Evenings Dull And Grey 21 sept 2016

Evenings dull and grey,
the road never bends
Shadows fall the same way
till the evening ends.

Once in a fortnight the blue moon comes,
sails past the sky
and like a cosmic postman delivers
a note for each one of us to try

a different path where the geometry
is not straight lines measured in miles,
to give up the pleasant symmetry
and break out into a winding of spirals;

up an down the road may travel.
Once a fortnight the moon will emerge
to watch the secret of the journey unravel,
and us with the moon, back to the simple life and a stroll

The image: shared by Jude Thaddeus

The Stroll: Gertrude Abercrombie 

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• 
  Tamriko Pasjuk

  "and us with the moon, back to the simple life and a stroll"
  Thanks very much,my dear:)))
  
  

  28w
• 
  Sushama Karnik+1

  Thanks +Tamriko Pasjuk Nice to see you. Awhile ago I was taking a stroll through your garden, with the rain and an occasional sun.
  
  

  28w
• 
  Tamriko Pasjuk

  +Sushama Karnik
  I love rain,
  I feel like everything negative goes away.
  I remember, when I was a kid, we were running barefoot in the rain and jumped for joy...
  Have a nice evening my dear:))
  
  

  28w
• 
  Sushama Karnik+1

  +Tamriko Pasjuk I can imagine :-) A beautiful evening to you. Here it is raining continuously for the last couple of days.
  
  

  28w
• 
  Tamriko Pasjuk

  +Sushama Karnik
  Thanks very much,my dear:)))
  
  

  28w

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A PLACE TO DREAM

DREAMING THE LIFE OF TREE


On a bright summer day
when the afternoon time hits you hard in the face
an arboreal dream swallows the day.
Amazing this earth and
amazing its multiple hands .
This ancient tree has thousands of aeons marked on its bark
and like pages of a carbon print
I wanted to feel it,
flick through its pages,
write my name with a knife
on one of the random finds.
But the greatest wonder came
when one day someone had overtaken me and already taken possession of the tree.
It seemed the tree and the man knew what it was to survive centuries
with a single thread of love
running between them and calling,
aeons after aeons
to keep their tryst with time.
A young man had lain his head
trustfully in the lap of the tree.
He was dreaming the life of tree.

Image :Credit: Hector Merced

Hector Merced originally shared to Photo Walks 2016 - Río Piedras, Puerto Rico:

A place to dream

The Hedge and the Forest

The Hedge and the Forest

It was a single road, straight,
not bound for two signposts at a time.
And that gave me all the time in the world
to feel the difference as I walked
between the two kinds of hedges
that held between them the road
seemingly leading to infinity
in the arduous seeking and waiting.
On the one side of the road was a continuous boundary wall,
a warning, 'trespassing not allowed,'
and the other side was lined by a simple hedge which ran
parallel to a boundless and open forest,
its secrets untouched, asking to choose between the unending road and an escape at any point,
at many points, into the density of the forest
 where nothing could be reached and nothing
was meant to be reached.

Tender Leaves, Lift Them High

Tender leaves,
lift them high,
never let them dry.
They are the legacy of dreams.
Enchanting notes
of a violin
delicately strung
they move
undulating
to their goal.
O Mason of Love,
the gardener of the words,
sing the morning's melodies,
embrace the maiden of the enchanted pastures and wash away
all the traces of gloom that life may leave


Thanks for the image : +Tamriko Pasjuk
Thank you +sem xtz for the inspiration

Boundaries and Walls

Boundaries and Walls

Boundaries are marked by the realities of the land;
they dissolve when you look up and view the sky.

Go where you may,
walls don't dissolve.
Boundaries may shift,
collide, dissolve.
Walls won't.
Walls have a stubbornness.
a character; once you form them
they grow, beyond your power,
beyond your will.
Go where you will;
the walls will walk with you, smother you with love,
guard you from enemies, but keep you in fear.

Boundaries are open, absorbent like love,
ending, unending, extending the horizons.
Boundaries speak and let others speak
over the open space.
They mark the zones but above them, you share the sky,
limitless above you and the other.

Boundaries are your inner guards,
giving you strength and the power to go,
to transcend the lines drawn on maps
until you reach where you were destined to reach,
the land of openness where language ends and love begins.

An Empty Frame

An Empty Frame

Far away in a land of dreams,
or perhaps really seen in a dream
at the end of the desert's fringe
I saw a tantalizing dome,
some shrine clearly exposed to the naked eye of one who could see,
and the amazing thing was the hypnotic spell with which it drew
me to cross the entire stretch of the desert land to reach the gate before the sun went down behind the hill.
Nothing seemed unfamiliar in that desert wind as it blew on me and the walls.
There in the temple sat a solitary priest who seemed to know all about me.
There, near the corner of the wall, I saw a pair of glasses, my own glasses I was looking for.
"Are these mine?" I asked.
"Who else could they belong to?" he replied.
I picked them up, with an unknown thrill.
As I stepped out and looked at them,
they had no lenses, just an empty frame.

Image courtesy: Ulysses Without Ithaca 

the ephemeral vision of absolute
j

Image belongs to Ulysses Withou Ithaca

Out of the driftwood broken apart

a make-shift bench was made.

A whole year was spent

watching the tides, intermittent,

sitting on the precariously balanced seat.

The calendar stops on the last day of the last month.

That friendly bench still is there,

its feet sunk deep in the sand

REPLY



Out of the driftwood broken apart, a make-shift bench was made. A whole year was spent watching the tides, intermittent, sitting on the precariously balanced seat. The calendar stops on the last day of the last month. That friendly bench still is there, its feet sunk deep in the sand

Out of the driftwood broken apart,

a make-shift bench was made.

A whole year was spent

watching the tides, intermittent,

sitting on the precariously balanced seat.

The calendar stops on the last day of the last month.

That friendly bench still is there,

its feet sunk deep in the sand