vanndra

Ann

1.4K

Watchers585 Deviations

113.8K

Pageviews

Shades of Blue

Greens and Blues

Shades of Purple

Just Flowers -art and photography

Phtomanipulations/Composites

Memories Lost by vanndra, literature

Literature

Memories Lost

So beautiful the blue sky peeping through the trees, The tropical sound of birds, the feeling of freedom and of lightness in your life, Then why is there a cloud that is descending on that scene Why does it infiltrate my very mind and thoughts? That want so much to feel the lightness of my heart. It is the slowness of a loss that is to come, The day to day gradual infiltration of memories lost, The memories of shared life and love, The memories that will not be shared in future times, Is there a point to keep the strength to carry on? What inspiration can be found to face the years to come. It can be found forever in a love that is shared f

Literature

Be Strong by vanndra, literature

Tropical Sunrise by vanndra, literature

Literature

Tropical Sunrise

Today the sun rose slowly, Over the steamy sea. There were sounds of water lapping, As the tide crept close to me. Wet sand was intermittent as the water lapped the shore, The seagulls raced the water in Between the shells galore. The humidity is creeping up, The breeze is turning warm, The yachts and cats are still - In the waters, blue and calm. The day ahead is starting, the heat will creep up now, But enjoy the day beginning The night can take a bow! © vanndra 2021

Alone But Not by vanndra, literature

Literature

Alone But Not

Can we be alone when we are not? I think so. We are there, they are there, but we are alone. Can others know the emptiness of loss of love and friendship? When that company is there, but not? Others too are there but not. They have their lives, their families... Do they care, I think so, But perhaps not enough to know the loneliness that is now here, How could they? The despair that one can feel when a loved one is there but not. Those of us who know understand that, We are alone but not.

Soothing Nature by vanndra, literature

Memories Lost by vanndra, literature

Literature

Memories Lost

Lost Childhood by vanndra, literature

Literature

Lost Childhood

There is a man I know, who used to be a boy, He never was a child, but he used to be a boy. The child was never there, the innocence and love, The feeling of security and a home with family love. He says there’s something missing that he just cannot seem to find, Maybe it’s the part of him that should have been a child. Can he ever feel that part of him, now that he’s a man – When it never really happened, well I guess he never can. Maybe he seeks the child in him in another little one, The little one he knows and loves, the one he calls his son. Will this be the answer to his endless search? For something that is mis

The Marbles by vanndra, literature

Literature

The Marbles

Have you seen my Milky? No, I haven’t, why? ‘Cos I had it with my Golden Wart, Right next to my Cats Eye. Well, I’ve only seen your Smokey, That you had with your Blue Fin. But I had it by my pouch, and I never put it in! You got my Rugged Country, My Tombola you won too, Maybe you took it by mistake, I don’t know what to do! I’ve got my Cloud to deal with, And all different coloured Warts, But I really want my Milky back, Then I’ll have all the different sorts. © vanndra

For Lulu! by vanndra, literature

Soccer Fan by vanndra, literature

Literature

Soccer Fan

He sits on his chair in the corner, And watches the football alone, He used to go to the matches, But now he prefers to stay home. He lost the strength and the youth, To face the cold North Wind, and to stand with the crowd And support them out loud, It's got a bit much for him. The room is full of chatter, And tinkling cups of tea, And he lights his cig, And watches the match With his cup of tea on his knee. And he tries to hear the comments, To listen to what is said, And he tries to stop the chatter By saying it's time for bed. But despite the presence of others There by his side in the room, He sits in his chair in the corner And wat

Ode to England by vanndra, literature

Literature

Ode to England

Too distant for a bird to fly, at the other side of the earth she lies, Shadowed by economic strife and smog, the land I love. They say she's on a downward slide, The chimney tops damped by rain, Shadowed by ever grey skies - in winter time, in winter time. But patience sees the rest, The warm fresh summer days of brilliant green, blue, yellow, The summer rain that cleans the dusty streets, The faces that I know and love, the feeling of belonging. © vanndra

My Suggestions That Received DD's

Favourites

See all

Choice by craftsbyblue, literature

Literature

Choice

As much as I covet those tiny hearts They do not measure the worth of my art To live by your words was a foolish choice A jail of my choosing, stifling my voice For many years I was too scared to draw My hopes and dreams shattered, crushed in your jaw To make what I love, to love what I make That was a win that I wanted to take All I had wanted was your affection You wouldn't accept less than perfection All beings need love, I'm no exception But I'm done crafting for your reception We are imperfect, that we must accept Rather than criticize every misstep For once, let's open the doors to our soul This broken canvas is finally whole

To Be or Not to Be by ariya-sacca, literature

Literature

To Be or Not to Be

To be or not to be. Like a particle in superposition. Existing as a distinct individual, yet spreading out like a wave. As a baritone, I sang the bass. Merging in a symphony of sound. A drop becoming the ocean, the fundamental ground of being. My feelings shaping the waters. Learning to swim in the storm. Now floating in perfect calm. I am no longer afraid, of what lies in the deep seeking to pull me under. I am stronger than I was before. The chalice is whole once again. Fill it with your bittersweet wine.

Ballerina by Poetrymann, literature

Literature

Ballerina

When she was eight, she took ballet lessons because her mother said a woman who could dance was a gift from God. She remembered the wooden barre and mirrors where the class watched themselves practice, pretending to be parasols, their eyes already hooded with the criticism of others. She recalled the grind of resin against leather soles and the slender black rod against her buttocks because her turnout was not perfect and her arms could not pluck amazement from the sky. She remembered the scratch of pink tulle skirts as they all took turns sitting on each others’ laps backstage and the stifling silence of thick black curtains that hi