‘Libra’ Astrology Digital Download on Etsy

Downloadable in two formats, pdf (primary) and jpg. Makes ideal wall art.

Libra is ruled by Venus, and is described as the Cardinal, or dominant, air sign.

Copyright Francis Barker 2020

Small Beginnings — Long Gestation

https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/dfbart

I have restarted my Etsy shop, which I’ve had since 2011.

There’s not too much in it at the moment. I intend to concentrate solely on digital downloads, affordable simple art and photographs. I used to put my finished artwork on there but with little success. Maybe they were overpriced.

Copyright Francis Barker 2020

Your Life, Your Palette

*Maybe we are restricted more in our minds than in reality. But then, what is reality?

Project 3, Exercise 1 – creating mood/atmosphere — Janice Scott – Learning Log (Reblog)

I decided to concentrate on trying to make a painting using the bare minimum of colours – white/black .. greys. This was inspired by a recent short break I had on the North Wales coast. We arrived in the middle of Storm Francis with winds up to 75 mph, the sea was especially violent (we […]
Project 3, Exercise 1 – creating mood/atmosphere — Janice Scott – Learning Log

Poem: A Walk by the Sea

Without too much thought I took
to the beach,
followed the white lines of
breakers
leading me due north along that
fractured shore.

in no time at all the beach huts were
behind me,
removed by dunes and blurring
summer haze.

then suddenly
she was there
right in front of me, as if she’d
dropped
right out of the ether.

she was squatting down,
blonde haired and
quite young,
her blue-green dress hitched up a touch
showing small bare feet
half buried,
where the dry white sand
gave way to shingle.

I stopped
said hi
but she didn’t even look!
staring into that wide expanse
she could see
clear across the ocean.

looking down I admired her
gold-embroidered dress,
the delicate amber jewellery on
slim fingers,
her long hair matted by
the keen breeze.

then she looked up,
her eyes like cyan gems
and pointed to herself–
‘Elfhild’ I thought she said
sounding sort of German
or Dutch or maybe something
in between
but I didn’t speak a word.

not then.

she didn’t seem lost or in any distress
so I moved on,
giving her a faint wave,
after all, what business was it
of mine?
I carried on steadily
maybe half a mile or so,
felt the wind move round
south to south east.
I could’ve done with a jumper so I
turned back,
got up quite a pace in the end.
frankly I wanted to return
to see if she was alright –
but I saw only footprints
where she had been, where the shingle
gave way to sand.

walking to the shoreline something
caught my eye, a piece of amber
wet and shining.
I picked it up, held it
to the light
and smiled, looking out
to where the waves
were rolling in by the edge of
that German sea

poem and image © copyright Dave Barker 2020

Poem ‘Girl with a Cello’

Girl with a Cello

In a diamond city night we’re
taxied through floodlit streets

angled snow alabasters old facades
medieval histories beyond all guessing

Flanders is frozen outside this misted glass
the two of us sitting nose to nose

our tongues loosening aperitif smiles
white burgundy cutting through brie

making heads light and cheeks flush
and toe touch toe

Our eyes meet when bare soul strokes calf
kissing slim fingers one by one

plied each day to taut cello strings
sneak previews to plots and suites of night

© copyright francis barker 2012

Poem ‘Between Lives’

Between Lives

“We are the sun,” you said,
that his light arose with us
playing on rainbows,
his myriad smiles the spangled waves.
In those days thoughts were endless,
vibrant pages which turned by themselves.
There were no limits to how far we’d run
or dream out onto the sea,
our hearts living free in a peerless sky.
But thoughts like books do have an end
and I have died a billion times,
holding on to every word you said,
like a child might ask a question
between the pages of his lives

poem and image © copyright Francis Barker 2012 & 2020

Poem: ‘Dark’

Dark

Rook on the roadside straight ahead
you step aside casually
only just avoid my wheels.
Is that why I smile at the mirror
see you promptly step back
to continue to pick and prod
and pull at roadkill entrails
some straitjacket driver provides?
Like the crow, the raven, the jackdaw—
few are as bright as you, so dark
in colour and reputation

Poem: Anonymous Lines

Downstairs any morning;
sunlight and smoke
in slow swirling clouds.
The cat wanders in,
cries and wanders out,
flopping down the step
toward shrill sparrow sounds.

An open passage door
through which I follow
into a past, or no time at all.
Gooseberries hairy in the mouth,
that sour shock at the crunch.
Raspberries sweet on the tongue;
peas plucked from the pod,

sitting between rows of green.
His shadow blots out the sun,
a tall silhouette, cap pushed back
as a match is struck.
I follow to runner beans
and strawberry rows,
where the cat rolls over and over.

He is distant now, never hurried,
where it all opens up,
when I cling to his leg
looking down on the dyke
where the moorhen struts.
Out onto prairie fields,
anonymous lines of roads

and pylons. A relentless horizon.

*If you would like personal astrology report, please contact me at: leoftanner@gmail.com for details.

Pictures of the Day: England, Fleet Church

DSC_0109 - Edited

*If you would like a personal astrology report, please contact me at: leoftanner@gmail.com for details.

