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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

More Pictures of Flowers and Sunsets and a Poem about Things I Saw or Did Not See


Anyway, lilies all over the yard are starting to bloom. We have yellow lilies and orange lilies. If they have different names, I am not sure about them. I think the orange ones, of which I have no picture for now, are tiger lilies. Maybe not! I guess I could use Google, huh?

Oh, yeah, Kellie took that picture and all of the other pictures of flowers posted today.


Above is a very interesting pictures of a wild garlic bloom. We have some wild garlic here in the yard, but it does not bloom like these tall plants at the city park and around the Fulton County fairgrounds. They really are quite amazing close up.


The white flower above is growing on the pond grass in the Salem city pond. With all the snakes in the pond, it is hard to believe that Kellie would get that close to the water. I didn't remind her about the snakes as she was wading in, and none got her, so it all worked out.


I have no idea what this purple flower is that was growing in the tall grass of the rodeo arena. It was tiny as you can see. The brown thing crossing the picture is fencing cable. The next day when we walked by the arena these purple flowers under the fence had all been weed-eated down. Oh, well! The grass was knee deep.




The two pictures of the sunset above were taken in the same spot about two or three minutes apart. Though we live on top of hill, we don't have a good place to take pictures of sunsets or sunrises at home. We have woods with tall trees to the west and the east and big powerlines to the north and the south. We do have a very good view northeasterly toward Mammoth Spring, but powerlines are in the way.

In other news, I have not heard back from Austin Macauley publishers about the date that my book may be ready. The last I heard, actually read, was that they were shooting for a release date in July. I am not holding my breath. The Aunt Charlotte story in the Dewey Lynne line is no further. I am too busy with summer school to work on it. I am not commenting on any of my poems for the same reason. Summer school, especially the first and last weeks, take up too much of my time for me to write much.

I did, however, compose this very short poem this morning from scratch. Enjoy!


The Colors I Saw and Did Not See


I saw the wild yellow sun frolic

In an unblemished azure sky,

Skip through dappled olive oak leaves,

And caper ‘cross the russet forest floor.

I saw huge black ants run dizzy circles

‘Round a hot gray limestone rock.

I saw silver-lined buzzard wings

Vanish behind wispy pink fog banks,

Drifting silently over stout brown hills.

I saw red-cheeked children splashing

In graceful gold water, smooth clear water,

Inky in the dark beneath the trees.

I saw lightning reflected in the creek,

Maybe striking the water far from me,

It was so bright, blinding white,

I dare not look to see.

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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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