The dreams of mountains are the dreams where we are full of awe, where we grasp the beauty & immensity of our ambitions & aspirations. They are the dreams that wake us in the night & tell us to go out, be in the world, create something beautiful, and make it extraordinary.


This is a journal of beautiful things. This is a journal of inspiration. This is a journal of art, words, creativity, and passion. Thank you for visiting. LEARN MORE.

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Jillena Rose

Bones are easier to find than flowers
in the desert, so I paint these:
Fine white skulls of cows and horses.

When I lie flat under the stars

in the back of the car, coyotes howling
in the scrub pines, easy to feel how those bones
are so much like mine: Here is my pelvis,
like the pelvis I found today
bleached by the sun and the sand. Same
hole where the hip would go, same

white curve of bone beneath my flesh

same cradle of life, silent and still in me.
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Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

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a woman can’t survive
by her own breath
she must know
the voices of mountains
she must recognize
the foreverness of blue sky
she must flow
with the elusive
of night wind women
who will take her into
her own self

look at me
I am not a separate woman
I am a continuance
of blue sky
I am the throat
of the sandia mountains
a night wind woman
who burns
with every breath
she takes

-Joy Harjo

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Advertising by Ayreen Anastas & René Gabri (via Atlas of Transformation.)

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“We are glued to our screens of all sizes not for amusement or business, but because we think something is going to be announced. We can’t bear to miss it. We are waiting for the oppression of  ’what’s next?’ to be lifted. We are, in a deeper sense, waiting for our poet.”  -Sven Birkerts, Poetry Magazine, April 2012

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Silhouettes, Polaroid SX 70 + Time Zero expired 2002, by nepumug (via flickr)


Would I miss the way a breeze dimples

the butter-colored curtains on Sunday mornings,

or nights gnashed by cicadas and thunderstorms?

The leaning gossip, the half-alive ripple

of sunflowers, sagging eternities of corn

and sorghum, September preaching yellow, yellow

in all directions, the windowsills swelling

with Mason jars, the blue sky bluest borne

through tinted glass above the milled grains?

The dust, the heat, distrusted, the screen door

slapping as the slat-backed porch swing sighs,

the hatch of houseflies, the furlongs of freight trains,

and how they sing this routine, so sure, so sure—

the rote grace of every tempered life?

-Carol Light, “Prairie Sure”

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Chicago: City on the Make, Nelson Algren, (1951)

“It used to be a writer’s town and it’s always been a fighter’s town. For writers and fighters and furtive torpedoes, cat-bandits, baggage thieves, hallway headlockers on the prowl, baby photographers and stylish coneroos, this is the spot that is always most convenient, being so centrally located, for settling ancestral grudges. Whether the power is in a .38, a typewriter ribbon or a pair of six-ouncers, the place has grown great on bone-deep grudges: of writers and fighters and furtive torpedoes.

“‘City of big shoulders’ was how the white-hair poet put it. Maybe meaning that the shoulders had to get that wide because they had so many bone-deep grudges to settle….”

-Nelson Algren, from Chicago: City on the Make (1951).

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