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.
Twilight on the Beach : A poem by : Mary Dow Brine
When Twilight falls upon the beach,
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Twilight on the Beach.
By : Mary Dow Brine
The crimson glory of the setting sun
Hath lain a moment on the ocean’s breast,
Till twilight shadows, gathering one by one,
Bring us the tidings, day is gone to rest.
Far out upon the waters, like a veil,
The mists of evening rise and stretch away
Between the horizon and the distant sail,
And earth and sea are clothed in sombre gray.
The tide comes higher up the smooth, wide beach,
Singing the song it has for ages sung;
Recedes, and carries far beyond our reach
The freight my idle hands have seaward flung.
Over the white-capped waves the seagulls soar
With heavy-flapping wing and restless cry,
As darkness spreads its deeper mantle o’er
The changing shadows of the twilight sky.
.
No voice but mine to mingle with the sound
Of ocean’s melody- as one by one
The stars light up the vast concave around,
And live the glory that is never done.
Still higher creeps the tide with subtle power,
And still the waves advance with sullen roar;
But with the last faint gleam of twilight hour
I turn me homeward from the lonely shore.
Monday Poems : “Monday Mornings” By : Emily Helen Culver
Monday Mornings
By : Emily Helen Culver
breathing in and out
looking forward, ready to shout
the day might have started
but my brain just won’t function
it’s funny how they demand my attention
yelling out my name
won’t win you this game
keep on playing it
while I lay down and sleep a bit
the weekend hangover
taking over
Monday Poems : Donkey of Brown
Monday Poems : Donkey in Brown
Photography : Nigel Borrington
Well What a weekend we had here in Ireland SUN on SUN , just perfect 🙂 🙂
Its hard to believe its Monday already, my post and included Poem this Morning is just a reminder that while your getting your week going , don’t forget to take the odd moment to slow down and take a look at the world around you, it’s Spring-time so take just a few moments and check out what’s really happening in the world – your meeting / phone call or email can wait for a while 🙂 🙂
Donkey of brown
By : Patricia Higgins
Please let me know
Why is it that you go so slow?
He turned round gently and to me said
I have some sense in my little brown head.
.
By hurrying so as you go by
You miss the beauty in earth and sky.
So I took his advice and looked around,
And I saw diamonds in dew drops on the ground.
Daises that dance in the sun’s golden ray,
Things I missed as I hurried each day.
Gold in the buttercups, clouds in the blue,
What the donkey had said was perfectly true.
Three Poems , all with the Title “Morning star”
Morning Star, over Slievenamon , Co Tipperary
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Morning Star.
By : Connor Sean McMurrick Crow
A kingdom in ancient history,
long before man was thought to exist,
stood in Hyperborean heartland.
Ruled in peace by a woman of antediluvian
beauty and her King-Groom.
Leviathan, a queen of rare black hair and eyes of velt,
rose every morning to greet the sunrise.
On this particular day, she woke Archon.
With a trailing gown of violet, she led him
by hand through perfumed gardens of
exotic sights.
Sunna broke over the hedges and
burnt the mist from frail orchids,
and all that was left of that kingdom
of runic beauty were two lovers entwined in stone.
.
By : Scott Madden
Dec 22, 2014
The Morning Star
Have you seen the morning star?
It keeps it’s vigil in the East,
A prophet of the dawn.
It rises when the night is at its coldest,
The warmest light in the vast blackness.
It rises when the night is at its darkest,
The brightest light in the black vastness.
Have you seen the morning star?
.
By : Justinian
Feb 2, 2010
Morning Star
The sun wakes and stretches its rays over the horizon.
Embraced is my heart and my smile shines on.
In my dreams,
you I did miss.
When I awake,
your lips I shall kiss.
The Old stone bridge, a Poem by, Tony Mitton
Irish Landscapes : Nigel Borrington
The old stone bridge
By, Tony Mitton
The old stone bridge
is where folk stood to talk,
watching the water go under,
hearing its fluent music
gather their words
to carry notions, ruminations, gossip
away in a silver wrapping
of rippled sound.
Sometimes, too, the women would come,
down the stone steps to the brookside
to launder the linen, the clothes.
And again, all the soil,
the sweat and the swear of life,
would be washed in that water,
rolled in that bundle
of tinkling, tumbling sound,
to be carried down,
out of sight and of mind,
rinsed by the workings of water.
Monday Morning Poems – Dark Wood, Dark Water, by – Sylvia Plath
Dark Wood, Dark Water
By : Sylvia Plath
This wood burns a dark
Incense. Pale moss drips
In elbow-scarves, beards
From the archaic
Bones of the great trees.
