unfold
from verdant bud
petals’ shy revealing
blushing at the sun’s warm kisses
the hidden nectar, a sweet seduction
to hungry dance of birds and bees
sensuous, you make seed
so new life may
unfold
~
Words and Photography ©2017 Tanya Cliff ~ to contact me
Entry posted in poetry & Rictameter Verse. Bookmark the permalink.
~
Please check out Linda J. Wollf’s explanation and example of Rictameter Verse:
https://urbanpoetry2017.com/2017/03/16/poetry-between-sunrises-and-sunsets/
https://pixabay.com/en/winter-snow-sky-outdoors-tree-2402295/
***
SUDDEN BUT TEMPORARY DEATH
***
A sudden snowfall
After much sunshine brings death
Tree got its buds kicked
***
https://pixabay.com/en/worried-girl-woman-waiting-sitting-413690/
***
DON’T
***
Summon up regrets
Relive the very bad stuff
Suffer loneliness
***
https://pixabay.com/en/scenery-clouds-early-on-ha-2835853/
***
GROUNDED CLOUD
****
a sky visitor
floating just above surface
fog is just a cloud
***
This was supposed to be another ‘But is it Art?’, but it didn’t quite turn out that way. As always, Tati came to the party in a pugnacious mood, ready to smash Tony with her witty questions. And, boy, did she ever! They discussed women’s bodies and women’s rights. They even discussed Greek […]
Robert Graves by Lady Ottoline Morrell vintage snapshot print, 1920
***
The bugler sent a call of high romance—
“Lights out! Lights out!” to the deserted square.
On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer,
“God, if it’s this for me next time in France…
O spare the phantom bugle as I lie
Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns,
Dead in a row with the other broken ones
Lying so stiff and still under the sky,
Jolly young Fusiliers too good to die.”
***
Portrait of William Butler Yeats by John Singer Sargent, pencil, 9 x 6 in.
***
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
NOTE: “The Second Coming” was published in the Michael Robartes andthe Dancer (1920).
davidbruceblog #2 