bydaschinka

“Constantly regard the universe as one living being, having one substance and one soul; and observe how all things have reference to one perception, the perception of this one living being; and how all things act with one movement; and how all things are the cooperating causes of all things which exist; observe too the continuous spinning of the thread and the contexture of the web.”

—	Meditations by Marcus Aurelius

Julia Margaret Cameron (1815-79), 'Circe', about 1865

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet.
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

The Day Is Done - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

dinosaur poem

when you come
your prehistoric presence weighs on my soul heavily
dragging my heart with every step. your dinasaur
breath steams from your nostrils then suddenly sucks
up the primordial air with one enormous inhalation your
disapproving demeanor wipes all chances of hope off
the map as your lumbering gait shatters the
fragile glass lined bubble of inspiration....
until you leave

by lucya lebid
©2013, Lucya Lebid, all rights reserved

П. Стахевич. "Наречена з-під Чорногори".

'The Tale of the Snow King'

http://polarbearstale.blogspot.com/2012/02/tale-of-snow-king.html

'The Tale of the Snow King'

'Bajka o śnieżnym królu'- The Tale of the Snow King
by Tadeusz Kubiak
Illustrated by Zbigniew Rychlicki
Nasza Księgarnia, Warszawa, Poland, 1968

See more illustrations here

color wow

 

 

art by friends

d.freidlova

e.duquette

irena madei brother and friend in Ukraine

From Crisis Chronicle online library

Untitled (by Natalie Webster)

Untitled
Waking
The breath catches
at the bottom
of the throat,

pulling back into the belly.

Laying
beneath the warmth
lost feeling in December:

the intention of being.

Gasping
inhales reclaim
the lost remains unfound

air does not go in
sighs do not come out.

Running.
At　　　　　 a　　　　　 loss

For : Direction….
foot upon pavement: falling.
Going.　

pulling away, further
out of reach.

condensation clouds, not yet thought
and half unspoken

In and in and in and nothing.

Pulsing
waves around the throat
remembrance of our breathings.

Living
until we’re woken:

in sweat, entangled in time,
the pulling, inhaling, exhaling,
and twisting towards dying.

"Untitled" ©December 2011 by Natalie Webster, all rights reserved by the poet


Natalie Webster’s poetry has been published in Take It to the Street Poetry’s Force Fed as well as on the on-line blog Infloressence.  She received her B.A. in Language Studies from the University of California at Santa Cruz and is currently pursuing a Master’s in Counseling Psychology from John F. Kennedy University.  Her spare time is spent working creatively with children’s art classes on painting, creating and writing who, for better or for worse, are her muses. Natalie keeps a web scrapbook of inspirations and writing sketches at Ice and Coffee.

Poisonous Apples (by Natalie Webster)

Poisonous Apples

I know nothing.

A dull gnawing
and throbbing ambivalence
of dreams:

You take my hands

and feed me poisonous apples.

I lie limp and languid
in your charms.

Train song echoing, two A.M.
A peahen’s cry: the coyote tears her
From her young:

Sounds of night, far below

a country’s harvest moon.

Wind’s blow turns to rain.

A sun’s shadows dissipated:
gray shortened days.

I know nothing except

the absence of a path

leading home.

"Poisonous Apples" ©October 2011 by Natalie Webster, all rights reserved by the poet

Natalie Webster’s poetry has been published in Take It to the Street Poetry’s Force Fed as well as on the on-line blog Infloressence.  She received her B.A. in Language Studies from the University of California at Santa Cruz and is currently pursuing a Master’s in Counseling Psychology from John F. Kennedy University.  Her spare time is spent working creatively with children’s art classes on painting, creating and writing who, for better or for worse, are her muses. Natalie keeps a web scrapbook of inspirations and writing sketches at Ice and Coffee.


 http://library.crisischronicles.com/

Tamara Karsavina—The Firebird, 1910

odds and ends

 

"There's nothing like a cold, Arctic night with stars, a pale white moon and northern light. A lot of space, peace and tranquility - and room for dreaming! 'Aputsiaq' means snowflake in Greenlandic. Oh, I love snow and winter sooo much!" ~ Aputsiaq