LOve Of…

Love of… Each Other, Family, Country, Self, Music, Divine, LIFE! There is so much to love.
Since the month of Febuary will be part of this weeks blog I wanted to represent the beauty and the expansive nature of love in image and in written works.

LOVE OF COUNTRY


Raymondoantonio


MY AUSTRALIA

My Australia is a long and winding
Great ocean road, whose every curve
Holds the promise of new delights and insights.
My Australia feels, sounds, smells and
Tastes of diversity.
Your Australia is white, middle-class
And totally un-groovy.
Your Australia is a straight and narrow
Highway to an old-fashioned, fascist,
Anal-retentive hell!
My Australia is generous, creative,
Adventurous and psychedelic!
My Australia is rich in ways
You could never understand.
My Australia is this ever changing,
Ever beautiful,
Great Southern Land!!!

LOVE OF FAMILY

Goa Family Sunset


Liam Carroll

LOVE OF MUSIC

The Cellist


Caleb Hamm

LOVE OF SELF

Fitting Room


dab

I would rather be standing
in gale force winds
with one who understands my soul
than sitting quietly
in a peaceful meadow
surrounded by those who don’t
~
the winds bring much to learn
and give me strength to endure
but the foremost gift they offer
is the room in which to grow

Out of Balance


GittiArt

Who Is It?


Cosimopiro

Who is it
that calls my name
in the whisper of the wind,
writes my name
across the sky
in wispy ink?
Who is it
that sits chattering
in the corner of my mind,
utters inaudible secrets
across a void
in ancient time?
Be it you,
Death,
who yearns for life,
embracing
with inconsolable grief,
or you,
Life,
who longs for death,
awaiting
for peaceful rest?

Who is it
that watches from within
in the in between of l,
offers enigmatic dreams
across deep sleep
in cryptic cry?
Who is it
that whistles
in the tune of me,
reflects my presence
across the now
in a haunting key?
Be it you,
Aloneness,
who desires companionship,
writing
with aching penmanship,
or you,
Memory,
who plays buried songs,
singing
with melancholic lungs?

Who is it
that dares trespass upon me
in the quietude of my temple,
waltzing awkward steps
across my spine
in ever spinning spiral?
Who is it
that plays
in the sanctity of one’s sanctum,
tossing sacred balance
across the chaos
in darkest stratum?
Be it you,
Shadow,
who seeks divine light,
fluttering
with broken wings in flight,
or you,
Fate,
who walks on shifting sands,
stumbling
with fumbling hands?

Be it who you are,
my name is my own
and I’ll drink your ink
across the sky,
dancing my steps
to any wind blown.
Be it who you are,
my sanctuary will stand strong
and I’ll sleep in tranquil slumber
across the dreams,
whistling my tune
to my own song.

LOVE OF SELF… INNER CHILD

Camellia Queendom


Aglaia b

LOVE OF THE DIVINE

SURRENDER


Artsmitten

The Boy Too Bright for Meters


Cynthia Lund Torroll

Intensity shot through his form
unnoticed but to those
who saw in his stillness

pure stealth

It was a practiced tone
years of tamped down brilliance
distilled presentable to cruelty by blood
(and one not skilled enough to shield him)

He lives ferociously
Tearing down weed, chopping birch
to hone a harvest plenty

He hears with radar

He notes indelibly

His soul a defiant strength

In spite of everything
the Eye that just sees Yes

LOVE OF LIFE

Charons Lullaby


Angi and Silas

LOVE OF EACH OTHER

Incandescent


Laurie Search

6 your hand is a petroglyph inside my walls


Erich Biemer

running a finger across the mosaic
of lips, full and bitter sweet
a tympani is the best reflection
of all these spin networks
baritone knots have proven
the most effective tamper
for certain flames

i haven’t allowed flowers
since after you died

“how can a gardenia hurt anyone?”

wearing a mask
can be a grounding point
white and red oak masks
for the tango of a flask

glasses and obsidian eyes
hide the dizziness
fighting sleep

you rub them with your middle fingers
nose bridge to corners
before shifting your feet to the floor
to get a cold drink
-small moments can make a life
and you know you have forgotten something that lurks
somewhere in the constellation of a brain pan

“calm can be a word for lie”

you look at your fingers
smudged with sawdust ink
and brush them off
on the metal collar

i will not name it
i will not give it the power
of naming
night flier
speaker of the dead

another watches
as you stand facing
a wall
not understanding you moved
through it
long ago

they only wanted to tell you what you already knew/know
i have filled my crossbow with broken arrows instead
and wait on the tracks for the black wind train

i gave up singing too
but painting poetry still came back
even on the worst days
my heart aches
the floor creaks
and yes
on and on
in shade
the words beat

© by ebiemer

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