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Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.-Edgar Allan Poe

Poetry is when emotion has found its thought and thought has found words--Robert Frost

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance--Carl Sandburg

I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry--John Cage

You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you--Joseph Joubert

Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own. ~Dylan Thomas

joybragi84
May 15, 20222 min read

April Hail Brings May Flowers: Somehow That Doesn't Seem Right: Oh! And a Poem


I have no idea what this tiny, tiny little flower is. There were three of them in the yard growing wild. Zoom in when you look at it. It is a bunch of little white flowers in a circle.


So, today, I am posting flowers that are here in the yard in May. Most of the pictures that I am posting are perennials that are not domesticated like the purply-pink flower above. It is a weed. When the blooms are gone it will have to be weed-eated or pulled up, but my, my the flower is pretty.


This one is the same weed, but it is in the flower bed. I can see the Hosta in the background at the top of the picture.


Okay, I am cheating. This is a black flower that we got at a new "getting place" on the court square. I am really amazed at the unique color.


This yellow jewel is also a very, very tiny flower on a clover stem. I would say it was a quarter inch across or so. You can see the upside down heart shape of one clover leaf above the flower.


I sure do love my irises. My favorite iris colors came out after I took this picture. I didn't think I was going to have any irises because the hail shredded all the iris leaves, but they came back with the leaves full of holes.


Here is a close up of what Mom said is nightshade. It just started growing in one of our flower beds a couple of years ago, and I let it grow. Does anybody know if that's what this really is?


I know! I know! Who takes a picture of a dandelion? I do. That's who! I like unique shapes and colors in flowers, and this dandelion is a beauty close up. It has been mowed down by now. I hope everyone is happy.


The blooms above are from a Butterfly bush that my mom got me for my birthday several years ago. It had no leaves or blooms out when the storm hit. The azaleas (below) had just started blooming when the hail storm came. The bushes were basically raked bare of all leaves and flowers. They azalea bushes themselves still do not look to great. The limbs are all broken and bent and splintered, but the flowers close up are gorgeous. This photo is my last one from walking around in the yard taking pictures on May 12. After that, you will find a poem that I wrote in 1988 and re-wrote a bit this morning. Enjoy!



A Nature Boy


I sing my songs like breathless wind,

I shush the brook in its babble,

I pollinate an inspired mind,

Yet the most I do is dabble.


My words lay brown on barren ground

In the dust rain rinses to wash.

Ocean-bound, infused with sound,

On distant shores, they rise and splash.


I grow and wave, blossom and sigh

To picket the post that I keep

Watching the sky with vigilante eye

Till evening comes and I fall asleep.

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I find that I cannot exist without Poetry--without eternal poetry--half the day will not do--the whole of it--I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan.-John Keats

We do not quite say that the new is more valuable because it fits in; but its fitting in is a test of its value.-T. S. Eliot

A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases.-George Gordon, Lord Byron

The great beauty of poetry is that it makes everything in every place interesting.-John Keats

Our faulty elder poets sacrificed the passion and passionate flow of poetry to the subtleties of intellect and to the stars of wit; the moderns to the glare and glitter of a perpetual, yet broken and heterogeneous imagery, or rather to an amphibious something, made up, half of image, and half of abstract meaning. The one sacrificed the heart to the head; the other both heart and head to point and drapery.-S. T. Coleridge

The purpose of rhythm, it has always seemed to me, is to prolong the moment of contemplation, the moment when we are both asleep and awake, which is the one moment of creation.-W. B. Yeats

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