Sunday Sleepies

I’ve spent the morning cruising the web, reading this article, that blog, skimming Facebook. The photo shoot I had scheduled for this morning fell through and I just can’t seem to get myself in gear.  Here are a few images I shot this morning.

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Weekly Photo Challenge: Object

From this week’s challenge:

Our photographs tell stories, big and small. Some of our images are landscapes, offering wide and sweeping views of a scene; these pictures might tell the tales of an entire city, or a tapestry of stories of many people. Some photographs, like portraits, focus on individuals, while still-life moments capture the beauty (and often treasured stories) of belongings and found objects.

Day 160 – Roses and Mended Hearts

Same rose, different treatment.

HDR:

Black and White:

On another note, Sweetie and I will be hitting the road for the Bay Area this afternoon to be in Oakland for the Congenital Heart Walk. As many of you know, I have a congenital heart defect and am doing my part to bring awareness and dollars for research and care. It’s not too late to make a donation to support me and this worthwhile cause. In case you didn’t know, congenital heart defects are the #1 birth defect in the United States, affecting more than 40,000 babies a year, yet we hardly ever hear about it. Thanks to medical advances, those of us who may have been condemned to an early demise are living well into adulthood and living pretty normal lives but CHD requires a lifetime of care, and so I walk.

Day 149 – My roses are not flawless

But they have the most wondrous perfume.

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

William Shakespeare, Sonnet 130