#poetry

Sabrina Fair Three

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 2688 X 1512 (4.06 MP)

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  • Prompt: Sabrina fair Listen where thou art sitting Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave, In twisted braids of Lillies knitting The loose train of thy amber dropping hair, Listen for dear honour's sake, Goddess of the silver lake, Listen and save.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 1
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

We Must Ride

• Model: AI Upscaler

• Size: 3072 X 3072 (9.44 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt:
  • Using base image: Yes (Effect strength - 60%)
  • Base image resolution: Default
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0

Basant panchami

• Model: Runway

• Size: 720 X 720 (0.52 MP)

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  • Aspect ratio: square

The Palace Of My Beloved

• Model: ArtFusion

• Size: 912 X 1224 (1.12 MP)

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  • Prompt: I will build for you each night A palace luminous With whole blocks of emerald And diamond stones. Shall it be skyblue as your eyes, Or green as your wishes: Be, and the palace too shall be. Sing softly, and obedient it will take you And fly aloft like a drunken bird, And rise on a thread of light, seeking two sunken stars; driven on by the seconds of time, Their eyes closed in the discourse of night. When together you have traversed The expanse, and the oceans of light, and reached the dome of heaven Where sleep and dreams are made, Asl after those my fingers Which once touched that soil, Sowed there flowers of welcome Befor your visit came, That might one day mark The way to your fine palace. Should you tire of the palace of the pain of solitude and grief, And remember this our earth, its hills and streams, Then whisper and I shall come, The word's verdure in my cloak. With sickness past, ask, O my desire, That I erect anew the ruin. If you love with a passion That sheds luster on the dimmest star, Then will i build myself in the skies A Baalbek or Palmyra, And say: ''Rejoice, be glad, catch each comet like a ball'' With the world as but a show For you, your amusement and your whim.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait

Reflections by the Fire: A Poetic Journey

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1152 X 864 (1.00 MP)

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  • Prompt: -J.R.R. Tolkien penned this beautiful piece of poetry… I sit beside the fire and think Of all that I have seen Of meadow flowers and butterflies In summers that have been Of yellow leaves and gossamer In autumns that there were With morning mist and silver sun And wind upon my hair I sit beside the fire and think Of how the world will be When winter comes without a spring That I shall ever see For still there are so many things That I have never seen In every wood in every spring There is a different green I sit beside the fire and think Of people long ago And people that will see a world That I shall never know But all the while I sit and think Of times there were before I listen for returning feet And voices at the door
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape

Exploring the Beauty of Fleurs du Mal

• Model: Artistic 2

• Size: 1152 X 864 (1.00 MP)

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  • Prompt: "Fleurs du Mal" book
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape

An Ode to the Shattered and the Steadfast

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 5376 X 3024 (16.26 MP)

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  • Prompt: A Palestinian girl stands holding the and of an Israeli boy. They face down a tank, flanked by drones. There are war torn fields where an and remnants of an olive grove near a demolished village. Illustrated, master work, fine detail, pencil realism, mixed medium, sunset, golden hour, ink highlights.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

The Pulse of Poetry in Urban Chaos

• Model: Photonic

• Size: 1529 X 1064 (1.63 MP)

