A hut near a river – Poem by Neela Nath
Hut near the river
Black water river , co. Cork
Where I want to live
with you my seventh heaven,
is not far from this everyday
life, but very near to it..
A hut, near a river
with crystal water,
fish playing there on
sunbathed pebbles…..
You and me with our little
daughter will live a
calm, calm life..
Over there we shall see
the forest, away from that
winding path.
You will be back
in the evening,
and I shall watch
you coming eagerly…..
None will come on our way
to happiness!
No feud will be there.
No flame,
other than ours!
A hut near a river,
the trees, blooming plants,
will enhance our happiness….
You, me and daughter,
three will be drinking
from the tumbler of life….
The flavor of Nature…
You, Me and…..
Before the mountain, Poem By :Myochi Roko & Sherry Chayat, 1990
Before the mountain, by the grace of nature
I was allowed to realize “Oh!I am only a child!”
tendered by spruce and birds.
I saw without my usual defenses
and endless thinking.
I know anything or everything
coming between me and creation.
– Myochi Roko Sherry Chayat, 1990
Slievenamon, County Tipperary
Ode to the Coast , Poem By : John Cooper Clarke
Ode to the Coast
By : John Cooper Clarke
A big fat sky and a thousand shrieks
The tide arrives and the timber creaks
A world away from the working week
Ou est la vie nautique?
That’s where the sea comes in…
Dishevelled shells and shovelled sands,
Architecture all unplanned
A spade n bucket wonderland
A golden space, a Frisbee and
The kids and dogs can run and run
And not run in to anyone
Way out! Real gone!
That’s where the sea comes in
Impervious to human speech, idle time and tidal reach
Some memories you can’t impeach
A nice cuppa splosh and a round of toast
A cursory glance at the morning post
A pointless walk along the coast
That’s what floats my boat the most
That’s where the sea comes in….
That’s where the sea comes in
When Great Trees Fall, By : Maya Angelou
When Great Trees Fall
By : Maya Angelou
When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
Memories Of My Old Country Church – Poem by Sandra Morton
Memories Of My Old Country Church –
Photography : Nigel Borrington
Memories Of My Old Country Church
Poem by Sandra Morton
In days of long ago, dad would hitch up Pet and, Topsy
away we’d go
To the neighborhood grocery for something to eat.
Me sitting beside dad, on that old wagon seat.
On the way we passed by this “OLD COUNTRY CHURCH”,
I always looked it over as I sat upon my perch.
For, you see, in those days we didn’t go.
But, Dad believed in God, for he told me so. Once we went
to revival, the preacher came back to talk.
I could tell Dad was going to be like old Pet and balk.
Dad told the preacher I’ll go forward if I ever feel God’s call,
but, for right now I don’t feel it’s the time at all.
The years came and went, and mom met this cousin, It’s been
years, since she’d seen him, over two dozen.
He’d become a preacher in years gone by. She ask if he’d
start up the “OLD COUNTRY CHURCH”, and he said he’d try.
Mom had been a Christian, since about twenty two, but didn’t
like to go, for the times dad went were few.
Mom made arrangements with members of the church board.
the preacher wouldn’t accept pay, many gave love offerings,
as they could afford. This was in the fall of 1955, along
about that time Grandmother died.
She was like a second mother to me, this was my first experience
with another dying. I thought my heart would break, an I’d
never stop crying. It would have helped to have known JESUS,
for, I couldn’t understand why she was taken from us.
Along, in July 1956, there was a revival, I’d decided to go,
if dad got the call, a lot got the call that night, 10 of us in all.
Relatives, neighbors, and friends. Surely God must have covered
a multitude of sins, and there, must have been joy in Heaven.
Oh! It must have been joy divine for mom to see so many baptized
on July 29. She was in failing health even then in 1956, but
what a joy, it must have been to see so many saved before the end.
Later on many more received the call. Two daughters, a brother-
in-law, and many more not family at all
The Moral of My Story is if she’d started sooner, think how many
more stars might have been in her crown of Glory.
In 1976, Mom was called to that far and distant land. At the age,
of 57, why?, I could never understand, surely Gods work through
her was done, and her crown of victory won.
River Bend , A poem by: Rania Moallem
Rivers bend
River Suir, Co Tipperary
Nigel Borrington
River Bend
A poem by: Rania Moallem
I believe I’ve waited too much that
patience poured wild enough to
drown me at the verge of that river
bend, where I pointlessly dwell,
where you never pass by.
And the confusion I lastly saw in your eyes
perhaps was dusk and ashes of burnt
thoughts you’ve had about me, or was it
plain puzzlement…
I wonder.
For I had you hunting me at night again
waking up breathless to find you clinging to
the last gasp of air I relief with despair,
right before I fight to sleep again.
It might be the right time to move on.
