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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
Jun 1, 20222 min read

Kellie's Late Evening Pictures, Some Pictures of Flowers, and a Cool Poem about Spiders and Roses


Anyway, Kellie and I have been wandering around in the yard or sitting on our patio quite a bit here lately about dusk, and the other evening, we thought we might take some pictures. Kellie took the picture above. We have some flowers planted in a hollow stump in the yard. I drilled holes in the stump, and we put three small solar lights around the flowers. It looks pretty cool, and Kellie captured it quite well.


One of the reasons that Kellie and I are out in the evenings is that we have invested in a fire pit or really a brazier since it is a pan for holding a fire rather that a hole in the ground, and we have placed it in our patio area. We can sit and gaze into the fire, feel the breeze, listen to the mockingbirds, owls, and whippoorwills, and talk or be quiet. Both of us are pretty fond of silence. Some couples can be happy not talking. We are one of those. Our first night with a fire in the brazier, the wind was blowing, and we got a lot of smoke. That wasn't pleasant. We may have to wait for cooler weather.


Though it was nowhere near as dark as the picture makes it seem, Kellie used the night function of her camera to take this picture of a Star Fire flower in the back of our yard. Did anyone besides me ever hear this called Indian Paintbrushes, or did I just make that up?


This is another picture taken by Kellie with the night function. This flower is by our patio in a flower bed that I created by pulling up a whole bunch of yucca plants. I cannot think of what this flower is. I would have to look on the tag.



If you have been reading my blog for very long--and you read all the way through each blog--you will know that the Echinacea or Purple Coneflower is one of my all-time favorites as far as flowers go. Each year, I get excited when our small batch of Echinacea decides to bloom. Kellie and I both took a picture of the most "bloomed" of about eight or nine blossoms. Her picture is the top one. I hope to share more pictures as they grow.

Okay, now to the poem. I did go to an old poem to look for something to write about, but I became more inspired when editing the pictures than when looking through old drafts. SO...here is a brand-spanking new poem inspired by the pictures at which you have been looking. Hmm...there are no roses. Where are the roses?


Arachne and the Melancholy Rose


Arachne weaves scenes beneath the bone white moon--

Its keen beams pierce black clouds like rapture--

Her silken essences flow without thought

Connecting thorny strands of Melancholy,

Red, red Rose missing her sun-lover.

The spider’s thread collects night’s mists—

Each glowing droplet a miniature moon—

Like silver oils in glittering imaginations

Spangled in the anguish of half light

Growing in the unwavering grip of gravity,

The globules drift down the glossy line

And

Drip,

Drip,

Drip

Onto placid, purple petals,

Sleepy, sleepy petals,

Rose’s red, red petals

Moondreaming of Apollo’s warm kisses.

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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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