Blue mists move over
A lake thick with fish.
Snails scroll the border
Of the glazed water
With coils of ram’s-horn.
Out in the open
Down there the late year
Hammers her rare and
Various metals.
Old pewter roots twist
Up from the jet-backed
Mirror of water
And while the air’s clear
Hourglass sifts a
Drift of goldpieces
Bright waterlights are
Sliding their quoits one
After the other
Down boles of the fir.
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.
When the fishing boats go out , Poem and Images, By L. M. Montgomery
When the fishing boats go out.
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
WHEN THE FISHING BOATS GO OUT
By L. M. Montgomery
WHEN the lucent skies of morning flush with dawning rose once more,
And waves of golden glory break adown the sunrise shore,
And o’er the arch of heaven pied films of vapor float.
There’s joyance and there’s freedom when the fishing boats go out.
The wind is blowing freshly up from far, uncharted caves,
And sending sparkling kisses o’er the brows of virgin waves,
While routed dawn-mists shiver–oh, far and fast they flee,
Pierced by the shafts of sunrise athwart the merry sea!
Behind us, fair, light-smitten hills in dappled splendor lie,
Before us the wide ocean runs to meet the limpid sky–
Our hearts are full of poignant life, and care has fled afar
As sweeps the white-winged fishing fleet across the harbor bar.
The sea is calling to us in a blithesome voice and free,
There’s keenest rapture on its breast and boundless liberty!
Each man is master of his craft, its gleaming sails out-blown,
And far behind him on the shore a home he calls his own.
Salt is the breath of ocean slopes and fresher blows the breeze,
And swifter still each bounding keel cuts through the combing seas,
Athwart our masts the shadows of the dipping sea-gulls float,
And all the water-world’s alive when the fishing boats go out.
Irish Landscapes, Freedom of the Hills, Poem by : Douglas Fraser – 1968
The Freedom of the hills
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Freedom of the Hills
By: Douglas Fraser – 1968
Mine is the freedom of the tranquil hills
When vagrant breezes bend the sinewy grass,
While sunshine on the widespread landscape spills
And light as down the fleet cloud-shadowed pass.
Mine, still, that freedom when the storm-clouds race,
Cracking their whips against defiant crags
And mists swirl boiling up from inky space
To vanish on the instant, torn to rags.
When winter grips the mountains in a vice,
Silently stifling with its pall of snow,
Checking the streams, draping the rocks in ice,
Still to their mantled summits I would go.
Sun-drenched, I sense the message they impart;
Storm-lashed, I hear it sing through every vein;
Among the snows it whispers to my heart
“Here is your freedom. Taste – and come again.”
Allihies copper mines, Copper Mine a Poem By : Madhu Kailas
Allihies copper mines
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Copper mines located at the small town of Allihies , west cork Ireland are amongst some of the most worked and preserved in this part of Europe , their history is as follows :
Copper mining started in Allihies in 1812 when John Puxley, a local landlord, identified the large quartz promontory at Dooneen as copper bearing from its bright Malachite staining.
The Allihies Mines
Initial mining began with a tunnel or adit driven into the quartz lode from the pebble beach below. In 1821 two shafts were sunk . Flooding was a continuous problem and in 1823 the engine house was erected to house a steam engine brought over from Cornwall to pump water from the depths. The remains of this building with the base of the chimney can be seen across the road. There is also evidence of a steam powered stamp engine to the left of the chimney and dressing floors in front of the engine house. The high dam further inland is the remaining evidence of a water reservoir which stored the water that was pumped out from the bottom of the mine. It was used for the steam engines and needed to separate the copper from rock. All the rubble on the cliff at the sea side of the road is the crushed useless quartz rock left over after the copper ore was extracted.
This is one of six productive mines in the Allihies area and its operation continued until 1838 when it closed due to failing ore.
John Puxley died in 1860 and in 1868 his son Henry Puxley sold the mines to the new Berehaven Mining Company who reopened the mine and installed a new 22 inch steam engine in 1872. Little ore was produced though in this period and the mine was finally abandoned in 1878.
Copper Mine
By : Madhu Kailas
Hollowed earth,
a large reservoir of emptiness.
Deep down where only
the moon can touch
dregs of an empty cup,
static turquoise fluid
of residual copper blood.
Cyclopean machines
crawl like dwarf ants.
Along grooves etched by mortal hands.
Gnaw at rocks,
startled out of deep sleep
to be stripped.
An ancient cave painting
tumbles out of extinction
delineated by squished insect blood
on ochre flats.
Dead insects scrabble out of rocks
on the landscape of our civilisation.
The Sound of the Sea, By : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep”
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
An Image and Poem to sleep too , Sunday into Monday Morning …….
