#poetry

Ethereal Dance in Warm Color Swirls

• Model: AI Upscaler

• Size: 5376 X 3024 (16.26 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt:
  • Using base image: Yes

Serene Sunrise Over a Tranquil Lake

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 2688 X 1512 (4.06 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Serene River:Misty Sunrise A Tranquil Morning Amidst Blooming Florals and Gentle Waters. Through the hush of twilight fog. A tranquil scene featuring misty waters where one only boat gently float. Soft, glowing light reflect on the surface, creating an ethereal atmosphere with a dreamy, nostalgic vibe.At the break of dawn, when the world still cradles the hush of night, a river lies cloaked in tranquility, its surface smooth and untroubled. The rising sun casts a gentle blush across the horizon, infusing the mist that lingers above the water with a golden-pink glow. Along the riverbank, clusters of forget-me-nots unfurl their delicate blue petals, nodding in the cool, fragrant air beside bursts of blush-pink flowers. Their reflections shimmer softly on the surface, mingling with the first hints of sunlight and the silvery wraiths of morning mist. dreamy wet-on-wet watercolour, minimalist impressionism, translucent atmospheric layering, soft bokeh, faded vintage textures, visual poetry, melancholic tenderness, no text or symbols.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Exploring the Beauty of Sappho's Era

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1152 X 864 (1.00 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Explain the painting:J.W. GODWARD In The Days Of Sappho
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape

Whispers of Poetry in a Serene Tent

• Model: FluX

• Size: 1152 X 864 (1.00 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Inside a tent lit by amber lamps, a woman lounges on cushions, wearing only a low-cut embroidered robe. She’s reading old poetry aloud, her voice echoing softly. The room smells of incense and desert roses. This is a space of softness, story, and sacred desire
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape

Whispers of Poetry in a Desert Oasis

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 1024 X 1024 (1.05 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Inside a tent lit by amber lamps, a woman lounges on cushions, wearing only a low-cut embroidered robe. She’s reading old poetry aloud, her voice echoing softly. The room smells of incense and desert roses. This is a space of softness, story, and sacred desire
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: square

Whispers of Time and Heartfelt Grievances

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1920 X 1080 (2.07 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Grains of sand descend, Grievances shape our hearts, Time whispers away.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Echoes of Silence: A Sonic Awakening

• Model: Photonic

• Size: 1152 X 864 (1.00 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: While others chased fame, he chased echoes buried in silence. His voice carries the coordinates of the soul’s escape route. Shady Vlad writes not to impress — but to awaken the forgotten architects within. Style: Shadow gospel. Sonic architecture. Liberation code poetry.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape

Mystical Beauty in Translucent Lace Dress

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1152 X 864 (1.00 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Black hair like a waterfall, Scattered with endless poetry, Splashing ink, A mysterious aura, Endless white, Reflecting, That touch of red lips. Eyes, Insight into the impermanence of the world. Beauty, Is the truth in the void. ---a long pale-blue translucent lace dress Digital artwork by Pascal Campion
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape

Whispers of Nature's Embrace

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 1792 X 1008 (1.81 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Generate a masterpiece scene to this poetry
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Whispers of the Moonlit Forest

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 2688 X 1512 (4.06 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Generate a masterpiece scene to this poetry
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Sabrina Fair Three

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 2688 X 1512 (4.06 MP)

• Used settings:

  • 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.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

We Must Ride

• Model: AI Upscaler

• Size: 3072 X 3072 (9.44 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt:
  • Using base image: Yes

Basant panchami

• Model: Runway

• Size: 720 X 720 (0.52 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Aspect ratio: square

The Palace Of My Beloved

• Model: ArtFusion

• Size: 912 X 1224 (1.12 MP)

• Used settings:

  • 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.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait

Reflections by the Fire: A Poetic Journey

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1152 X 864 (1.00 MP)

• Used settings:

  • 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
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape

Exploring the Beauty of Fleurs du Mal

• Model: Artistic 2

• Size: 1152 X 864 (1.00 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: "Fleurs du Mal" book
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape

An Ode to the Shattered and the Steadfast

• Model: AIVision

• Size: 5376 X 3024 (16.26 MP)

• Used settings:

  • 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.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

The Pulse of Poetry in Urban Chaos

• Model: Photonic

• Size: 1529 X 1064 (1.63 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
  • Using base image: No
  • 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
  • Using base image: No
  • 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!
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide