The Child And Me Or The Child In Me

Truth, our personal truth
and trust, our fragile truth
have both a need of surveilance.
Like the breath they follow us
in slumber, sleep and dreams
and like the breath we know them not.

Do we stop the breath, or does the breath fail us
if the truth, the trust, the sleep and the dream fail us?
It's the child in us then holds our hand and leads.
The child holds neither a belief nor any truth.
It holds no secret, no shadow of a self to precede or follow.
When the child steps ahead of me

I have to catch it and pull it behind
to walk alongside me, because I am all alone
without its pristine innocence,
and my primal shadow, this child

Image Credit : Dr. Ego Prozac

The Human Spirit

THE HUMAN SPIRIT
No one ever dreams a dream to its completion;
sleep intervenes; changes to slumber;
or the allegory slips,
fear interrupts;
courage sinks ;
the soul leaves the hand of the self.
But the spirit, this human spirit is invincible;
it is ever awake;
be it day, be it night, it never sleeps.
I don't see dreams in sleep;
I see them in the day.
I sift the illusion from aspiration,
translate the cryptic signs into strength.
I am invincible; I am human;
and that's the essence I draw
from the maze of all of the sage's words,
out of  all the challenges thrown.
One day I shall ride the crest of the tide,
and that's the promise , not a dream.

The lioness Pensive, Not Yet Sad

Beautifully pensive, but not sad,
reflecting still
on life's mystery and her own heart,
youthful longing, seductive charm,
the lioness when not in need to prey and hunt
can look at the object of love
with a warm and a quiet gaze
and walk through the maze of the forest's ways,
past the herds of elephants and watch them graze,
walk past the swarms of birds
and watch them feeding on worms,
peacocks in their feathered glory and crown,
the lioness is never surprised
by what lurks around the bend
to interrupt her ground.

The forest, now humming with the silence that speaks
of a presence in the shadows of the tall weeds,
is the quiet  scent, of the one she is seeking and being sought by it.
In the quiet that is lurking around,
she seeks the sound that will match her gait,
and make the dark and the light all alike.

Image original by Lu C Via Anna .a

ALL

Sushama Karnik originally shared:

ALL
When I stood at a distance
to watch you from the shadows,
not yet certain
if we were enemies, friends or simply hostile beings,
I resented the thing that separated us;
it was something far deeper than language and creed.
it was the Lethe that divided us,
from the memories of a shared past, shared links.
Once in the past, but you may not recall now,
I remarked, casually to hide the raw injury,
I said,"You mentioned me not when you mentioned everyone else you loved. Did you forget me?"
You turned around and looked into my eyes
with no surprise
and said, "Not at ALL".
There is such happiness , I never knew, in being counted among 'All"
than being referred to
as us and you and they.

A Wilderness Of Signs

A Wilderness Of Signs

A road-sign erupts
suddenly out of the blue,
the blue the neon sheds on the lamentable gloom
of a road that is indifferent to those who walk,
shunning intimacy, brushing past in haste to another day.
the road -sign erupts
with a perfect shadow
drawn with a dense patch of congealed light,
and the road sinks
with one more absurdity added
to the wilderness of a forest of signs.
The light still streams
into the holes, over the stones not spotted in the day,
streaming, flowing, halting in the way,
breaking into perfect geometrical play
of a vivid understanding
of the heart of loneliness that spreads
the evening's dusky feel.
The road is a persona
in the pages of an anonymous entity
that has invaded the homes , the apartments that heave
a breath of silence, a breath of heavy cumbersome weight,
and the high walls of the citadels lean
with a concern, a warmth scarcely felt, scarcely seen.

/tuttartpitturasculturapoesiamusica.com/

Tree At My Window

Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.
Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
Not all your light tongues talking aloud
Could be profound.
But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
And if you have seen me when I slept,
You have seen me when I was taken and swept
And all but lost.
That day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.

Robert Frost. "Tree at my window" in West Running Brook, 1928.

Image credit +Anna del Valle Martí

 

Vastness

The flower bloomed
out of season
alone on a single stem,
in the midst of blades
of wild grass fluttering
in the fleeting wind,
in the wilderness that stunned,
the little frail peeking heart.
And the wind when he saw
the flower standing alone in the grass
came invisibly, caressed and softly said,
"I need to feel you my little darling,
I need you to breathe my word,
and spread it around in the mist."
The flower heard, and the vastness no longer stunned.