“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label symphony. Show all posts
Showing posts with label symphony. Show all posts
Sunday, June 19, 2016
Morning brew
The curtains tickle cool and
I get the impression crisply,
while I can, spots all separate,
the symphony tunes each section,
from deep purple set on dusty rose
to ashen greys settled on lazy lilac
unfolding the old periwinkle sheet
low-lit and pink pill speckled
as though white was never needed
in dawn's steeping sky
tweaking the tune of day
in the background.
Painting By Unknown artist – Artist [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Right or Left
What can be said about War and Peace that has not been proposed outside of either wedlock- Or must we choose sides, such as above or below...
-
Natures touch is both gentle and fierce. Homo sapiens trample on her back. The thick skin impossible to pierce. So...
-
A year ago this May, in fact, upon this same very grey day- something came over me I found could say, in no other way but to portray, ...
-
Sun lifting the veil of purple sky- might bronze forge strength pungent as the turned dirt? Thirsting through exposition, hi...
