Originally shared by shasta davis

TIME WILL PASS,  MEMORIES WILL FADE ,  FEELINGS WILL CHANGE,  PEOPLE WILL LEAVE,  BUT THE HEART WILL NEVER  FORGET.

Wonderful Evening My Friends.....

When the season lingers at the Passover,
 in the day the time is heavy.
The cloud knows how it feels
to be drifting in sky and yet believe
you are solid gold
touched by the magic
 in the sleight  of hand
 of the migrating sun.

I watched two clouds,
one a mass of white, turning grey,
and the other a wispy one.
 like a thread of a candle smoke,
 smiling soft and dim.
Luscious pink adorned its edge
like a silver obelisk in an aura of light.
Lifting both and changing their shape
was the wind which played behind.
And I watched the twain

How gladly the clouds fleeted past
even as they floated,
 knowing
 the moment wasn't going to last.
In the playful dance
 they brought back to me
my love of lights and shadows,
my love to seek a name
for the gossamer shades of  colors,
even as the night tiptoed close on their heels.
@# SUSHAMA KARNIK
Aug 23, 2018

The Sounds Of Rain

The sounds of rain, so near, and so far...
On the snow-capped mountains, the ice melts,
the water flows in a silent stream,
and I hear the silence
in the raindrops falling on my window panes.
The rain can hear the silence reigning in my heart.
A slow beat, a plaintive note on a violin string,
stirs as if in the depth of a valley.
A descent from the hills,
the rain has an easy fall.
Down on the friendly slopes
the rain rolls, a child not scared of the fall.
And I am waiting, tremulously, to catch the rain in my arms.
Step by step, sometimes the rain descends
as the massive clouds watch the downhill slopes
until the streams gather and open the floodgates in a drastic wind.
Often in the moonsong, the rain delights.
Like a charmed herd of mountain deer.
the rain follows the magic flute,
and like a revelation on an abrupt night
the rain speaks of the mysteries sung to the ears of the maids
waiting for a marriage divine.
The mesmerizing sound of rain
carries the burden of ages of a longing that has remained
pristine, clear like the moonshine of the nights when the longing is a note
of a symphony played out in a solitary forest, a pliant ocean holding aloft
the music falling in an incessant stream.
The rain has memories of ancient dreams...
The anguish in the sounds of the rain.


Image courtesy Tanya Dimitrova. Thank you Tanya.

Originally shared by Tanya Dimitrova - 1 comment

FUGiTIVE PEACE
The sun was far into the day,
the thoughts of the mid-day meal,
rains on the head, no shelter in sight;
missed the bus, missed the train,
reaching home was a farthest dream
in the city of torment and grime.
And suddenly a lull, a desperate calm,
nestled like a dreamy cat,
under an improvised shed, on a forsaken bench.
A beckoning sign , a gesture of grace.
And some moments stolen from the rush of the day
as I quietly sat down and laid to rest
the broken limbs, the delirious brain;
a solitude that was an island of peace
and the mind came home like a stealthy fugitive
receiving grace.

Aug 3, 2015

Originally shared by Sogyal Rinpoche

When people begin to meditate, they often say that their thoughts are running riot and have become wilder than ever before. But I reassure them and say that this is a good sign. Far from meaning that your thoughts have become wilder, it shows that you have become quieter and are finally aware of just how noisy your thoughts have always been. Don’t be disheartened or give up. Whatever arises, just keep being present, keep returning to the breath, even in the midst of all the confusion.

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And sometimes as you watched the sea

the waves hurtled and crashed.

A thrill pulsated in the air around

and a cool shower of a salty jet,

a watery sky fell on the rock

Life has brought you back to the sea.

Like a lover who understands

the meaning of desire

you look at the sea

with a new adoration,

a magnanimity of forgiveness

and the generosity of forgetting;

you find again all that you need--

in the sea who never forgets.

SUSHAMA KARNIK

Thanks for the image +MMurat Murat

Originally shared by MMurat Murat

Flowers,. shadows, the morning sun,
a tea sipped in tranquility.
Things which the sun brushes past
bristle and raise their voice.
There is a clean plug-point at the bottom
but nothing is plugged in there.
It's a wise thing to do
to stay unplugged
when the sun is inviting you to tea.

Mar 14 2019

Originally shared by Tanya Dimitrova - 1 comment

Early morning, I like
to walk with stray sunbeams
holding the hand of the sun,
a prancing child
sure of  the warmth of a gentle Dad.
Dancing like a colt
breaking all loose
in the open light of the dawn,
the sunbeam stops as it hits a wall,
makes a face and climbs the wall;
I too stop, wondering how I could ever scale the wall
without a ladder..
I peer across the wall
and the sunbeam has found a host of playmates dancing ;
and bouncing with latticed shadows.
For a while I let it dance
and l
pause to look at the houses on the hills
their lights , tokens of the passing night,
roof-tops greeting the sky.
The sunbeam proceeds; its confidence enhanced, it's now a poised young adolescent lad
of a proud father, the sun.
I stop again; the sunbeam turns and waves to me;
"Good bye, good bye; my day starts now; enough of play!"

Sushama Karnik
Aug 22, 2015

Originally shared by Darlene Walsh

Early morning rain...