Quotes about nuance, page 6
The Butterfly of the Night
suspended in the mid-air, waiting to catch my
bedside snoring, sensing but not responding a little
bit focusing of the shadow of the night, laying in
my mat with a thin fellow in my leg
wondering takes me there to the mystic ecstasy
of Parousia, a never ending experience of joy, the
narcissism of my youth laundering my inner most
feeling of solitude, the beginning of no where of the
answer, as the night begin to settle down in my
most unconventional deep sleep of the mid-dream
beside a wonderful lady of my moment of a time
a distinction of happiness wonders my soul to
take another step, listening only to the command of
the whisper of the heart, the night becomes a day to
remember that you're there in my side, waiting
patiently, to make me glad of the harmony, as we
touch all the night, taking me to the longering
harmonic harp and i will be there to end my feeling
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poem by Antonio Liao
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Little Butterfly (For Helen)
Little butterfly
You fly so softly
You flutter your wings twice
In the blink of an eye
And catch a nuance of the Summer breeze
Carrying you from the colts in the meadow
To your favorite Dogwood trees
You float up, the air tilts you
I admire your beauty as you fly near
Butterfly, you fly so softly
when you watch the children smile and play
You make my heart skip a beat
and then it settles down
and I feel blessed with serenity
With such unearthly grace and dignity
Butterfly, you fly so softly
I fall in love with you a thousand times
Then you smile at me
With your perfect pearly smile
and I wish I could change shape
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poem by James T. Adair
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Emerald Green
Emerald green is the colour of life and of the springtime,
Conveying harmony, joie de vivre and most important, love
Emerald green retains its lively vigour all the time
In all nuances, like those wonderful green eyes that rove.
Sunlight dances across the Gulf of Mexico, a lovely place
With emerald green waters and very hot white sand.
Moreover, we see this green in a forest, a darker space,
Or we can see it in the green grass in the Spring land,
A metallic green body with small yellow sweet stripes
And emerald eyes has the Hine’s emerald dragonfly.
Nymphs hatch in marshes high in sedge meadows,
When sheds its skin and emerges an adult to fly.
A mineral emerald green contains the Romanesque murals.
The old Masters used verdigris for them and copper green
To make a deep brown, mixed it with sulfur-containing colors,
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poem by Marieta Maglas
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This Child Within The Man {When Crossroads Connect}
Crossroads splitting 'neath July's late sun,
like a silent tremor,
four streets meet,
and it's time for decision-
where to go now.
Looking for alternate roads,
sun dying fast,
narrowing paths and options.
I see a bridge beyond and 'neath
a backdrape of golden
trimmed burgandy;
high sunset bleeding
into evenings mergence,
like a virgin falling,
falling-
falling to her knees
slowly, softly-
to her knees.
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Clay Feet
“D’you think God knows what He is doing? ”
a few bold angels dared to ask
when He created Man. At their first viewing,
they saw that He had botched this task,
because He’d left Man’s legs unfinished,
and though his brilliant brain held sway,
his human stature was diminished
because he stood on feet of clay.
A golden oldie now, Man’s not
improved in time, and every gate
of paradise is closed, and what
the angels said explains his fate.
God made his brain more brilliant than
the apes from which he had descended,
but giving feet of clay to Man
made him than angels far less splendid.
Roberta Smith (“Golden Oldies with a New Sparkle, ” NYT, October 30,2007) writes about an exhibition of three of “The Gates of Paradise” by Lorenzo Ghiberti at the Metropolitan Museum:
Most of the historic sculptures, frescoes and edifices of early-15th-century Florence are not the least bit portable. It’s simple: You want to see them, you go to Florence. But right now nearly a third of one of the city’s greatest glories can be seen without leaving town, by visiting “The Gates of Paradise: Lorenzo Ghiberti’s Renaissance Masterpiece” at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This show presents 3 of the 10 gilded bronze reliefs that decorate the doors created by Ghiberti from 1425 to 1452 for the 12th- to 13th-century Baptistery of San Giovanni. Newly cleaned, they have never looked more golden or less oldie. One of the treasures of the early Renaissance, the 17-foot-high doors depict Old Testament scenes in a radically new fusion of physical action, emotional intensity and narrative complexity. Especially the three reliefs at the Met. Their subjects are Adam and Eve, Jacob and Esau, and David and Goliath. Each is pictorially unified and yet, in a different way, almost cinematic in effect… Ghiberti’s feeling for physical detail and emotional nuance keeps his surfaces alive, edge to edge. As Adam and Eve’s story unfolds, for example, angels register everything from joy to skepticism to alarm. (An angel watching God awaken Adam seems to be asking, “Does he know what he’s doing? ”)
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poem by Gershon Hepner
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Around the World With Minerva
She would offer us crumpets.
