All the good poets are dead

O Solitude,

thou selfsame cure for

thy sister Lonelynesse.

Thou scaffold for crows;

thou sweet sacrifice of the soul.

I sent my SOS to the world

a quarter century ago.

But ‘tis too late, I am

drowned in solitude.

Be not deceived by what you’ve read.

All the good poets are long-since dead.

What final word be ventured?

What idle mind the next give birth?

Always it’s back to silence,

surrendering all violence;

drawing back, drawing near,

the Land without fear –

but two angels bar the way,

their fiery swords hold sway.

[This poem copyright © 2014 by Reality Wedge!]

Spartan warriors

Some of my ancestors were Spartans. They were amongst the toughest humans to walk the planet. After hundreds of years though the toughness seems to have dwindled somewhat, unfortunately. But not so the spirit.

      This is Sparta!

A protea up close and personal by 'd'

Some more purty things by 'd'

Sunbird by 'd'

The Mushroom

                           I measured the diameter of this ‘shroom. It’s 24 cm across, give or take a centimetre.

Life is a game, play it.

                                                                 Life is a game, play it.
                                                                     Mother Teresa