Past this rivers bend …….
Ruin a Poem By S. A. J. Bradley
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Ruin
Wondrous the stone of these ancient walls, shattered by fate.
The districts of the city have crumbled.
The work of giants of old lies decayed.
Roofs are long tumbled down,
The lofty towers are in ruins.
Frost covers the mortar,
Tiles weathered and fallen, undermined by age.
The original builders are long in the earth’s cruel grip,
generations since have passed.
These broad walls, now reddened and lichen-aged, brown and gray:
once they withstood invading kingdoms.
Now, beneath countless seasons, they have fallen.
The rampart assembled by many, crumbles still,
Though hewn together with skill of sharpening and joining,
Strengthened ingeniously with chain and cabled rib-walls.
In the town, urbane buildings, bathhouses, lofty rooftops,
a multitude gathered.
Many a hall filled with humans
until Fate inexorably changed everything.
All the inhabitants succumbed to pestilence.
Swept away are the great warriors.
Their towers and walls are deserted,
the desolate place crumbles away.
Who could repair any of it,
for they are long dead.
So the courtyards and gates have collapsed,
and the pavilion roofs of vaulted beams crumbled.
Here where once men in resplendent clothes, proud, gazed upon their gold and silver treasure,
their gems and precious stones,
upon their wealth, and property:
the bright city of a broad kingdom.
Stone courtyards ran streams of ample water, heating the great bathes,
conveniently flowing into the great stone vats …
Flora & Fauna , A Poem by crowbarius – Hello Poetry
Flora & Fauna
Irish Nature Photography : Nigel Borrington
Flora & Fauna
Flora and Fauna, the sisters of Season
Of Spring and of Summer
Allow now our drummer
To drum out the beat
For the feet of the sisters
To glide and to creep
Like the encroaching sleep
Which may perch on your shoulder if we cannot keep you awake
And on the edge of your seat, sir.
Now the former, sweet Flora, will finger the flute
While the other continues to glide and to slide
Like a sequined Venetian harlequin bride;
And now Fauna will mimic the movements of bird and of beast
As she graces the work of our landscape artiste
And all is completely unfeasible
Completely lacks reason
We guarantee.
Presently
In the eye of the beholder
Sweet Flora seemingly draws from the aether a lyre
And with flourishing fingers she plucks from the heavens
A song of the seasons, a pagan ode to Pan!
Behold! No aid of hoops, no strings
The vestal-virgin-harlot sisters sing
Of beautiful Persephone
And with unseen damselfly wings
Ascend from mediocrity
All melody forgotten
All the drums create cacophony
And you will find serenity in chaotic monotony
Now let this climaxing crescendo banish all your sorrowing!
No more that light; no more that sacred realm
Life’s door was dappled gloam; now all is black.
A man of wax with saintly, hollow eyes
Devoid of sin, devoid of love and light
That golden room is lost – you can’t turn back.
Now love has lost its lustre – lust lost joy
And coy eyes turn to watch the empty man
Struck by eternal beauty, and condemned
To haunt the broken world of mortal men;
And shrilling wind caresses empty hand.
Hover Fly – Poem by Michael Shepherd
Hover Fly – Poem by Michael Shepherd
Nature Photography : Nigel Borrington
Hover Fly
Poem by Michael Shepherd
The hover fly
that’s just demonstrated
that it’s one of the Creation’s greatest
and smallest, most compact miracles of lawful
imagination (imagine flying, then stopping
quite still in the air, no slowing down,
just, zap, like that, dead steady,
and it’s smaller (!) than a helicopter, wow)
right here in front of me in silhouette, but
illuminated on one wing by the PC screen,
and pausing for a freeze-frame moment of eternity
as if to tell me something
(illumination, too?) –
all this, and yet it
doesn’t know I’m writing about it.
Presumably.
The Fly – Poem by William Blake
The Fly – Poem by William Blake
Nature photography : Nigel Borrington
The Fly
Poem by William Blake
Little Fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
.
For I dance
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength and breath
And the want
Of thought is death;
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.
Mornings and Coffee, Poem By : Gabryela Speaks
Morning Coffee
Image : Nigel Borrington
Mornings and Coffee
By : Gabryela Speaks
Feb 2 2015
Cold mornings, warm coffee
The aroma comforts me
Pushing the freezing moment
of having to recall you.
You used to sit with me.
You would look into my eyes,
flash a beautiful smile
and I always wonder
what you see
But one day,
you stopped being you.
Last night as I was sleeping, Poem by : Antonio Machado
Last night as I was sleeping
Kilkenny Landscapes : Nigel Borrington
Antonio Machado
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous dreams
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous dreams
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous dreams
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous dreams
that it was life I had
here inside my heart.
