A bit ago, I found something in today’s blog on Writing Without Paper. An event, activity, called One Shoot Sunday
. Anyone interested can read the full and requested directions there. Part was to credit the Photographer:
“This week, on behalf of the One Stop Poetry crew, I would like to introduce you all to Jacob Lucas, a Seattle-based photographer with a simple philosophy: to enjoy photography’s creative rewards and to shoot what he wants, how he wants.
A bit of a dabbler in all things photographic, Jacob finds his city to be a great muse, but he’s also traveled as far as the temples of Angkor Wat, a journey that launched a series of images on his blog, and memories he’ll never forget.”
"The Show Must Go On"
Next, were directions to submit my own poetry, inspired by the image.
only by pain
again at simple things
only because it took effort to do them
to wake up
push thru the blanket in the mind
pulling it off sensually
efforts to avoid the slap of reality
but life on life’s terms
i felt the breath
felt the fabric slide across my skin
stretch awake each fibre finger and toe
as I thought i wanted to postpone
firm floor under my feet
warm clothes sliding on
keys jingling down into my pocket
tea in my mouth
bright light outside
the tempting scent of spring
the smile bubbling forth with that spring
reminded to have joy in each moment
bumpy wheat toast
beautiful tangy cheeses
fresh apple slice crisp
tender green leaves
another happy sip of tea
they feel the same
–by elisabeth connelley, Purple Profundity
flowing on the lawn
that grows up through our grief
and trickles down
and thoughts as yet
flowers of spring
petals plucked clean again to float
off on the wind
of desire and need
–by Elisabeth Connelley
Like a cloud on the brow of a mountain
When the sun in his glory doth rise;
Like the spray of the far-falling fountain
That ascendeth so swift toward the skies
Like the infant’s gay laugh–like the blush
On the virgin’s soft cheek–like the flush
Of the floweret that withers anon
Is the year; Yea! the year that is gone
For the cloud it hath vanished away
Dispersed by the power of the sun
And dissolved in the air is the spray
E’re the blue heights of heaven it had won;
And now transient the laugh of the child
And the blush on the virgin’s soft cheek
And the flower is the beauty despoiled
E’re another bright morning can break.
Like such is the year; it has wings
That bore it with swiftness away
And though round it our memory clings
Ah! we cannot ritard it one day!
It is gone O my soul! It is gone
Its months, weeks and days every one.
Now I turn to the fresh coming year.
Shall wild Hope mount her chariot again?
And rush onward with reckless career?
And shall Fancy’s bright pictures so vain
Me deceive as may have done before?
Strange delusions! I fear ye and strive
You to cast from my soul evermore;
To escape earth’s enchantments and live
In the bondage of truth; for the true
Is the pathway, though weary and sad
And so darksome and dreary to view
That leads up to the world of the glad.
O loved Hope that hath recreant been.
Through the year and the years that are past
Let my chariot wheels turn where is seen
The bright gate of glory at last.
January 1, 1841
Thomas Cole’s Poetry