morning waits for youuntethered, open-armeddawn will deny the darkness Hosting the Quadrille prompt at dVerse Poets Pub. The word I have chosen to include in your 44 word poem is “tangle” or any derivative of the word. Doors open at 3 p.m. Feel free to join in. Image: Michelle ...
mostly in retirement. I don’t know if anyone will be as interested in this as they might be in other more practical courses for June, such as understanding kidney stones, garden slugs and defensive driving. In any case,
As it stands for now, the poem poses little challenge in terms of its formal aspects: it loosely paraphrases the well-known biblical story of the Israelites' flight from Egypt across the open waters of the Red Sea and their persecution by Phar- aoh's army, who are then crushed by the ...
“After I arrived in Ireland, I tended sheep every day and I prayed frequently during the day. More and more the Love of God increased, and my sense of awe before God. Faith grew, and my spirit was moved, so in one day I would pray up to one hundred times and at night perhaps t...
Love is a poem, a poet, poetic; love is poetry, in eMotion. Love gives hope, love brings joy, love shows grace; love is amazing. Love is an eagle, a sparrow, a dove; love has wings. Love has height, love has depth, love has breadth; love has perspective. Love is an ocean, ...
Posted inAbout Life,Christianity,Liberty,Poetry|TaggedAmerica,America the Beautiful,Louis William Rose,militia,patriots,Poem,revolution,soldiers|Leave a comment On Rebellion Posted onJuly 1, 2022byLouis William Rose “I’M AS MAD AS HELL, AND I’M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE!”[1] ...
Questions that are none of my business to ask, and yet my duty to ask. Tom is gone. He is no longer here. Except for what he left behind, including people who loved him, like me. The poem “Funeral Blues” by W.H. Auden explores how earth shattering death is in stark, unbearable...
For the Word-Lovers: Soul Etymology of the word soul, quote from C. G. Jung’s “Modern Man in Search of a Soul”. The Soul of the Roseby John William Waterhouse (1908) An unexpected etymological delight cropped up in my reading of Jung. Thesoul, wouldn’t you want to know whence...
It’s not that I’m addicted to gloominess, but I am after all a Hungarian myself. So it must be something in the blood. Here is the title poem from the collection I read: Perched on Nothing’s Branch I finally arrive at the sand’s wet edge, ...
When Isabel witnesses the fall from the balcony, her first thought was of Auden’s poem on the fall of Icarus. I’ll give this series another chance. Some things are an acquired taste. Perhaps Isabel will grow on me too like Precious did. Whether it’s rooibos or Scottish Breakfast, we...