Three Poems all with the title ( Window ), By : Milind Phanse , John David Morris Meriwether and Drew Renquest
Sitting by the Garden Window
Photograhy : Nigel Borrington
Window
By : Milind Phanse
I sit by the window looking out
And see myself reflected,
Outside the glass looking in.
Reality and illusion facing off each other,
Or is the window the only reality ?
Separated by two ghosts,
perhaps imprisoning just the singularity
——————————————————————
Window
By : John David Morris Meriwether
I don’t want to get up from my seat,
because every time I walk around,
and sit back down,
I’m a different person.
——————————————————————
Window
By : Drew Renquest
You see so much yet stand so still
To wonder what is out there while dust gathers on your sill.
Such memories that you’ve witnessed but can speak none
I can maybe only recall one.
Craving to wander
I’d gladly trade,
How I would love to sit and watch the
world fade.
Solo images, Tide and time
Solo images
Tide and Time : Nigel Borrington
“But now in the dusk the tide is turning, Lower the sea gulls soar, And the waves that rose in resistless yearning Are broken forevermore.”
The River, a Poem By : Sara Teasdale
Irish rivers
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
The River
I came from the sunny valleys
And sought for the open sea,
For I thought in its gray expanses
My peace would come to me.
I came at last to the ocean
And found it wild and black,
And I cried to the windless valleys,
“Be kind and take me back!”
.
But the thirsty tide ran inland,
And the salt waves drank of me,
And I who was fresh as the rainfall
Am bitter as the sea.
Sara Teasdale :
Monday Morning , First light of day , A Poem By : Beverly Gelene
The Light from over the hill
Kilkenny Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Monday mornings, well some come easy, some others come a little harder with inspiration hard to find !!!
I am finding this Monday morning lands right between the two posts, so maybe a poem and an image or two will help to get the week moving along its way 🙂 🙂
First Light of Day
By : Gelene Beverly
Listen to the quiet peaceful dawn.
Sun touching the rim of spaces’ night.
Stars fading to brushes of paint
In whirlwinds of dusk colored breezes.
Passing away the moon’s guard
To the light of the sun’s shift begins
Now sweeping into a new day.
“The Cottage” , with the freedom and the space! , A poem By : JW Harvey
The Cottage door by the lake
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Over the years I have lived in Ireland, there are many places I have visited and stayed, many cottages in remote parts of the country.The one thing most have in common is that they are so remote that for most of the weeks stay it hard to get a mobile phone signal, even for just a simple call or text.
I recently found this great poem by JW Harvey, that I think reflects on the feelings that these problems create, that moment when you realize the world will not end if you cannot get Facebook or even text a friend. What follows for most is putting on your coat and get outside into the real world and your holiday begins.
This is the moment when you realize, its this disconnect you really came for !!!!
The Cottage
JW Harvey,
Sep 25, 2013
I sat by the lake
sipping coffee and feeding the ducks.
In between breadcrumbs,
I dialed his number.
“Your call could not go through.”
I grinned;
Could not, not would not.
Long since the city summers,
.
I finally found our stillwater space:
a sense of security that felt
as serene as my remote arcadia,
disturbed only by the footstrokes
of a hungry mallard passing by.
No breadcrumbs for him.
“Call failed.”
Call failed, not I failed,
and I picked apart the stale bagel
to dip in my coffee
and feed to the ducks.
Monday Poetry : On The Winter Beach
Dookinella, Achill island, County Mayo
The Winter Beach
Irish landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
On The Winter Beach
I walk on the winter beach
from here to there
and beyond where the beach ends
past indifferent sea gulls
over beached kelps
over bleached sea shells
To the sound of crushing waves
to the call of ebbing memories
I walk on the winter beach
I shall go
I must go
alone
beyond where the beach ends
Harvest time, an Image then a Poem by : Darryl Davis
Harvest time. October 2014
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Harvest Time (Bois-De-Villers)
October is the month of knots.
Loose ends find each other,
Life is defined once more.
At least, this was how I saw it,
As a visitor, an urban tourist,
There to play peasant at the
Granite knob on the green knoll,
Which was always well worked into
A sticky brown smear by the time
The first tree had blushed.
For the leathery people who lived there,
It was but another day with no name beyond
That which had been scratched
On the calendar at the beginning of the year.
A single stroke which dotted one line
And indented another in calculated haste.
Indeed, it was just something else to be done.
Just another list to be compiled
Through calluses and brown sweat.
In the fields we pulled our backs bent.
Each individual plant represented six months of sun and rain,
Weeks of drying after picking and
One hard-earned day of food more.
As we lumbered about, marveling
At our clothes covered in clay
And the soreness of our hands,
They were careful to pick up everything
Which had fallen from our floundering wheelbarrow
And studiously counted each load before
Sliding everything down the chipped hole
To the root cellar for stacking and drying.
