We have had all seasons in one weekend here in Ireland , with Sun Snow and today Rain :). I had intended to do lots of walking today but it is just to windy for mountain walks. So I have decided after looking out of the windows for a while to do a photo study of the rain when the winds dye a little.
These images are form a day just like this one last year and I will use them as some inspiration today, I used a macro lens for these shots and the above image also captured the amazing structure of the grass that the rain drops rested themselves on.
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.
A Poem for Sunday evening !
Who Has Seen the Wind?
By Christina Rossetti
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.
Source: The Golden Book of Poetry (1947)
Sunday evenings are some of my favorite times of the week, the weekends light is fading fast and we have a new week ahead of us, and new chances to grow and reach our aims.
Three Poems all with the title “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
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,
“Just humor her,
Let her think we buy it.”
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
Takes it on the chin
Small town stories
Small town fairs
Drowning in the lake
So here we are again , the start of another week.
I have been feeling a little in need of some inspiration this Morning, so sat down and put these images and poem together!
From Sunday Sunset to Monday Sunrise
Today is yet another Monday
I wakeup and wonder about yesterday
Then about today, Monday
Sunday to Monday, Yesterday
Just passing the days
Deep orange Sunsets,a rhythm in my heart
Is It all just a painting
A dream on the edge of a disk?
Sunday, Monday, Yesterday
I am sometimes without you
No Light to guide my way
How can I be expected to see the way
While seeing only you
Even while your gone
Sunday, Monday, Yesterday
I am at a silent age
When You’re not with me
Come great Star
Run to me with your light
Guide my way
Sunday, Monday, Yesterday
Ancient Disk of light
I am with you.
Rippling stream’s circle
By: Chris Matt
Out here watching the water flow by.
Talking to the wind, waiting for a reply.
I don’t know what it is about this stream I admire.
Like camping and gathering around watching the fire.
There is something about these inanimate objects.
It maybe the simplicity of beauty it reflects.
How it unconditionally forms over all in its liquidity.
It is the foundation of life being perfect in its ubiquity.
Watching this stream, there is so much to learn and gain.
This water can teach you, watch, as it starts as rain.
High above in the clouds, then it falls to the top of the peak.
As it slowly drips to the bottom, it mixes in with a creek.
It flows in a small brook, then ends up in this stream,
but it will one day rise up again to the clouds, as steam.
Like waters circle of life, we need to come together as one.
The lessons that we’ve learned here, have only just begun.
This evening I went for a Sunday walk in Cahirabbey woods, county Tipperary, the evening light was shining through the trees in the glen and it reminded me of the below poem that I found recently.
Sunlight in the Glen
Collaboration Poem By Jan Allison And Mel Merrill
Dappled sunlight dancing among the trees in the wooded glen
Lingering amongst the wood where it has ancient been
She dances fast, and sometimes slow, the tempo ever changing.
Gentle breeze she stirs the trees; the mood is scintillating
The crystal clear water sparkles with a silvery light
Like diamonds splayed on velvet, or a starry, starry night
Shafts of sunlight fall on the crumbling old stone wall
Shedding light on these, the wall and trees, near brook and waterfall
Nature’s beauty, boundless, in this timeless timid wood
We walk the paths so often trod where ancient feet have stood
Each scattered ray comes out to play in primordial den
How privileged I, that I could spy, this sunlight in the glen
Nikon D7000, 18-200mm lens, iso 100
Sunday evening, River Suir, Tipperary
Landscape photography by : Nigel Borrington
Sunday evenings are my most favourite time of the week, the weekends light is fading fast and we have a new week ahead of us, new chances to grow and reach our aims.
Our Dog Molly, she knows exactly how to relax on a Sunday evening.
After a long walk she loves nothing more than sitting down and looking at the views, she sleep’s and get her energy back for the week ahead.
Sunday evening Landscape Gallery
Sunday and today I just wanted to be silent to be still and think of nothing, so often we hear the sound of voices around us, people who just cannot stop for fear of a gap.