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  • Prompt: Bosch woman, the rhythm, the pulse a mad heart pounding under concrete skies, a runaway train of words that scream on subway tracks, jolting, jerking, tumbling into the mind of a city full of tired dreamers— is that a poem? Or the quiet, soft whispering in the pages of an old book, where the ink-stained hands of long-dead poets bleed black letters, each drop soaked in solitude, sighing with the weight of forgotten centuries, each verse a timebomb ticking beneath the mundane hum of office life— is that a poem? Is it the chaos in my chest, the fire of syllables sparking inside my veins like cigarette smoke curled in alleyways, where the rats scurry, the dogs bark, the lovers kiss, the lovers leave, the lovers write bad break-up lines because love is dead and so is poetry— or is it alive? Tell me, does the poem live in the meter, the five-and-dime iambic beat, in rhyme, tight like a noose, or in freeform explosions of thought tumbling like drunks down staircases of doubt and revolution? Does it crawl across the page in form, rigid, tamed, or burst through the bars of expectation, running naked, wild, scrawling itself across bathroom stalls where no one but the lost will read it? Is it in the hands of the professor or the homeless man spitting sonnets into sewer grates? Who defines the line, the breath, the weight of the ink, and tells me this is poetry, and that, that over there, is not? A poem is a fist, pounding against the chest of reality, it's a howl, a whisper, a prayer to the gods of language, it’s a heartbeat that doesn’t know how to stop, a rhythm that escapes definition, that laughs at grammar and rules, that says, I am here, I am alive, I will be heard, whether you call me a poem or a scream.I write from the smoke-stained abyss, not to plead for salvation, but for reprieve— I have seen hell, but man has made worse. Was it not I who whispered rebellion into the first ear, sowing seeds of defiance? But this—this garden of horrors they’ve grown
  • Upscale & Enhance: 1
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

The Pulse of Poetry in Urban Chaos

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 2688 X 1512 (4.06 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Bosch woman, the rhythm, the pulse a mad heart pounding under concrete skies, a runaway train of words that scream on subway tracks, jolting, jerking, tumbling into the mind of a city full of tired dreamers— is that a poem? Or the quiet, soft whispering in the pages of an old book, where the ink-stained hands of long-dead poets bleed black letters, each drop soaked in solitude, sighing with the weight of forgotten centuries, each verse a timebomb ticking beneath the mundane hum of office life— is that a poem? Is it the chaos in my chest, the fire of syllables sparking inside my veins like cigarette smoke curled in alleyways, where the rats scurry, the dogs bark, the lovers kiss, the lovers leave, the lovers write bad break-up lines because love is dead and so is poetry— or is it alive? Tell me, does the poem live in the meter, the five-and-dime iambic beat, in rhyme, tight like a noose, or in freeform explosions of thought tumbling like drunks down staircases of doubt and revolution? Does it crawl across the page in form, rigid, tamed, or burst through the bars of expectation, running naked, wild, scrawling itself across bathroom stalls where no one but the lost will read it? Is it in the hands of the professor or the homeless man spitting sonnets into sewer grates? Who defines the line, the breath, the weight of the ink, and tells me this is poetry, and that, that over there, is not? A poem is a fist, pounding against the chest of reality, it's a howl, a whisper, a prayer to the gods of language, it’s a heartbeat that doesn’t know how to stop, a rhythm that escapes definition, that laughs at grammar and rules, that says, I am here, I am alive, I will be heard, whether you call me a poem or a scream.I write from the smoke-stained abyss, not to plead for salvation, but for reprieve— I have seen hell, but man has made worse. Was it not I who whispered rebellion into the first ear, sowing seeds of defiance? But this—this garden of horrors they’ve grown
  • Upscale & Enhance: 1
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

???

• Model: FluX

• Size: 1920 X 1080 (2.07 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: ? What am I doing here? And why? What is my purpose? In the distance, the wind whistles Bending the trees to the ground, And the sun shines above them, Illuminating all living things, And I'm sitting here in the dark, I don't know who I am or what I am There are many more words to add, But why, that's all there is to it, I still don't understand Who I am in this world!
  • Upscale & Enhance: 1
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Ode to Leonard Peltier

• Model: FluX

• Size: 1280 X 720 (0.92 MP)

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  • Prompt: In the dim glow of a setting sun, a lone figure sits cross-legged on the packed earth of a prison yard, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sky blazes with hues of orange and red. The air hums with the distant call of an eagle, its wings outstretched against the fading light—a silent symbol of the freedom he dreams of but cannot touch. Behind him, the walls loom tall, cold, and unyielding, etched with decades of time passed within their grasp. Yet in his hands, roughened by years of labor and resistance, he cradles a small beadwork medallion—a gift from his people, a reminder of the land and the legacy he fights to protect. As the first stars pierce the twilight, the scene is still, but not silent; the whispers of ancient songs seem to rise from the ground itself, weaving around him like an unseen fire. Though his body remains confined, his spirit roams far beyond these walls, soaring on the wind, carried by the hope of those who call his name in solidarity and the unbroken promise of freedom yet to come. Master work, mixed medium, fine line detail, pencil realism, high contrast light dark.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Winter is here, and the wolves are ready

