Did someone sing you lullabies?

Slumber Cat Overhead

Now I only sing for my cat, she doesn’ even try to listen…(Photo credit: Taekwonweirdo)


I hope so. I always sang a scary one for my girls, they fell asleep with a giggle.
Can’t remember anyone singing for me.

Lullabye

Rest your drowsy cheek,
My girl, quiet on my
Prickling arm. Dream
Your dream of lapping
Waters cresting on this
Human form. The tides
Are breathing, you and
I, in your small clench
And my tight heart.
Tonight we fill the
Grave with stones and
Slumber in the summer’s
Dew. And all I make
Are promises which can
Not come true. I will
Not give you away, my
Girl, I will never make
You cry, nor morning
Find us far apart, nor
This hand gone away
From you.

Mike Finley

Lemon?

Lemons - Zitronen

Lemons (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Just the word does provoke some feelings, can you imagine the taste? And the lovely yellow fresh clean colour?
Todays poem is to make you feel 😉

A Lemon

Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love’s
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree‘s yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree’s planetarium

Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation’s
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.

Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.

So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a nipple
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.

Finding beauty

English: Daffodil field in South East Cornwall

English: Daffodil field in South East Cornwall (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What is it that makes me feel good? I look for beauty everywhere, I think. Some days I find myself walking by the seaside and being amazed over the gracious swans. Or an heir flying over.

I turned round a bend once when cycling to work, and there, right in front of me, stood three deers. They made my day. When the newborn lambs gets out on the fields, I find myself talking to them as if they were babies; well, they are:)
I live in paradise:)

Something yellow for today!

Daffodils” (1804)
I wander’d lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch’d in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed — and gazed — but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850).

What makes YOU feel good?

To her I never really had

Village of Porto Covo, west coast of Portugal

Village of Porto Covo, west coast of Portugal (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I found this pearl yesterday, and wanted to share it with you.

Clouds and Waves

Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds call out to me-
“We play from the time we wake till the day ends.
We play with the golden dawn, we play with the silver moon.”
I ask, “But how am I to get up to you ?”
They answer, “Come to the edge of the earth, lift up your
hands to the sky, and you will be taken up into the clouds.”
“My mother is waiting for me at home, “I say, “How can I leave
her and come?”
Then they smile and float away.
But I know a nicer game than that, mother.
I shall be the cloud and you the moon.
I shall cover you with both my hands, and our house-top will
be the blue sky.
The folk who live in the waves call out to me-
“We sing from morning till night; on and on we travel and know
not where we pass.”
I ask, “But how am I to join you?”
They tell me, “Come to the edge of the shore and stand with
your eyes tight shut, and you will be carried out upon the waves.”
I say, “My mother always wants me at home in the everything-
how can I leave her and go?”
They smile, dance and pass by.
But I know a better game than that.
I will be the waves and you will be a strange shore.
I shall roll on and on and on, and break upon your lap with
laughter.
And no one in the world will know where we both are.

Still life. And a challenge!

Still Life

Still Life (Photo credit: cliff1066â„¢)

I read a lot. Came over this poem, and think it is cute.
And kind of mindful too! It is about a Still life, an expression that first with the Still life of painting. Those meticulous detailed works including fruit, a jug of wine, a table… and some other details.
This one is in words. Playing with the lovely sounds of my favorite language! There lies the challenge… which Google actually fixes quite good (for once).

Hope you enjoy the three birds, as I do:)

Nature morte

Des coucous l’Angelus funèbre
A fait sursauter, à ténèbre,
Le coucou, pendule du vieux,

Et le chat-huant, sentinelle,
Dans sa carcasse à la chandelle
Qui flamboie à travers ses yeux.

– Ecoute se taire la chouette…
– Un cri de bois : C’est la brouette
De la Mort, le long du chemin …

Et, d’un vol joyeux, la corneille
Fait le tour du toit où l’on veille
Le défunt qui s’en va demain.

Tristan CORBIERE (1845-1875)