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Without too much thought I took to the beach, followed the white lines of breakers leading me due north along that fractured shore.

in no time at all the beach huts were behind me, removed by dunes and blurring summer haze.

then suddenly she was there right in front of me, as if she’d dropped right out of the ether.

she was squatting down, blonde haired and quite young, her blue-green dress hitched up a touch showing small bare feet half buried, where the dry white sand gave way to shingle.

I stopped said hi but she didn’t even look! staring into that wide expanse she could see clear across the ocean.

looking down I admired her gold-embroidered dress, the delicate amber jewellery on slim fingers, her long hair matted by the keen breeze.

then she looked up, her eyes like cyan gems and pointed to herself– ‘Elfhild’ I thought she said sounding sort of German or Dutch or maybe something in between but I didn’t speak a word.

not then.

walking to the shoreline something caught my eye, a piece of amber wet and shining. I picked it up, held it to the light and smiled, looking out to where the waves were rolling in by the edge of that German sea

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Girl with a Cello

In a diamond city night we’retaxied through floodlit streets

angled snow alabasters old facadesmedieval histories beyond all guessing

Flanders is frozen outside this misted glassthe two of us sitting nose to nose

our tongues loosening aperitif smileswhite burgundy cutting through brie

making heads light and cheeks flushand toe touch toe

Our eyes meet when bare soul strokes calfkissing slim fingers one by one

plied each day to taut cello stringssneak previews to plots and suites of night

Rate this:

Share this:

Like this:

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Downstairs any morning; sunlight and smoke in slow swirling clouds. The cat wanders in, cries and wanders out, flopping down the step toward shrill sparrow sounds.

An open passage door through which I follow into a past, or no time at all. Gooseberries hairy in the mouth, that sour shock at the crunch. Raspberries sweet on the tongue; peas plucked from the pod,

sitting between rows of green. His shadow blots out the sun, a tall silhouette, cap pushed back as a match is struck. I follow to runner beans and strawberry rows, where the cat rolls over and over.

He is distant now, never hurried, where it all opens up, when I cling to his leg looking down on the dyke where the moorhen struts. Out onto prairie fields, anonymous lines of roads

and pylons. A relentless horizon.

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Walk with me into the grey breaking dawn

where that sticking ridge of blue – an English blue

rolls on into soft distances and strange dancing names

Stand with me by those set whispering stones

in a steadfast line – a sore English line

of rasping pipes and howling socks mouthing our memory

like a warning to tomorrow a land forlorn to all but itself

Then help me to bury him not on some crying strand –

in firm English land where hallows’ calls are grounded

our grief laid open in the whitening bones of heroes

on this high scoured hill

Rate this:

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Without too much thought I took
to the beach,
followed the white lines of
breakers
leading me due north along that
fractured shore.

in no time at all the beach huts were
behind me,
removed by dunes and blurring
summer haze.

then suddenly
she was there
right in front of me, as if she’d
dropped
right out of the ether.

she was squatting down,
blonde haired and
quite young,
her blue-green dress hitched up a touch
showing small bare feet
half buried,
where the dry white sand
gave way to shingle.

I stopped
said hi
but she didn’t even look!
staring into that wide expanse
she could see
clear across the ocean.

looking down I admired her
gold-embroidered dress,
the delicate amber jewellery on
slim fingers,
her long hair matted by
the keen breeze.

then she looked up,
her eyes like cyan gems
and pointed to herself–
‘Elfhild’ I thought she said
sounding sort of German
or Dutch or maybe something
in between
but I didn’t speak a word.

walking to the shoreline something
caught my eye, a piece of amber
wet and shining.
I picked it up, held it
to the light
and smiled, looking out
to where the waves
were rolling in by the edge of
that German sea

In a diamond city night we’re
taxied through floodlit streets

angled snow alabasters old facades
medieval histories beyond all guessing

Flanders is frozen outside this misted glass
the two of us sitting nose to nose

our tongues loosening aperitif smiles
white burgundy cutting through brie

making heads light and cheeks flush
and toe touch toe

Our eyes meet when bare soul strokes calf
kissing slim fingers one by one

plied each day to taut cello strings
sneak previews to plots and suites of night

Downstairs any morning;
sunlight and smoke
in slow swirling clouds.
The cat wanders in,
cries and wanders out,
flopping down the step
toward shrill sparrow sounds.

An open passage door
through which I follow
into a past, or no time at all.
Gooseberries hairy in the mouth,
that sour shock at the crunch.
Raspberries sweet on the tongue;
peas plucked from the pod,

sitting between rows of green.
His shadow blots out the sun,
a tall silhouette, cap pushed back
as a match is struck.
I follow to runner beans
and strawberry rows,
where the cat rolls over and over.

He is distant now, never hurried,
where it all opens up,
when I cling to his leg
looking down on the dyke
where the moorhen struts.
Out onto prairie fields,
anonymous lines of roads

Walk with me
into the grey breaking dawn

where that sticking ridge of blue –
an English blue

rolls on into soft distances
and strange dancing names

Stand with me
by those set whispering stones

in a steadfast line –
a sore English line

of rasping pipes and howling socks
mouthing our memory

like a warning to tomorrow
a land forlorn to all but itself

Then help me to bury him
not on some crying strand –

in firm English land
where hallows’ calls are grounded

our grief laid open
in the whitening bones of heroes