Source: Parched Earth
So beautiful, good thought about Valentines Day being for others besides lovers.
I like how you observe people and jot down your thoughts- I do this sometimes in a cafe-there are no bookshops or coffee shops in the rural area where I live.
I’m back at the wee cafe in Barnes. Different seat, different perspective. Same parking lot. A man, with white hair is looking through a book that he’s not going to buy, an older woman is eating and someone is reading magazines in the transportation section. Valentine’s Day cookies are 50% off, at the counter, but no one is buying them because they are big hearts, with heavy pink and yellow frosting on them.
I just picked up small blank Moleskine journals, so they will fit into my purse. If I want to carry my regular ones, I need a bigger bag and that’s not good because I end up filling it with all sorts of things and then it becomes too heavy to actually carry. I’m not sure how the small ones will work, since I tend to draw and write in a big way, but I’m giving them a…
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Source: If I Were An Artist
This writer is a true artist that paints beautiful unforgettable pictures with his many colored words.
If I were an artist, my words would melt into a pallet of colours
Waiting for my brush to stroke the flesh of a canvass
Fragrant fibers absorbing the heavenly hues like lovers
The sky would be blue with streaks of white clouds
Wings spread of a single blackbird gliding high above
Its feathers glow shimmering from the suns silken shrouds
A Sunday afternoon, inspired by a peaceful stare
The silence on faces echo, a moment captured in time
On the Island of La Grand Jatte, bathing in the suns care
If I were an artist, my words would hang on a staff of lines
Nestled between bars of notes that cry to be played
A serenade that would swoon the heart to gilded rhymes
Winds would howl, brass would blow, a lone piccolo would cry
Strings sound, the vibrations of the heart attached to a soul on fire
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What a beautiful poem for Christmas and winte.r
Branches that hang heavy with fresh fallen snow
on my blue Spruce trees; such a beautiful sight,
lit only by ice crystals under a glowing white sky,
they are but a few of my favorite things.
Cups of hot cocoa, and hearth fire, warm and bright,
a good book, and soft blanket as I curl up for the night.
I think on such things that are often too short;
they are there for a brief and passing moment,
like each day and time given to us,
gifts that our Heavenly Father bestows.
For all of His children with
loving kindness, He gives us His best,
and in all, it shows;
I shall not waste a single one,
for too quick they come, and then are gone.
But another season, another in time
is soon upon us, and I anticipate
all that is granted, for all is mine.
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Briefly beautiful. Shortly sweet. You do a artistic job of juxtaposing the chilling beauty of winter with the awesome warming of human love. .
“One kind word can warm three winter months.”
This old house
“Kelly, I want you to do a cover story on that old homestead over in Plymouth.” Shauna said.
“That old house? It’s barely standing. No one wants to touch it, not even a real estate developer to determine the property’s worth or potential. They claim there is something strange about it. An old man who looked after the adjoining properties around there lived in it.”
“Yes, the caretaker. But, he died years ago, a very old man. But, there is no death record on him.”
“And his spirit still lurks around the old grounds. That’s what the real estate office says.”
“Well, you said you loved doing stories on places where things happened.” Shauna said, smiling.
Land deeds, surveys, property listings, documents of all kinds were spread across an old map table at the county courthouse. What looked like tea stain marks and scrawled signatures merged together…
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