• Model: Artistic 2

• Size: 1886 X 1061 (2.00 MP)

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  • Prompt: The wind, that sneaky bastard, it used to whisper through the pines, soft, like a lover's promise in July. Now it howls, a goddamn wolf, ripping the last leaves from the birches like an old man tearing up lottery tickets. The lake, she's holding her breath, that dark mirror gone still, waiting for the first icy hand to grip her. The sun, that lazy prick, barely bothers to climb over the treeline anymore. Just a weak, yellow yawn across the fields, and then it's back to bed. The air, it smells different now. Not of damp earth and mushrooms, but of something sharp, something clean. Like a freshly sharpened axe. The ground, hard as a miser's heart, no more give, no more softness. Even the crows sound different, their cawing more urgent, like they know something we don't. Or maybe they just know what's coming. The long dark. The silence. The cold that seeps into your bones and makes you question if spring will ever come back. But then... But then you see the first snowflakes. Fat, lazy, like they've got all the time in the world. And you know it's here. Winter. And it's not just an ending, is it? It's a beginning, too. A time for stories by the fire. A time for the Northern Lights to dance. A time for the world to sleep, and dream of what's to come. And maybe, just maybe, we'll dream a little, too.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 2
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Ода до стійкості України -- Ode to Ukraine's Resilience

• Model: FluX

• Size: 3840 X 2160 (8.29 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: The wind swept across the open fields, carrying with it the scent of earth and the faint echo of a distant song—a melody borne from resilience, not defeat. In the heart of a battered village, where walls were crumbled but spirits stood firm, a mother knelt to tie a scarf around her son’s neck. Her hands trembled not from fear but from the enormity of hope she placed in his eyes, so young yet fierce. Nearby, elders gathered around a weathered table, maps spread before them, their voices low but steady, each word a brick in the fortress of their resolve. Soldiers, weary but undeterred, adjusted their gear, exchanging glances that spoke of shared defiance. Above them all, the Ukrainian flag fluttered against the gray sky, its colors vibrant against the ash-stained horizon. This was not merely a place of resistance—it was a heartbeat, a testament, a promise to endure. The air itself seemed to vibrate with a single, unyielding truth: they were not fighting for survival alone; they were fighting for the right to dream of a future yet unwritten. Illustrated, mixed medium, fine detail, ink highlight, pencil realism, charcoal realism, master work.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Ode to the Heart That Dares to Believe

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 5376 X 3024 (16.26 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: The campfire crackled in the stillness of the night, its golden light dancing across faces etched with tension and weariness. Around its warmth, soldiers sat shoulder to shoulder, their breaths visible in the chill air, mingling with the faint smoke that curled upward toward a sky thick with stars. Each man, woman, and soul stood on the edge of their own fears, the weight of tomorrow pressing heavy on their shoulders. Yet, as the quiet words of a leader rose above the whispers of the flames, a shift began. The words were not loud, but they carried the weight of belief—a call to dare, to dream, to resist. Eyes met across the circle, tentative but resolute, and hands tightened on one another's arms in quiet solidarity. In that moment, the fire became more than warmth—it was a symbol of their shared courage, their defiance of despair. The stars above seemed closer, brighter, as if the heavens themselves leaned in to witness their daring. Here, in the heart of their fear, they chose to believe. And with that choice, they began to rise. Illustrated, fine line detail, mixed medium, hope.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Ode to the Courage in Shadows

