Relaxing On The Grass
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© 2009 - Ben Heine
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A picture I took around Oxford in England
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Engaging
Hands of
Earth

A poem by Peter S. Quinn

Engaging hands of earth - you touch us still
Around and round in every transparent dream
Each bleaching falling glisten in quietness seem
Dear sweet autumn that my yearnings fulfill
Your smooth earthen mixture of shadings to thrill
With stars in your hair of yellow brown stream
Summer of gold is now leaving in gleam
Giving to dim every song in its skill

Withering dark to the changing grass confer
With ground tincturing that dresses the leaves
In the placid of days that are going by
Now is the time of full harvesting year
Just before tomorrow comes in with grieves:
Crack of dawn calm and the red clouded sky
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Lost Girafe on the Highway
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© 2009 - Ben Heine
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Daydreaming Is
Often Bad

A poem by Peter S. Quinn

Daydreaming is often bad
Getting you nowhere at time
Living with once that you had
When it was early and prime

With every move and sensation
Giving you much to think
Love in its much tarnation
Into each catch like a blink

Riding on clouds to the far
Into the beguiled of their dark
Knowing sometimes what you are
Before on journeys you embark

When there's time just to know
What it is that you give me?
In every up and air blow
When we on dreams ride free

And if we are lost by a heart
In darker moments than some
Knowing when again then to start
To bring back where good is from

When we dream much of it
It isn't going to hurt us so much
We shall have time then to quit
Before it ever becomes to be such

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The Way To Her Heart

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© 2009 - Ben Heine
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My sweet Marta.
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Beautiful
Evening
Comes

A poem by Peter S. Quinn

Beautiful evening comes,
In sweet rendezvous melody;
Like the silvery amalgams,
With it's wings so playfully.
Daybreak in orange grove,
In the blue blossomy;
That comes for a night glow,
And late hours so bonny.

Where can a brownie be,
That loves a glitter bloom;
And flies a round a tree,
Like summer's little groom.
Heart as gold at daybreak,
When the fairies all fly in;
Newborn in morning wake,
With their little fluffy spin.

Then starts the new singing,
For what was quiet and still;
The fiery light is clinging,
Over the sleepy drown hill.
Come closer you new day,
With breeze there roundabout;
Amid rose bay in the way,
Taking away the nights doubt.

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The African Pony
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© 2009 - Ben Heine
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Elemental Clouds

A poem by Peter S. Quinn

Elemental clouds now ride the skies alone
Through the bound of the net raindrops falling
I hear a little music from some pebble stone
While the drizzles are splashing and calling
Steams in the wild it’s the forest song
Flowing with its drum drops earth-rending
Something for my heart in harmony to long
Each the flower petals and leaves bending

You and I we had our different ways
Sunshine and the rain songs that we found
In slanting slashing sky like horses that gallop
Tinctures in its shades dyed many plays
To the underneath water lustrous around
A thought in a walloping like the raindrop
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In Search
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© 2009 - Ben Heine

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Landscapes

By Peter S. Quinn

My search is through
Time and space,
To moments
They don't belong;
Each search has threads
To new ways,
Like a never
Ending song.

Thoughts wander
To clouds I see,
Drifting off from
Fields of view;
I have landscapes
Within me,
That I'm sending
Out to you.

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Before/After
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(click on image to enlarge)
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I thought it might be interesting to post this.
I took the photos with a Nikon D70
and edited them in Photoshop.
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The Light
by its Creation
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By Joanne Monte

from the beginning,
was meant to douse the darkness
as it did then in that year;

to sparkle the snowflake
that caught the fringe
of a child's eyelash in the Urals of winter

as it backlit
the blue in his mother's tears;

meant to splash
into the bucket of reindeer milk

as it splashed on the shoulders of peasants
toiling in the fields of revolution
that they, themselves, had plowed;

to creep without reservation
into the blacksmith's shop in Bukhara,
past old city walls;

meant to warm
the bread at supper, the bowl
of sunflower seeds; the sleeping children
in their utopia, snug in blankets
loomed with parrot and peacock feathers
and red squares. But this

had been a dream of light,
and by its creation,
meant to reveal what had been done
in darkness behind the barbed wire,
sharpened by secrets;

the brine pits where men were beaten
into their labor, ankle-deep in mire;
their hands stung by salt water
and the pull of cabbages;

meant to glisten
the sweat on their backs,
and in the beards of Old Believers
wishing to go back before the slaughter,
the forced starvation, the mass graves;

before the light
was meant to pour down the throat
of the iris, choking on its stalk;

before it poured across the canvas
on which Goya painted Saturn
Devouring His Children.

(Poem's source : poemsabout.com)
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