Uitdaging 35 – Boeke: Challenge 35 – Books

Uitdaging 35 – Boeke – Pixie

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My heiligdom!

Die klompie boeke het hoofsaaklik die gewig van my trek volgemaak.

Ek kan nie sonder boeke nie.

Onderste rak is al my honde-boeke.

tweede van onder my scrapbook, quilt en kunsvlyt boeke.

Derde rak van onder my

geestelike boeke en my kleinnood in afrikaans wat saam gekom het.


My foto-albums!


Kinderboeke en skoolboeke wat ek gebruik het




My woordeboeke langs my rekenaarskerm


My blokraaiselboeke langs my stoel waarsonder

ek nie  kan klaarkom nie!


Water – lots of it. Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge





Water in the sky(clouds)

Water on the ground(sea)


Water, water, every where,

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water, every where,

Nor any drop to drink.


The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (originally The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere) is the longest major poem by the English poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge, written in 1797–98 and published in 1798 in the first edition of Lyrical Ballads. Modern editions use a revised version printed in 1817 that featured a gloss. Along with other poems in Lyrical Ballads, it was a signal shift to modern poetry and the beginning of British Romantic literature.



As jy dit op LitnetBlogs gesien het, hou verby.


Daar is ‘n verre land
‘n Land van lief en leed
Waarin ons veel te veel onthou
En bitter min vergeet.

Daar is ‘n verre land
In ruimte en in tyd
En soveel wat ons daarin doen
Lei net tot selfverwyt.

Daar is ‘n verre land
‘n Land met net ons twee
Na elke uur wat ons daar was
Is daar nog steeds heimwee.

Daar is ‘n verre land
‘n Land van spieëls en glas
Die stempels in ons paspoort wys
Dat ons eens burgers was.

Na daardie verre land
Bestaan geen roete meer
Paspoort en visum het verval
En daar is geen terugkeer.


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Twist : The daily post ; Photo a week challenge


To wind together (two or more threads, for example) so as to produce a single strand.
To form in this manner: twist a length of rope from strands of hemp. (http://www.thefreedictionary.com/twist )
This one shows the rope starting to
For more twists
go to


Ode To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.