New Week Inspiration ❤️ ☀ . . . . New Every Morning

Purplerays

New Every Morning

Every day is a fresh beginning,
Listen my soul to the glad refrain.
And, spite of old sorrows
And older sinning,
Troubles forecasted
And possible pain,
Take heart with the day and begin again.

~ Susan Coolidge.

Artist Bettina Baldassarri
Text & image source: Snowwolfs Woodland Nook https://www.facebook.com/Snowwolfswoodlandnook/

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My Changing Definition of Reading – Daily Quote

Jo Hawk

i-think-that-the-online-world-has-actually-brought-books-back.-people-are-reading-because-theyre-reading-the-damn-screen.-thats-more-reading-than-people-used-to-do.-bill-murray

December is the month I reserve for reviewing my current year’s progress. I work on big dreams, setting audacious goals, and plotting a strategy to move toward my desired destination. One area I have been analyzing is the number of books I read. This year’s total was abysmal, by my standards. Then, I started thinking about my online reading. I access blogs, emails, newsletters, essays, reviews, and how-to instructions on my laptop or phone, but I don’t include those documents in my goal count. It’s ridiculous.

In the past, I carried physical novels for my downtime, but books are heavy. My cell, tucked in my pocket, is ready to provide me with educational material or a blank screen for my writing. While I enjoy a real book, with my busy life, having one handy is not practical. Dedicating large chunks of time to curl up with a favorite read to…

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Sounds of words

Didis Art Design

Reading
Books and letters
Dyed in the voice
Of the writer

Words are dancing
Carried in echos
Sentences wake up
In the wind of breathed words

Melodies on the swing
Up and down
Vibrating air
Changing pitches

Heart breathes rhythm
Stays attuned
Imaginations arises
Memories alive

Sound alters emotions
Singing content
Song of being
Melody between reading and writing

Colourful tones, living words

DidiArtist, 12.02.2018

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wolves

House of Heart

In the  state between sleep and wake

traversing birth and death

there is the faintest hint of earthy candles

macabre dreams interrupted by the

strophe of sonnets, a sensation of

spilling pearls like tiny moons falling

through my open palm.

At the boundaries I find you

not your spirit or  rose tinged snow

but flesh and bone.

I am sleeping less now

roused by the wing beats of boreal owls

circling an   ancient Cypress,

their knife edge talons entwined in sprays

of silky moss clinging to  knotty branches.

Fitful wind gusts burst through  barriers of

creaking walls vibrating my hemispheres into

consciousness.  A  celestial  tapestry of recollection

lifts  me over  the valley to a  moonlit hillside

of sweet lea where a silver wolf lies down  beside me.

He is the scent of golden wheat and

his eyes are the color of the eastern sky.

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Solitary World

I Write Her

Untitled

dreams of isolation
a cerebral pull
to a secluded island
a craving for solitude

choosing peace
and nature
escaping to freedom
and bliss

white smooth perfection
envelopes my feet
as i walk
to the horizon

pristine water
saturates my pores
cleans my soul
i’m weightless, so calm

carried away
on the whim of the ocean
the loud silence of the waves
pushing me further to tranquility

I own the perfect island.

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