suntannedapples

Saturday, May 25, 2019

Barefoot on the sand
the bonding with the past;
why does the pain sear so?
Why the memory scald?
Here on the canvas the landscapes speak
a language that transforms time.
Here life assumes a distant gleam.
Here the gloom changes into a light,
a light that falls magnanimously
on all things dark and raw.
Here you stand rooted in sand
as the sand shifts and you move
to lose the ground you felt was there forever.

Inspired by the posts and the words I found o the pages of @Joe Leigh-Corrigan and @Souheil Ghammachi

Souheil Ghammachi Timeline

Follow me... To the bottom of the abyss. To the very top of our paradise. For better or for worse... until our very last sunrise

juansen dizon, Adventure

Have a great week ahead...

Emoji

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Ofelia R Royo

Wow!
What a post!
Thank you, Sushama, Joe, Souheil...

1 Reply

Patricia Q.

Bellísima publicación Sushama!... siempre inspiradoras tus palabras, me alegra mucho encontrarte! Abrazos desde mi corazón!

Friday, May 24, 2019

Barefoot on the sand
the bonding with the past;
why does the pain sear so,
why the memory scald?
Here on the canvas the landscapes speak
a language that transforms time.
Here life assumes a distant gleam.
Here the gloom changes into a light,
a light that falls evenly,
magnanimously,
on all things dark and raw.
Here you stand rooted in sand
as the sand shifts and you slither
to lose the ground you felt was there
forever.

Inspired by the posts and the words I found on the pages of @Joe Leigh-Corrigan and @Souheil Ghammachi

Souheil Ghammachi Timeline

Follow me... To the bottom of the abyss. To the very top of our paradise. For better or for worse... until our very last sunrise

juansen dizon, Adventure

Have a great week ahead...

Thursday, May 23, 2019

The rain comes down out of a fog,
a windy night,
street lamps.
The raindrops shy away,
scared by the street that outshines the sky.

Waves after waves of light and rain
swerving, daring the universe that is born
from moment to moment under an invisible sky
A street deserted, the edifice stands
mute, invincible signs when the sunshine helped the builders' hand.

The row of lamps dips and vanishes beyond the horizon's end.
And the raindrops sing a maniacal song.
A bleak rain-dance, the end of season invites all.
The world has shrunk and the wind howls,
and this is the night, even the wolf falls silent
and sleeps in his den.

Sushama Karnik
Oct 29, 2016

Originally shared by Milan Lakić

Rainy Day, San Francisco By Mitchell Funk

Friday, May 17, 2019

I go berserk on losing a thing.

It doesn't matter what. 

Order scares me,

but so does the chaos!

I seek order most of the times,

and the more the seeking, 

the more is the fear of falling into chaos.

I have a reputation built by now

for losing the things if placed in my custody.

The things lost, haunt my memory.

They escape the bounds of materiality.

Obsessions have no real cord,

and yet they bind you to the thing that has gone out of the reach.

The thing has a smell, an aroma, a feel,

like a book you loved and it got misplaced,

and the duplicate will not do. 

In the madness that comes with losing a book

the one that haunts you when you misplace a thing is far worse,

rummage through the familiar places where you hide the keys,

and for days on end, the thing can't be found,

and it doesn't go into oblivion either.

With the passage of time I have been sitting on a mountain

of things lost and never found.

Sushama Karnik

June 17, 2017.

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