RAINING IN SILENCE

It's raining in silence today
where the earth once scorched under flames.

The rain is seeping in silence to heal
where once the fangs would steal
all inspiration and the elixir to feel
the essence of the writing skill
.
The rain is scouring the lanes
in a steady sonnet of a meditative beat,
teasing and chasing the boy on the wheels
of the daily run to the everyday grit.

The rain is sliding off the slopes of hills
in little rivulets of low-sounding trickles
of a daylong strain of a musical dream
drowning the world in a hypnotized trance
when nothing matters except the sky and the drifting clouds.

It's raining in silence behind the hills,
stirring in the life not visible yet,
soothing the anxiety of the future nights.
I'll rush in the downy drifting streams
to wash my tears over yesteryears.

It's raining in silence to lead me to the sea
and rid me of the rafts of a whirlpool drift.
I sink to the bottom of the billowy waves
and rise again on the crest of the tide
to hold the flower that blooms in the surf.


The rain without a thunder, a classical note
of a silver bell singing occasionally
to catch me awake when the world goes to sleep.

Sushama Karnik

Milan Lakić originally shared the image to Art (Discussion):

Alfred Émile Léopold Stevens (11 May 1823 – 24 August 1906) was a Belgian painter

A Bird And Me And The Shadow

A Bird And Me And The Shadows

I stay in the shadows, thick and dark
and wait to watch
a bird arrive on timid wings,
an exotic bird from another climate.
To see it, I would gladly go all the way
to the country where it dwells.
Here in my region I just walk
some deserted lane
and come to a spot and stop,
breathlessly.

There behind the wall I hear
the hushed waves of the sea rise and fall,
and I feel the silence at the bird's source,
the rhythm of the ebbing and the rising tides which cradle the bird in a gentle sway.
And there is no other bird I know
who can open my heart's dark door
and enter softly to alight on my floor.

I am not a hunter after birds,
just a patient lover,
in a slow movement, not to scare
the bird with a vision of heaven.
Birds, each one of them,
knows when he or she is loved.
They know it in the silence,
the slowness of your movement,
they know how close they might come
and from how far they must fly;
and they never speak
unless their spirit moves.

Respect their dignity, respect
the silence and fear.
Their flight is to a remote place,
on tired wings and precarious balance.

Sushama Karnik

Tanya Dimitrova originally shared the image

shadows

Black Swans

Black swans swim to the shores
and in the stillness pours
the light of the purple dawn
the scent of the dew just touches and thrills
the life of the trees swaying on the hills.
Gently comes the dawn
and shakes the languor off my limbs

Thank you +Beau Beauregard for the lovely image

Beau Beauregard originally shared to Sensing Beauty In Louisiana:

A Note To Self

A NOTE TO SELF
Tree, a mighty tree,
your roots, the strength tightened within,
your sutured ties with the earth that bears,
are bared open; exposed to atrocity of drought and sun.
You, the earthling, a foundling,
one with the earth and the sky.
You sway upon the hills and send your wings to the valley;
you sing in the valley and send
your songs to the sky and the hills;
you, the nourishment,
you the carrier of seeds and the life
of all that needs a sap,
scatter your seeds to the wind and let them go the way
they came,
somewhere from the place you did not know,
and rested in your heart to sleep and wake
and when the rains came,
woke up to find the springs that stirred.
You are the silent, steady learner
who would preserve and give,
scatter a wealth enshrined in the bowels of earth,
and encrypt the secret in every groove and the grain of your body.

Sushama Karnik

Image Courtesy : Dr Ego Prozac

An entry from note to self...Covington, La

The Land Where The Sunshine Rains

The land where the sunshine rains
and the rains breathe the light
of the rising sun,
where the soil soaks in the scent of the seed
and gives it back in a rich green and golden deed,
where the harvest fills the granaries
and the wretched of the earth are fed,
where hands work and the minds think and feel
only to see the small mission fulfilled
that is the dream that may bless the wishing hearts find
the simplest fulfillment of life.
In another life may I find me and my loved ones
born in that land of generosity.

Mika Pulkkinen originally shared the image

Dust Fogs

Dust fogs eclipse the books on shelves.
It always happens at dusk.
I look back, at diaries never to open them again.
Pages of scripts which know I have decided to close them,
stare back at me
vacantly again.
All that I am resolved to do now
is to collect the piles and put them away,
somewhere away, where even a cat will not go
attracted by the dusty smell and
the memory that once it was her hiding place
on sultry summer afternoons.

THE LITANY OF THE SILENT NIGHT

The litany of the silent night

I listen; I strain my ears to hear
your silence
vanishing in the dark.
The sea roars and you stretch your arms
as if the mysterious gift you have been searching in the sands,
the whole day long,
is going to come back and land in your arms;
as if the rolling tide is going to relent and return
what it once took away in a capricious  game.
My voice lacks a body, my eyes lack a vision;
as the heart listens and gives the lie
to what the body and the eye tell me to believe,
that we are nowhere near the coast
where we could draw the line where the sea must stop;
where the sea must stop its rage.
The roaring sea too returns
once the land is reached.
Each wave is a new wave, a new phenomenon rising in the ocean.

You never see me watch;
my shadow falls far behind;
I am held back by the wind and the sun
and the turbulence raging over the sand.

My loved ones, turn your back on the growl of the sea
and return to the patient land.