies of the place must still be operating as of old because the Red Kites, as we know only to well, are simply all over the place, and yet the interior of the church, on first glance at least, bears absolutely no resemblance to a church at all. It looks more like an eighteenth century drawing room replete with ornate gildings and renaissance and baroque type works of art.
My mind presents the images of Dashwood attached to one of the tunnel entrances in the caves directly below; the dandified libertine raising his glass of wine and the pious candle holding monk in his habit…
Continue reading at The Silent Eye
The water cleaves the heart of the forest
opening the wound. Forcing its way to freedom
it pours the mud of civilization into her gaping chest
beating a rhythm faster than nature
We have forgotten how to move
with her river. How to beat the heart in time
with the flow and not race
Continue reading at The Light Behind the Story
Do I cease to exist if I am not seen,
Like a tree in a forest that makes no sound
Unless it is heard when it falls?
Do I exist in the mirror when I look,
An illusory glimpse into a framed reality
That is not real?
Viewer or image, who can say
Where reality resides
Or if we are but dreaming?
Is my life a mere illusion of the soul
Or perhaps a whispered image
In the mind of God?
Or is illusion’s self the fount,
Imagined solidity
Becoming real with every heartbeat?
If I am forgotten, was I ever there?
Did I leave my trace upon a world
Whose reality I question
Or was I just a zephyr
In the cosmic night
Whispered to the stars
By voiceless lips…
Or did I touch your heart?
Reblogged from Goff James at Art, Photography and Poetry
Light and shadow
Nature’s delicate balance
Intimately linked
*
Reblogged from Jim Webster, aka Tallis Steelyard:
Some people are notorious for their ability to enjoy ill health. They revel in it. They take to their beds with alacrity and when the inevitable stream of visitors arrive bearing fruit or delicacies for the invalid, they are met by the patient coughing pathetically, but still managing to smile faintly in an ‘oh so tired’ manner. The cynic would comment that at least they are out of the way. Their voice too faint to reach the ears of those working downstairs, they are forced to draw attention to their needs by hammering on the floor with a shoe.
Eventually they rise from their beds and shuffle gingerly downstairs, husbanding what little strength they have. They take their place on a couch, perhaps with a light blanket drawn over them. There, enthroned, they dominate the household. Nothing happens without them noticing, commenting upon, and of course wisely suggesting ways it could have been done better (and more quietly, without disturbing them) had they only been asked.
Continue reading at Tallis Steelyard
it all comes back on certain days
in a torrential downpour
emotions, not just memories
emotions lend credence to thoughts
in a torrential downpour
I feel submerged, but so alive
Continue reading at Reena Saxena
Continue reading at The Silent Eye
Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 