The most I wanted to hear was a song, the song that nature makes on the hillsides.
So a poem for a Sunday evening :
Today seemed like a day I should be silent.
The silence seemed so absolute, every small sound
My annoying voice would shatter such a perfect peace.
Perhaps a song.
If a song were to break out over this hillside,
causing the grass to move, that might be acceptable.
The silence their audience,
a brilliant song.
I wish it so, but I know my voice has not that song,
and in thinking so I find I’ve lost it altogether.
So I sit back, a supportive member of the audience.
So step up; we’re listening.
We silenced wait for your beautiful lucid song.
Someone to save us from the silence we trapped ourselves in,
afraid to break perfection.
Someone to tell us that imperfection is something that’s okay.
Your song can rescue us.
Your voice can come and let us sing again.
Let your music ring across this silence.
We’ll rise up, a chorus of flaws, and be beautiful.
Set us free.
Sophiea · Oct 28, 2011
Sunday evening and the last light of the weekend is fading once more, I love this time of the week. Everything that happened last week is in the past and we have a new start for our week ahead.
So then a Poem :
Evening Without Angels
the great interests of man: air and light,
the joy of having a body, the voluptuousness
Why seraphim are arranged
Above the trees?
Air is air,
Its vacancy glitters round us everywhere.
Its sounds are not angelic syllables
But our unfashioned spirits realized
More sharply in more furious selves.
That fosters seraphim and is to them
Coiffeur of haloes, fecund jeweller—
Was the sun concoct for angels or for men?
Sad men made angels of the sun, and of
The moon they made their own attendant ghosts,
Which led them back to angels, after death.
Let this be clear that we are men of sun
And men of day and never of pointed night,
Men that repeat antiquest sounds of air
In an accord of repetitions. Yet,
If we repeat, it is because the wind
Encircling us, speaks always with our speech.
Light, too, encrusts us making visible
The motions of the mind and giving form
To moodiest nothings, as, desire for day
Accomplished in the immensely flashing East,
Desire for rest, in that descending sea
Of dark, which in its very darkening
Is rest and silence spreading into sleep.
…Evening, when the measure skips a beat
And then another, one by one, and all
To a seething minor swiftly modulate.
Bare night is best. Bare earth is best. Bare, bare,
Except for our own houses, huddled low
Beneath the arches and their spangled air,
Beneath the rhapsodies of fire and fire,
Where the voice that is in us makes a true response,
Where the voice that is great within us rises up,
As we stand gazing at the rounded moon.
Sunday evenings are to myself the end of another week, they mark a time to clear your mind. To think about a new week and to define the end of the last, what-ever happened last week (good or bad) has gone.
It time for some ……..
Do you ever watch the sunset
And just sit and think about things
Just you and the sky and darkness
Giving your thoughts some wings
Perhaps you’ve got some troubles
And don’t know what to do
Or you just plain need to get away
To spend a little time with you
Sunset beauty makes you feel as though
Your life has meaning after all
To see a sight so extraordinary
Makes you feel capable, strong and tall
It’s funny how flashes of color
Like a sunset or sunrise can inspire
It can calm your inner self a bit
It’s a scene you can never tire
The serenity gives you a chance
To put things in perspective
Life can be overwhelming at times
And a sunset can be reflective
So when the sky lights up next time
Let your gaze do some drinking
Soak up all the amazing sights
And do some sunset thinking!
Written by : Marilyn Lott
Sunday evenings are my favourite time of the week, hopefully your mind has been stripped down, cleared out and ready go into the new week ahead!
Sunday into Monday, the weekends fading light!
like the dull horizon
diminished by the sun
shades of orange
slowly turn dark
and bare themselves
to the evening skyline
and the constant clamour of the countryside
into the babbling brook
and soft chirps of frogs
until once again
and a new morning
brings different light
Kassel D “and the constant clamour of the countryside”