Hallo lieber Gast

willkommen in den klaren Weiten im Norden Deutschlands, begleite mich auf meinen Pfaden durch die Natur, Ausflügen und Reisen, auf der Suche nach Ruhe und Anregung. Entdecke mit mir Linien und Freiräumen, die die Perspektiven, die Vielfalt der Farben und Formen dieser Welt und unserer Natur uns bieten und genieße Momente der Nachdenklichkeit, Poesie und philosophischen Worte großer Dichter und Denker, manchmal auch meine eigenen lyrischen Texte dazu.

Schön, dass Du Dir die Zeit genommen hast - wunderbar, Dich hier zur wissen!

" Ich muss mich ganz im Stillen mit meiner Außenwelt reiben,. sonst werde ich untauglich für die Welt."

- Paula Modersohn-Becker

Schloss Schönbrunn - Wien - Castle Schoenbrunn - Vienna

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Aus weissen Wolken
baut sich ein Schloss.

Spiegelnde Seen, selige Wiesen,
singende Brunnen aus tiefstem Smaragd!

In seinen schimmernden Hallen
wohnen
die alten Götter.

Noch immer,
abends,
wenn die Sonne purpurn sinkt,
glühn seine Gärten,
vor ihren Wundern bebt mein Herz
und lange . . . steh ich.

Sehnsüchtig!

Dann naht die Nacht,
die Luft verlischt,
wie zitterndes Silber blinkt das Meer,
und über die ganze Welt hin
weht ein Duft
wie von Rosen.


Arno Holz, 1863 - 1929


These photos show Castle Schoenbrunn, Vienna - Austria. We've spent a long weekend in Vienna and it was absolutely wonderful in Autumn. 




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Fall, Leaves, Fall

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Fall, Leaves, Fall

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.

Emily Brontë


November is nearly over. The days are getting shorter and shorter,
time for candles, indoor joy, and family. I wish you all
a wonderful last November weekend.

Sincerely yours,

Isabella 



Our World Tuesday - Wordless Wednesday
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Declaration - Chicago

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Declaration

BY PHILLIP B. WILLIAMS

City of wind and glass dressed in frozen lace,
of the wide-stone tower that would not burn,
of Lake Michigan and the poor who never
see the sun drop lines of light across the cold ache
of water, of televised faces spitting water on children
in a park obliterated of its pigeons. City of pigeons
on train platforms where trains say the names
of approaching destinations like prophets: you know
me as your restless child. I creep through dimensions
of snow-scythed wind and ruthless summers
looking for my semblance in neighborhoods
gentrified into dull disasters of coffee and scones.
I have loved you like darkness loves the base
of a throat yet songs I could sing for you
won’t come. City of Lou Malnati’s and Giordano’s,
of segregation and gang wars, of bus drivers
who seem to hate me and so I hate them back,
the blade of their impatience, the phantom dark
beneath their abrasive eyes, until I meet the one
who says “good morning” back and it sounds
like “I love you” and “I’m sorry” and I needed
to hear that this morning because traffic’s slow
as a corroded vein and the Red Line changes
races halfway through and that feels wrong
and beyond explanation like the parking meters
eating our tired bodies down to their good bones.
At night, Michigan Ave. slips on its suit of lights
and tourists while Madison and Central Park
roll restless with Shark’s fried fish and barbershops
where a boy sits with the buzz of clippers
carving something beautiful from the black curls
on his head. You’ve been on my mind, City
of African music festivals and Bud Billiken
parades, City of name changes I refuse to honor.
Sears to Willis, the ghost of a Marshall Field’s relief
oxidized into obscurity. Here is my face, City.
Here is my face and my hands are open for you.
Here is the body that has rejected your violence,
that has been missed by your bullets, City.
Here is the scimitar of my tongue to cut you
down to your particulars, in hope to find
something in you to love that will love me back.