Image: We Heart It
Old Ideas…
Old ideas…
An old love
in a new light
We both have
grown and changed
during the lost years
evolved in the language of…
lust…
passion…
sensuality…
dare I say…
Love?
An awareness of the other
taking us to new heights…
exploration…
fulfillment…
© 2013 Annie Original Flash Fiction
Always…I wish you peace, joy and happiness, but most of all I wish you Love.
As Ever, Annie
Inspired by Leonard Cohen’s CD Old Ideas
ANNIE'S MUSE 
Oct 11, 2013 @ 16:43:35
great picture!
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Oct 11, 2013 @ 17:12:23
Love it too … I am a bit out of the ordinary and this was just about perfect!!!
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Oct 11, 2013 @ 17:49:26
yes, cos at the same time it’s about leaning back where you can’t settle comfy and about reflection in a barrow to move on
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Oct 11, 2013 @ 18:21:37
interesting concept … for me it is any place to sit and read that is convenient!!!
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Nov 15, 2013 @ 00:56:49
The picture inspired me! And outstanding choice- Here’s a twofer.
***********
To read that rascal Burns; A Red, Red Rose
or Byron; She walks in beauty?
Better enjoyed at the hearth and hearty brew.
No small shelter from cutting breeze
a barrow quartered to the sun.
No this is rugged landscape
toiled of sweat and brow
outer weathered, inner
strong.
This is the story of two landscapes
lived in noonday sun.
[Landscapes]
~by John Burnside~
Behind faces and gestures
We remain mute
And spoken words heavy
With what we ignore or keep silent
Betray us
I dare not speak for mankind
I know so little of myself
But the Landscape
I see as a reflection
Is also a lie stealing into
My words I speak without remorse
Of this image of myself
And mankind my unequaled torment
I speak of Desert without repose
Carved by relentless winds
Torn up from its bowels
Blinded by sands
Unsheltered solitary
Yellow as death
Wrinkled like parchment
Face turned to the sun.
I speak
Of men’s passing
So rare in this arid land
That it is cherished like a refrain
Until the return
Of the jealous wind
And of the bird, so rare,
Whose fleeting shadow
Soothes the wounds made by the sun
And of the tree and the water
Named Oasis
For a woman’s love
I speak of the voracious Sea
Reclaiming shells from beaches
Waves from children
The faceless Sea
Its hundreds of drowned faces
Wrapped in seaweed
Slippery and green
Like creatures of the deep
The reckless Sea, unfinished story,
Removed from anguish
Full of death tales
I speak of open valleys
Fertile at men’s feet
Overgrown with flowers
Of captive summits
Of mountains, of clear skies
Devoured by untamed evergreens
And of trees that know
The welcome of lakes
Black earth
Errant pathways
Echoes of the faces
Haunting our days.
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