The Sound of the Sea
By : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep,
And round the pebbly beaches far and wide
I heard the first wave of the rising tide
Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep;
A voice out of the silence of the deep,
A sound mysteriously multiplied
As of a cataract from the mountain’s side,
Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep.
So comes to us at times, from the unknown
And inaccessible solitudes of being,
The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul;
And inspirations, that we deem our own,
Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing
Of things beyond our reason or control.
Three Poems for Sunday, all with the title “Small town”, Images of Callan, Kilkenny
Callan, County Kilkenny
Landscape
Three Poems all with the title “Small town”
Small Town
By : Liz Anne
Jul 25, 2012
When I say I want more
Than this small town could offer
When I say I give more
Than this small town asks of me
When I say I’ve loved more
Than this small town could know
When I say I need more
Than this small town wants me to
I mean to say I am more
Than this small town would let me be
…
Small Town
By : Rebecca Hattaway
Oct 29, 2012
In her smile I can see something-
something like satisfaction,
or even pride?
that she has everyone fooled
but no one is falling for the bullshit.
Secrets don’t exist here.
It’s a back and forth game,
and she denies it until the end.
Most people play along,
laughing quietly
“Just humor her,
Let her think we buy it.”
…
Small Town
By : Silence Screamz
Oct 25, 2014
Small town people
Small town minds
Gossip turn sour
No secrets left behind
Small town girls
Small town boys
Turn off the lights
Lock up your toys
Small town crimes
Small town night
Light up the fires
Creeps into sight
Small town games
Small town sins
Newlywed murders
Takes it on the chin
Small town stories
Small town fairs
Drowning in the lake
Nobody cares
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.”
Independent Heart, A poem by : Jodie Moore
Independent Heart
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Independent Heart
Soft words you spoken
From the heart that is broken
I know deep inside
You have a level of independence
With a mystery of suspense
You are recovering
Waiting for someone
To catch on to the discovering
Of the real you
With a heart so true
Giving of your best
Expecting nothing less
While hurt is making amends
Leaning on loving friends
Accounted for in time you spend
With words you write
Not giving into a broken hearts flight
Staying strong
Carrying others like me along
by Jodie Moore
“When my ship comes in” Robert Jones Burdette (1844–1914)
When my ship comes in
Photography : Nigel Borrington
“When my ship comes in”
Robert Jones Burdette (1844–1914)
Somewhere, out on the blue seas sailing,
Where the winds dance and spin;
Beyond the reach of my eager hailing,
Over the breakers’ din;
Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting,
Out where the blinding fog is drifting,
Out where the treacherous sand is shifting,
My ship is coming in.
Oh, I have watched till my eyes were aching,
Day after weary day;
Oh, I have hoped till my heart was breaking,
While the long nights ebbed away;
Could I but know where the waves had tossed her,
Could I but know what storms had crossed her,
Could I but know where the winds had lost her,
Out in the twilight gray!
But though the storms her course have altered,
Surely the port she ’ll win;
Never my faith in my ship has faltered,
I know she is coming in.
For through the restless ways of her roaming,
Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming,
Through the white crest of the billows combing,
My ship is coming in.
.
Breasting the tides where the gulls are flying,
Swiftly she ’s coming in;
Shallows and deeps and rocks defying,
Bravely she ’s coming in;
Precious the love she will bring to bless me,
Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me,
In the proud purple of kings she will dress me,
My ship that is coming in.
White in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming,
See, where my ship comes in;
At mast-head and peak her colors streaming,
Proudly she ’s sailing in;
Love, hope, and joy on her decks are cheering,
Music will welcome her glad appearing,
And my heart will sing at her stately nearing,
When my ship comes in.
“Some think to judge the very sky itself” , A Monday Morning Poem.
Some think to Judge the very sky itself
Callan and Kilkenny Landscape Photography
Nigel Borrington
A Monday Morning Poem
Its been a great weekend here in Ireland, Saturday was blue sky’s all day, while we had rain for all the day Sunday, oh well that’s Ireland – all seasons in one weekend.
While I was inside staying out of the rain, I did some tasks then reading followed with some writing, a couple of poems!
Of which this is one …..
Some think To Judge the very Sky itself
Some think to Judge the very sky itself,
from the rain it brings to the snow that falls,
from the shade and shape of each cloud that rushes by.
Judging its flowing expressions, as the very stars,
that rise at night and fall into the day.
Some think to judge the very sky itself,
as if this act will make them fly !
Yet the Sky looks back and never see’s,
the Stars shine down and never hear.
To Judge the sky, is as pointless a Human act as can be !!
