The Monk And the Sunset

The parting rays of the sun
wrote the saga before they left
the horizon bursting
in the passionate riot of the fiery red.
And the monk watched the waves, and
the horizon bathing in the shower of gold,
opening a pathway from the rock that held
his ascetic silence of astonishment
at what a deepening red can do
to the heart of the ocean when the sky descends
to meet the earth before the ascetic vow
not to enter her realm again.

LightWorker Zen originally shared:

Stunning Photography: "Monk At Sunset" - Wishing You All A Peaceful Evening. ♥♥

#relaxation
#naturephotography
#amazingphotos  

A BRIDGE HIDDEN

There is a bridge hidden
where dense shadows of green
during daylight play hide and seek
and the trees whose mission it is to seek
wherever sunbeams freak out in the meadows, out in the lakes
and covetously hide the trace
of the sun's lingering face...
they have taken this bridge under their leafy wings.
but the secret is betrayed by the rippling lake. there the reflection shines, invites,
come joyously, come fearlessly,
step on into the shadows.
There is safety as you walk across,
walk across the bridge.
Hidden truths cannot be hidden long,
else they become lies.

💦☘🌿💦☘🌿☘💦

Sylvia Plath And The Bee Box

SYLVIA PLATH AND THE BEE BOX
Sylvia, with bees humming,
 and you were stung to distraction,
a path leading
you
to annihilation,
you stormed through life,
an Ariel singing in a crescendo.

Your path soared in the mystic sky,
lonely, abandoned to unsung heights,
you wrote, feverish, in the vortex
of you brief life.

'The Bee Meeting'
where you fought to save your  identity,
and finally surrendered to the tide
that rose
and claimed you with its killing ferocity.

No erotica, no frugal delights that keep a housewife floating
on the surface and ride the tide
was ever the answer to your quest for what you were,
a seeking after an unseen shore
 after the ocean
has exhausted its ravaging force

AFTER A LONG DAY"S WAIT June 18 2016

After a long day's wait the magpie came.
In a misty shroud it sat on the finger-tip of the dame
Tales from afar of winter's spell,
a forlorn autumn's golden trail,
tales of deserts where sullen winds
blew hot and cold, the warrior clans,
and in processions of camels
how the night felt the indifference
of a powerful prince
and how the flowers wilted and died
long before the morning sun
came to lift the spirit of the world.
And she listened, fascinated
by exotic dreams and alien fears,
her own heart ignorant of any such strange
bewildering winds that sway lives
in dusty storms.
Bird, are you tired in the wings?
Your vision is drunk on the misty clouds
drifting in the lap of the ocean and the canopy of sky!
Tell me all that you have seen! I have covered you in my warmth
A shroud of mist covers us both
and I can see you in the light of my inner being.
Tell me how the censer burnt,
tell me how the candle held
in the burst of the light of the sun.
Tell me about the perfume you carry
on your strong and delicate wing.
Hurry up bird, do not tarry
the dawn is waiting behind the hill
and the twilight hour is ending soon.

Image courtesy : Ish

Wander Aimlessly

WANDER AIMLESSLY

Let us go there , you and I
when the evening touches another sky,
a dreamlike memory may slide
across our hearts
to unite with the archaic, ancient moon.

let us slumber on the shores of a faraway land
in a sheer nostalgia
for a memory of a life we have never lived,
for an escape from the falsities we never believed.

These are the days when a lost thing in the sands
is miraculously lost and found in another life, another land.
My life comes floating on the wave
which I did not know how to ride
in this life I have known and lived.

It comes alive on the wings of a bird
who cradles it in its beak
like a new born babe about to cry.
Do you feel it too as the bird alights on my shoulder
and the flutter of the wings unfolds the doors of an imagined past?

Do not wander alone on the shores for the conch and the shells
to hear the sound of an ancient sea
carved on the empty insides
of those deep grooves
holding the memory of the past.

Invoke the magic portals of sleep,
slide into the dream with an open eye.
A whole world of a historic past, civilizations arising ,
their decline and fall
will incarnate before your eyes,
asking us to recognize
the edges and margins where we lived.

We have picked up the strand of this life from there
which perchance we may carry
into another time and another land,
seeking answers,
and losing them again
and starting all over the saga and the quest.


Image Courtesy +Anna del Vale Marti

SLEEP AND....

SLEEP AND

A night of fatigue,
a night of a raging storm and fever.
The eyelid flickered when I went to sleep
with a thin blanket to keep away the chill and the wind.
The eyelid flickered,
a token, an augury of something to happen,
some sound in a distance,
I sniffed in the wind,
a touch on the forehead to calm down fear;
'Know that the fever is caused by fear'.

Sleep, such a welcome dream,
the dream a cloud dreams.
The sleep comes before the dream.
The sleep comes to spread
a narcotic peace
like someone standing close
to take hold of the ship bouncing
on the unrest of the choppy sea.

Image credit : Tanya Dimitrova

when we plumb the deepest core of our being

A Lamp Among Ruins

A LAMP AMONG RUINS

Feet unshod, blisters in foot, someone walked here,
a frenzied heart!
how else would you see
this lamp
among ruins
lit in a raging storm?

Every dust particle records
the print
of prayers
uttered
in the silence of wilderness here.

I'm sure somewhere is
a running brook
where someone dipped the hands
and watched in wonder
the water slipping through the fingers.


All along the path were idols of clay.
Each one must have been
 worshipped as God.
And if a shining pebble
was sighted on the ground by chance,
must have been picked up as a diamond,
a memento of a journey to light a lamp.

 A red , a fiery red of the forest
has crept upward and wrapped around the bark,
the only live witness to the hands that quietly lit the lamp
in the shade of the flame of the forest tree.

Image Courtesy Nikhil Maurya