Mill By The Pond (Revision)
Posted: Mon Jul 11, 2016 2:51 pm
G'day All,
I was going to post this under the old original posting but I thought it would be much better under a new heading. I hope those in-charge don't mind. The main reason for posting is to show the computer rendering of the image of Mill by the pond. It was just finished after hang'n around on my HD for some time unfinished. Trust me I'm still learning how to do this with a computer so the image might be a little rusty to those that know their stuff.
There is no actual place called "Mill By the Pond" I made it up on a whim and winged it....I hope you guys like it. If you would like a much larger signed copy with poem please feel free to email me and we might be able to work something out.
Thanks.
PHIL.
Mill By The Pond (Revision)
Lights of diamond sparkle, on cool waters of this pond
Unkempt groves of tall oak trees, hide all thats beyond
Viewed from the bank, schools of fish slowly swim
Bewitching willows leaves dance, for this northerly winds whim
Floating carpets of lilies, flowers of white appear from evenings spawned
Music of Spring fills my ears, on this theatrical tranquil tryst
Busy birds fill the air, soaring, then darting, quickly, then very swift,
very young birds chirp, always greedy for their parents gift
Some unborn eggs lie in nests, warmed by their soft mothers breast
Mother nature brings joys to all, as I lie here half adrift
A bank made of natures finest, this carpet of grass green
This gives me a lazy bed, so soft, in slumber causes this welcomed dream
I lie here thinking nothing on earth matters, yet so it seems
Earthly troubles seem to leave me, natures gift is now firmly deemed
We all wish to be in places like this, yet who would believe
This tattered old stone Mill house built in 1870 sits unused
Its walls once stout and clean, now ivy covered and misused
Once useful, now retired for sugar brought in white cardboard boxes
Wheel and windows broken, doors all frozen, slate roof broken and abused
Local county folk no longer care, been long forgotten, now abandoned
A lonely turtle, it's trying to feel for a meal of mozzies and quick blow flies
But their speed is fast, as they swoosh past, he goes hungry after many tries
The sharp kookaburra sits on the old veranda rail watching any movement,
she's looking for a quick easy meal, yet moving away might be more prudent
I spy these little dramas as I look around, thankfully my worries seem truant
Then I look here at my artists pallet, brushes, oils and wooden easel
The colours, and perspective, for this theme is so unbelievable
Clouds form of white, purples and sky blues so variable
Mirrors of greens, from willows, tall oaks, cascading bushes
A test of all my skills, with art, my old hands and fine sable brushes
Dark clouds, winds begin to rise, a storms beginning to threaten
Once tranquil scene, an artist gift, now must be abandoned
Thunder, a flash of lightning, quickly I must pack, all is forsaken
Blast, my art work is lost, to rains and icy hails cynical pelting
Yet, with these rhyming words, its kept this artists soul from grieving.
Those artistic wonders all, while being at the pond.
© 2016 - By Phil Ludolph
I was going to post this under the old original posting but I thought it would be much better under a new heading. I hope those in-charge don't mind. The main reason for posting is to show the computer rendering of the image of Mill by the pond. It was just finished after hang'n around on my HD for some time unfinished. Trust me I'm still learning how to do this with a computer so the image might be a little rusty to those that know their stuff.
There is no actual place called "Mill By the Pond" I made it up on a whim and winged it....I hope you guys like it. If you would like a much larger signed copy with poem please feel free to email me and we might be able to work something out.
Thanks.
PHIL.
Mill By The Pond (Revision)
Lights of diamond sparkle, on cool waters of this pond
Unkempt groves of tall oak trees, hide all thats beyond
Viewed from the bank, schools of fish slowly swim
Bewitching willows leaves dance, for this northerly winds whim
Floating carpets of lilies, flowers of white appear from evenings spawned
Music of Spring fills my ears, on this theatrical tranquil tryst
Busy birds fill the air, soaring, then darting, quickly, then very swift,
very young birds chirp, always greedy for their parents gift
Some unborn eggs lie in nests, warmed by their soft mothers breast
Mother nature brings joys to all, as I lie here half adrift
A bank made of natures finest, this carpet of grass green
This gives me a lazy bed, so soft, in slumber causes this welcomed dream
I lie here thinking nothing on earth matters, yet so it seems
Earthly troubles seem to leave me, natures gift is now firmly deemed
We all wish to be in places like this, yet who would believe
This tattered old stone Mill house built in 1870 sits unused
Its walls once stout and clean, now ivy covered and misused
Once useful, now retired for sugar brought in white cardboard boxes
Wheel and windows broken, doors all frozen, slate roof broken and abused
Local county folk no longer care, been long forgotten, now abandoned
A lonely turtle, it's trying to feel for a meal of mozzies and quick blow flies
But their speed is fast, as they swoosh past, he goes hungry after many tries
The sharp kookaburra sits on the old veranda rail watching any movement,
she's looking for a quick easy meal, yet moving away might be more prudent
I spy these little dramas as I look around, thankfully my worries seem truant
Then I look here at my artists pallet, brushes, oils and wooden easel
The colours, and perspective, for this theme is so unbelievable
Clouds form of white, purples and sky blues so variable
Mirrors of greens, from willows, tall oaks, cascading bushes
A test of all my skills, with art, my old hands and fine sable brushes
Dark clouds, winds begin to rise, a storms beginning to threaten
Once tranquil scene, an artist gift, now must be abandoned
Thunder, a flash of lightning, quickly I must pack, all is forsaken
Blast, my art work is lost, to rains and icy hails cynical pelting
Yet, with these rhyming words, its kept this artists soul from grieving.
Those artistic wonders all, while being at the pond.
© 2016 - By Phil Ludolph