Some think to judge the very sky itself,
but the Sky never hears their words.
They are like black grains of sand, lost along the ebb and the flow of Tide and Time !!!
A Poem for the weekend – The Road Not Taken By : Robert Frost
The road not taken Robert frost.
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
“The Road Not Taken” by : Robert Frost is a favorite poem of his, I often re-read it and sometimes think of it when out in our local woods here in County Kilkenny.
This weekend I hope you can find time to walk your own path and roads, enjoy yourself and get to relax and put the last week behind you .
The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
The Lighthouse , By, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
St John’s Point Lighthouse,
Donegal
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Its been a little time since I last got to visit county Donegal, having spent most of my time recently exploring counties Kerry and Cork. This year however I hope to visit again and the lighthouse at St Johns point will be very high on my list. This is a wonderful location at any time of year, stunning on a sunny day and spectacular in a winters storm!
Here I have matched some of my last photographs of the point and its lighthouse with one of my most loved lighthouse poems …….
The Lighthouse By, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,
And on its outer point, some miles away,
The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day.
.
Even at this distance I can see the tides,
Upheaving, break unheard along its base,
A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides
In the white lip and tremor of the face.
And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,
Through the deep purple of the twilight air,
Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light
With strange, unearthly splendor in the glare!
.
Not one alone; from each projecting cape
And perilous reef along the ocean’s verge,
Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape,
Holding its lantern o’er the restless surge.
Like the great giant Christopher it stands
Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave,
Wading far out among the rocks and sands,
The night-o’ertaken mariner to save.
.
And the great ships sail outward and return,
Bending and bowing o’er the billowy swells,
And ever joyful, as they see it burn,
They wave their silent welcomes and farewells.
They come forth from the darkness, and their sails
Gleam for a moment only in the blaze,
And eager faces, as the light unveils,
Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze.
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 :
Kilkenny Landscape Photography : Kells Priory on a Foggy Sunday into Monday Morning.
Kells Priory
County Kilkenny
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
I took these images late yesterday afternoon at Kells Priory , County Kilkenny. Sunday was a foggy day here with the mist on the ground all day into this morning but the old remains of the priory looked so gray and haunted in the fog.
Last night I found this poem, it relates more to a castle in Scotland but fits so well how kells cal look on a foggy winters day.
A Castle Old And Grey
By : Alexander Anderson
I never see a castle
That is gaunt and grey and grim,
But my thoughts at once go backward
To the past so misty and dim.
To the time when tower and turret,
Kept watch far over the vale;
And along the sounding draw-bridge
Rode knights in their suits of mail.
I see the sunshine glancing
On helmet, pennon, and spear;
And hear from the depth of the forest,
A bugle calling clear.
I fill the hall with visions
Of ladies rich in their bloom;
And stately knights in armour,
And waving with feather and plume.
If I climb the broken stairway,
Where the stone is smooth and fine,
I hear a rustle and whisper,
And footsteps in front of mine.
Whisper of youth and maiden,
As they met in the long ago;
His deep and strong and manly,
Hers tender and sweet and low.
But maiden and youth have vanished,
Away from the scene and the light;
Gone, too, the high-born lady,
And the plumed and armoured knight.
Only the grey old castle,
Of crumbling stone and lime,
Still stands to speak of the ages,
And the iron footsteps of Time.
Kells Priory , county Kilkenny on a foggy day
The Unnamed Lake, Poem by : Frederick George Scott (1861-1944)
Irish Landscape Photography
Nigel Borrington
A Monday Morning Poem
The Unnamed Lake
By : Frederick George Scott (1861-1944)
IT sleeps among the thousand hills
Where no man ever trod,
And only nature’s music fills
The silences of God.
Great mountains tower above its shore,
Green rushes fringe its brim,
And o’er its breast for evermore
The wanton breezes skim.
Dark clouds that intercept the sun
Go there in Spring to weep,
And there, when Autumn days are done,
White mists lie down to sleep.
Sunrise and sunset crown with gold
The peaks of ageless stone,
Where winds have thundered from of old
And storms have set their throne.
No echoes of the world afar
Disturb it night or day,
The sun and shadow, moon and star
Pass and repass for aye.
‘Twas in the grey of early dawn,
When first the lake we spied,
And fragments of a cloud were drawn
Half down the mountain side.
Along the shore a heron flew,
And from a speck on high,
That hovered in the deepening blue,
We heard the fish-hawk’s cry.
Among the cloud-capt solitudes,
No sound the silence broke,
Save when, in whispers down the woods,
The guardian mountains spoke.
Through tangled brush and dewy brake,
Returning whence we came,
We passed in silence, and the lake
We left without a name.
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