“Let us make our future now,
and let us make our dreams tomorrow’s reality.”
— Malala Yousafzai
Flowers
Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.
Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.
The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.
Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy’s inmost nook.
Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.
Robert Louis Stevenson
The Bird must sing to earn the Crumb
by Emily Dickinson
The Bird must sing to earn the Crumb
What merit have the Tune
No Breakfast if it guaranty
The Rose content may bloom
To gain renown of Lady’s Drawer
But if the Lady come
But once a Century, the Rose
Superfluous become —
“There is an inmost center in us all, where truth abides in fullness;
….and, to know, rather consists in opening out a way where the imprisoned splendor may escape, then in effecting entry for a light supposed to be without.”
― Robert Browning
“The place to improve the world is first in one’s own heart
and head and hands, and then work outward from there.”
― Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values
Blake
Jorge Luis Borges
Where will the rose in your hand exist
that lavishes, without knowing, intimate gifts?
Not in colour, because the flower is blind,
nor in the sweet inexhaustible fragrance,
nor in the weight of the petal. Those things
are sparse and remote echoes.
The real rose is more elusive.
Perhaps a pillar or a battle
or a firmament of angels, or an infinite
world, secret and necessary,
or the joy of a god we will not see
or a silver planet in another sky
or a terrible archetype lacking
the form of the rose.
ೋღ❤ღೋ
Il silenzio di un bacio vale piu di mille parole.
The silence of a kiss is worth more than 1000 words.
ೋღ❤ღೋ
“Taking pictures is savoring life intensely, every hundredth of a second.” Marc Riboud
Monochrome Madness will be posted later today for your viewing pleasure on Leanne Cole’s blog.
If you would like to participate and submit a photo in the upcoming weeks, please email your monochrome image to leanne@leannecole.com.au and include a link to your blog or website if you have one. It doesn’t have to be WordPress blogger, it can be a Facebook page, a Flickr page, etc. Include your name or your blog name. The image size should be low resolution, so the largest size should be 1000 pixels or less. The deadline for submission is before 6 p.m. on or before Tuesday, Melbourne Australia time. The earlier the better for Leanne. If you should miss the deadline your photograph will be posted the following week. The complete instructions are posted on Leanne’s blog should you have any questions or need help. The first MM of every month will have a theme. Next week the June theme will be “water”. There will be two galleries during the theme week, one for the theme and one like there normally is for those that may choose not to do a theme. ✽
② ● ⑫
〖* Mortui vivos docent *〗 “Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a
more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society
and inspire the people with nobler motives and more heroic patriotism?” – Henry Ward Beecher
A Rose and Milton
From the generations of roses
That are lost in the depths of time
I want one saved from oblivion,
One spotless rose, of all things
That ever were. Fate permits me
The gift of choosing for once
That silent flower, the last rose
That Milton held before him,
Unseen. O vermilion, or yellow
Or white rose of a ruined garden,
Your past still magically remains
Forever shines in these verses,
Gold, blood, ivory or shadow
As if in his hands, invisible rose.
Jorge Luis Borges
Maverick Mist 