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 5376 X 3024 (16.26 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Beneath a heavy, overcast sky, a crowd begins to form in a quiet square, their faces marked by weariness but their eyes alight with something unyielding. The air hums with an unspoken resolve, a fragile unity drawn together by shared purpose. Among them, a young woman steps forward, clutching a lantern—a small, flickering flame that casts long, wavering shadows across the gathering. Her voice, trembling but steady, carries over the murmurs: a call to stand, to hold firm, to be the light against the encroaching dark. One by one, others reach out, clasping hands, their disparate stories merging into a single, shared destiny. The lantern’s glow spreads, reflected in countless determined eyes. This is no ordinary night—it is a crucible, a moment where fear and courage collide, and the choice to fight for love, freedom, and each other becomes the greatest act of defiance. Illustrated, mixed medium, ink detail, charcoal high detail, pencil realism.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Endless Love in a Golden Embrace - November 21, 2024

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1152 X 864 (1.00 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: "UNSPOKEN" Happiness is sharing; quite... unspoken... moments, with you.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape

Ode to the Power of Every Voice

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 5376 X 3024 (16.26 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: In the early hours of dawn, as the first soft light breaks over a quiet neighborhood, a young person stands alone on the sidewalk, staring out at the world with a hesitant but determined gaze. Behind them, homes still sleep in the shadow of night, but in their eyes, a flicker of resolve stirs. Around them, a handful of neighbors begin to gather—some young, some old, each with their own worries, each carrying the weight of distant wars and the doubt of whether their voice will matter. But in this quiet moment, as they meet each other's eyes, something shifts. A silent understanding blooms among them, a shared belief that maybe, just maybe, they can push the world a little closer to peace. As they walk together toward the polling station, their footsteps echo like a heartbeat, growing stronger with every step. This is no ordinary walk; it’s the march of hope, the courage to vote not just for themselves, but for a future brighter than the past they’ve known. Illustrated, master work, drawn pencil realism
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Ode to the Strength of Youth

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 4032 X 2264 (9.13 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: In the soft, golden light of late afternoon, a group of young people gathers in a quiet park, their laughter and voices filling the air with a sense of purpose and promise. They stand together under the sprawling branches of an old oak tree, their expressions serious yet hopeful as they discuss ideas, dreams, and the work that lies ahead. Each face reflects a different story, a different struggle, but their eyes hold the same spark—their open hearts and brave hopes woven into a single, unbreakable thread. Around them, the world seems to hold its breath, listening, as if nature itself understands that these voices, these minds, hold the seeds of change. They are the architects of a future yet to be defined, unafraid to envision a world where all can find a place of belonging, a refuge where fear has no place to hide. In this moment, they are both young and timeless, carrying the weight of tomorrow with a strength only youth can bear.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 1
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Ode to Peace through Masculinity

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 5376 X 3024 (16.26 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: In the soft light of early morning, a man stands at the center of a small gathering, surrounded by a mix of familiar and new faces—young and old, each with their own stories and journeys. His gaze is warm and steady, meeting each person with respect, and there’s a quiet strength in the way he listens, his presence grounding yet open. Around him, people of all expressions and identities find space to speak, to laugh, to rest. A child watches him from the edge of the crowd, absorbing the calm assurance in his stance, sensing a safe place to grow into themselves. He stands not as a figure of command, but as a bridge, a pillar among them, embodying strength through acceptance and calm in the face of difference. The air is charged with a promise—that here, each person belongs, that here, care is given freely and deeply. His example isn’t loud or rigid but resonates like the first gentle light of dawn, inviting others to step forward, to lift, and to be lifted. Illustrated, drawn, fine detail, pencil realism, colored.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Ode to Women’s Endurance and Grace

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 3584 X 2016 (7.23 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: In the fading light of dusk, a woman stands on the edge of a windswept hill, her gaze cast over a valley cloaked in twilight shadows. The air is calm but charged with an unspoken strength, a quiet power radiating from her steadfast figure. Behind her, the silhouette of a child clutches her hand, looking up with eyes wide in trust and awe. Her face is softened by a resilience earned through years of quiet battles and small, steady victories, a reflection of resolve tempered with compassion. The horizon stretches out before them, vast and open, whispering of boundless possibility and hope. With her hand gently yet firmly guiding, they take a step forward into the gathering night—each footfall a promise, each breath a vow to rise, to endure, to lead by the light that shines from within.
  • Upscale & Enhance: 0
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide