thephilosophersotherstone:

oh were it that
your nose was flat
and that your wit
might fill a hat

alas, alas! it is not so
you’re quite a wonder
(you should know)
and I must say:

I love your pudding.

thephilosophersotherstone:

silken fabric flows in gentle motion
following the tug of a nightly breeze

soft shoulders shudder from the evening chill
as eyes gaze out into the dark

there the stars shine kindly now
an autumn moon lights up the scene

billowing smoke rises from a chimney
- below, a hearth aglow with coal

as trailing swirls blend into the darkened sky
light from a doorway and the warmth within

beacons of home show the way
for those outside to come back in

where fire crackles and embers dance
in a hearth of coal there late at night

aliterationmag:

We typically consider “talking about the weather” small talk — an inconsequential conversation some stranger forces upon you while you’re out in public minding your own business. Since this is our first jam session, in many ways we are strangers, so talking about the weather seems a somewhat appropriate way to … break the ice.

But as artists, the weather often takes on deeper meaning. Less idle chit-chat, more profound personal revelation. In Nine Stories, J.D. Salinger wrote “Poets are always taking the weather so personally. They’re always sticking their emotions in things that have no emotions.”

This week, we’re jamming straight into the heart of the hurricane. Take it personally. Stick your emotions where they don’t belong. I dare you.

Tag your creations #alitweather. We’ll be watching.

It’s beer o’clock somewhere 🍻😊

crusaderoffire:

I remember those woolly jumpers
You used to knit for me
When the winter nights
Began to creep close
Those patterns you lovingly stitched
The hours by the fireside
Where you had me sing
While you knit
Till the wee hours of the morning
I remember those jumpers
With fondness
For at winter I grow cold
Refusing to buy them from a store
Now that you can knit no more

oh were it that
your nose was flat
and that your wit
might fill a hat

alas, alas! it is not so
you’re quite a wonder
(you should know)
and I must say:

I love your pudding.

silken fabric flows in gentle motion
following the tug of a nightly breeze

soft shoulders shudder from the evening chill
as eyes gaze out into the dark

there the stars shine kindly now
an autumn moon lights up the scene

billowing smoke rises from a chimney
- below, a hearth aglow with coal

as trailing swirls blend into the darkened sky
light from a doorway and the warmth within

beacons of home show the way
for those outside to come back in

where fire crackles and embers dance
in a hearth of coal there late at night

Merry is the Friday night
the weekend’s here
the work is done

Now is the time
for beer and fun
and dontcha know
it’s just begun

Happy Friday! 🍻🎃

evening antics

crackling, flickering embers
rise and fall in the fireplace

coffee and cookies wait
on a polished side table

autumn aromas fill the room
mingling with mirthful spirits

as woolly jumpers tangle
their owners into a knot

steaming affection’s effects
a probable cause for a charm

and no-one to witness what transpires
on the sofa when the lights go down

elenamorelli:

{ changing into autumn colors }

aliterationmag:

We typically consider “talking about the weather” small talk — an inconsequential conversation some stranger forces upon you while you’re out in public minding your own business. Since this is our first jam session, in many ways we are strangers, so talking about the weather seems a somewhat appropriate way to … break the ice.

But as artists, the weather often takes on deeper meaning. Less idle chit-chat, more profound personal revelation. In Nine Stories, J.D. Salinger wrote “Poets are always taking the weather so personally. They’re always sticking their emotions in things that have no emotions.”

This week, we’re jamming straight into the heart of the hurricane. Take it personally. Stick your emotions where they don’t belong. I dare you.

Tag your creations #alitweather. We’ll be watching.

desert sands

dance for me, my concubine
with limber feet and grace

across the palace floor
of polished marble

weave your veils
hide and reveal

entice us all and charm us
with tender wiles and cunning

make a show of your affections
you know the game, the rule is bare

your master’s whim is all your reason
on it depends what may become

so dance tonight like no tomorrow
everything depends on what we feel

should you succeed, oh graceful damsel
showered in favours you shall be