Minerva Pinkston...
Once part of a jet set!
Holding up both hands to announce...
Her painted nails were wet!
She rambled on as if we were being tested,
To remember her travels to places...
And names of those of power she met!
When we first arrived at Minerva's front door!
Many thought she wore a mask...
Or her make up was done very poor!
Her long eyelashes
Made her top eyelids droop!
She had too much lipstick on her lips...
She could kiss lips consistently,
Of the bears who mooned her
Or a mesmerized passing moose.
With an instant wish to fly away...
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Flowers Adrift On The Fragrance Of Their Own Foregoing
Flowers adrift on the fragrance of their own foregoing.
In the night that takes me under its wing
to shelter me from myself, arrival and passage of spring.
Fish nibble at the wafer of the moon on the tongue of the lake.
The wind bitter as a green apple with an innocent cruel side.
Saturn at dawn, Venus at dusk, things abide in their own good time
without knowing for whose sake they shine until the mind
can't keep a secret anymore and let's the heart know
what the heart has always known. Reason is colour blind.
Everything that's hidden out in the open isn't invisibly camouflaged
to look like God at a quick glance. Flowers don't dance
with their deathmasks on. Things may have changed
since I last walked here, but they haven't aged. Autumn
not an older season than spring, spring not younger than yesterday.
Water's never heard of a virgin birth that ends in a real death.
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poem by Patrick White
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A Rainbow Coloured God
God gave us colours in our daily routine,
A clear blue sky the grass so green,
The colours of the mammals, all the life in the seas,
Our rainforest habitat they're all there to please.
Our colour's a gift which we can use and enjoy,
Yet it's also an issue we can use to destroy,
This subject is unique to the human race,
That we can judge another by the colour on their face.
Racism is prevalent wherever you travel,
It's a problem the scientists have failed to unravel,
We claim to love colour but that's strictly not true,
If you're the wrong shade there could be trouble for you.
We claim to be intelligent yet nuance is still used,
As a reason for hatred an excuse to be abused,
If only we could accept that we are what we are,
Racism would die we'd be on an equal par.
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poem by Bri Mar
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The Next Train To Eden
..... will be leaving All Reason
just as soon as it’s all clear...
But I’m too busy thinking
about poems and Cathedrals
and beaks and polished claws
tearing flesh from purpose.
And I hunt the heart that sees it
but vaguely sense I’ve lost it
to someone else’s poem
to someone else’s heart..
And this railway line that reaches
flows too much like a river.
And the race is surely done, the heart is surely gone
but the train is waiting on, the train is waiting on
Our poems all approximate
A reaching for and rising
To those great cathedrals closing
On the echoes of our truths,
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poem by Jim Hogg
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The Lucifer Effect...{Apocalypse de Abaddon}
____________ I ____________
______A S P E R S I O N S_______
I won't die, will not condone mortality;
I stand opposed; defiant to Life's reality;
I guffaw at Times' ever-circling hands,
Moving faster than a wind-swept desert sand.
How do You giveth out....yet, then You take away
This gift of Yours thats wrapped in years and day's
Free Will, You preached, but no guarantees;
Even clocks come with lifetime warranties!
_____________ I I ______________
_____F A L S E *A C C O L A D E S______
You reign with powers lauded 'All Supreme',
Controling land and skspace, the seven sea's.
Certainly a King, so wise and kind as 'Ye
Could spare a moment of His time for thee.
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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