At the day’s yawn, they scurried around us still,
Too busy warming creaking chairs,
Too tired to much care.
Cramped from thumb to elbow,
Our fingers were crinkled walnut branches,
Knotted and done like the damp bundles
We wouldn’t need to bear a thought of
For another year to come.
Irish landscape photography and a Poem by : Edwin Arlington Robinson
Kilkenny photograher, Nigel Borrington
The old Mill on the river Barrow, Goresbridge, Kilkenny
The Mill
By : Edwin Arlington Robinson
The miller’s wife had waited long,
The tea was cold, the fire was dead;
And there might yet be nothing wrong
In how he went and what he said:
“There are no millers any more,”
Was all that she heard him say;
And he had lingered at the door
So long it seemed like yesterday.
Sick with a fear that had no form
She knew that she was there at last;
And in the mill there was a warm
And mealy fragrance of the past.
What else there was would only seem
To say again what he had meant;
And what was hanging from a beam
Would not have heeded where she went.
And if she thought it followed her,
She may have reasoned in the dark
That one way of the few there were
Would hide her and would leave no mark:
Black water, smooth above the weir
Like starry velvet in the night,
Though ruffled once, would soon appear
The same as ever to the sight.
The secret Cove , Image and poem
Secret Cove Padstow bay,
Cornwall,
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Secret Cove
I took my breath from a sea breeze
on its way to somewhere else.
I could sense where it had been
where summer is almost over
Beyond the cliff above the sea
A secret cove where spirits swim
a place no one ever sees
Timeless souls, their presence is felt
their breath upon the breeze.
Kindred Spirits, Poem By : M s. Simpson
Sea gull flying over the sea, county Waterford
Photography : Nigel Borrington
Kindred Spirits
By : M s. Simpson
I’ll meet you there,
at the horizon,
when the glowing orange tip
of god’s pen writes
a sunset on the sea.
I’ll be soaring free
a seabird
sunset fires upon my wings.
I’ll know you by the colors
your imagination brings
let’s fly awhile
together where the clouds
like angels sing.
May day Butterfly, Poem : A Butterfly Message, By Kathy Mitchell
May day butterfly
Nature Photography : Nigel Borrington
A Butterfly Message
Kathy Mitchell
The weight of a Butterfly
The beauty of colours
The wings of freedom
Could never be forgotten
As we lift the weight
We create.
Glow with colour
Attract the good
Spread our wings
As we too can be free
Live like a Butterfly
For your wishes
Will be……
Nigel Borrington 
The crows will only grow louder, by Laura Breidenthal. “Outward self-expression is a personal right , your right !!”
The crows will only grow louder.
Irish Landscape and nature photography
Nigel Borrington
I first came across Laura Breidenthal poem some two years ago and posted it the very day after, Its a great poem full of feeling and motivation !
I think we have all face these feeling at some point in our life’s and anyone who is outwardly expressive will have most of all.
I feel this poem relates to those moments we all have when other people, usually through negative and insecure motives try to put you and your creativity down in order to better themselves.!
I want to share this poem because I want it to act as a powerful motivation to keep going despite anyone Else’s opinion, if you do get someone putting you down know this its usually because they feel your creations are better than theirs if they have any and that they don’t have an idea how you do what you do.
Self expression is how your learn and how you get better at what you love !!!!!
If you read this post my advice is not to let anyone affect your personal rights to self expression, instead CROW Loader and BLOG more than ever 🙂 🙂 🙂
Outward self-expression is a personal right , your right !!
You may see a post using this Poem again and again during the year, I love this poem so much !!!!
The crows will only grow louder
By : Laura Breidenthal
There is no celestial place for you to guide my thoughts
Can you not see that I am free from you?
I am a crow perched high in the treetops
You will hear my crowing and you may hate it
But, you cannot take away my voice!
Yet still, as fire oppresses forests of life,
You can abuse my freedom to find your glory
You may discard these words for your love of gods,
And in so doing you may simply ignore
All the cries that I so passionately utter
But my infectious species will guide your mind straight back
To that once so lonely treetop where you merely glanced
And there will be multitudinous, oppressing thoughts
That shall enslave you and bind you unwillingly
The crows will only grow louder when you turn away—
When you pretend to ignore with your remaining, strangling pride
For my voice is a production sent from above
Dispatched to judge you pitilessly for your swelling lies!
And the choirs of ferocious beaks shall open forever
Harmony and dissonance as one
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February 11, 2015 | Categories: Comment, Landscape, Nature and Wildlife, Nigel Borrington, Poetry Gallery, Solo images | Tags: Callan, creativity, Irish landscape photography, Laura Breidenthal, motivation, Nigel Borrington, personal rights, poem, poetry, Self expression, The crows, The crows will only grow louder | 5 Comments