Point Dume

photo 5
photo 3 photo 2You would have to know the hills
well enough to spot this dirt path
that meanders for miles across the
hills, like a dog aimlessly chasing sea
gulls in mid flight.

Even the cool breeze is drunk on sea
salt, and wears the guise of a flower
girl today who runs with her arms
stretched wide trying to catch life
with both her hands.

These hills that stand tall and erudite, these
too have known to heel obediently like the
tired, thirsty dog that heels and then leaps into
the water for a swim; they too bow down and
taper into this rocky path that meets the deep
blue.

Here everything is forever Zen. The golden
shore studded with piles of rocks like a
crowned queen languishing in her reprieve
while the waves adorn her feet with green
anklets of sea weed.

Overhead fly a poem of birds in practised
symphony, offering a silent praise to this
prairie of priceless perfection.

Time for another collection

ubecute:

M-R shared some ridiculously cute pictures. I think these little guys will make your day. Enjoy!

Originally posted on MARGARET-ROSE STRINGER:

Roge keeps sending ‘em, and every now and then I think you might like to see them … So here are some more cute pic.s to make you go – all together, now ! …

AAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWwwwwwww !!!!!

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Praise

2010 074 (2)

Inside the sitting room of my memory

play the retired ghosts of past years.

School’s out. The summer heat shimmers

so bright, even coolers and fans cannot

bring down the day’s fever. In the garden

a chameleon changes colors faster than a

thirteen year old changes her mind.

The trees weary of the heat droop

over; dropping gold coins that curl up

when dry, flocking into heaps of fallen pride

waiting to be swept away the next morning.

In the sitting room my father irons a week’s

worth of his white collar job into perfectly

creased shirts and pants. I lean over into the

floor painting carnivals of landscapes, rich pastels

bleeding into the white marble floor.

Inside the kitchen my mother tosses red chilies

into pots of simmering curry hot as day. And my sister

straightens her curls with dreamy fingers, musing up her

life in teenage novels.

How sad that we should never offer praise to the simpler moments

of life, at least not until decades later when the sitting room with its

resident memories has gone up in gold and silver smoke

billowing into the cool, black night…

 Inspired by DailyPost

Life is…

empty when full
and full when empty.
Like the chaotic symphony
of the colorless cocoon
(no larger than a thimble)
unwinding into a mile long
silken yarn.

Waiting to be woven & inked
with jacquard pots of red & gold
into a scarf that bears artistic witness
to snowy wastelands of icicled mulberry trees.
Underneath which sits a fair maiden shy of her
own reflection in the bubbling brook, spinning delicate
sighs for her lover. And around her Chinese letters
rise up in air like prayer.

Later the same scarf tied around my neck
will get caught in the brooch of your breast
pocket and endure a tiny tear
as you pull away from
my embrace.

Leaving me to wonder how many miles
of unwinding, weaving and dyeing do I have to do,
before my life is fully empty of you?

 

Silk_Scarf

How to create a Master piece

Brick WallI wanted to paint life in its rich palette of pastels;
sunflower yellows, caterpillar greens, pomegranate reds,
and its blessed hues of honeycomb gold, aster blue and
random dabs of rainbow.

Determined to create a masterpiece of sorts. I drew up
a country hut with a chimney blowing smoke, a cockatoo cooing
good morning, cattle grazing and birds chirping, hello, hello.
The scenery was idyllic but the passers-by gave it one look and
said it was “too contrived“.

So I drew up farmers and carts, children skittering in the yard,
a garden and a well used windy path. But the Farmers and the children
in the painting looked at me quixotically and said, “Where are we all to live?
In this tiny, little hut?

So I turned the hut into a mansion, and drew up courtyard fountains,
Rose gardens, stately lounging chairs and a path of white marble.
But they thought it was “too utopian, peasants don’t live in mansions!

So I drew up Skyscrapers, Westminster bridge, Trafalgar square,
Charing Cross station, hawkers selling hot dogs, bus stands buzzing traffic,
and lots of people rushing in and out like blood flowing through an artery. But the busy city people gave it a dull look and said it was “too unromantic, too common place“.

So I drew my final painting; an endless expanse of arched blue skies
and flowing green fields punctuated only with wild flowers. Soon birds and butterflies flew in, followed by rabbits and deer’s for company.

I stepped inside my own painting and with a sigh of resolve decided to seal my peace. At the threshold of the painting I drew a thick red brick wall and sealed the world out.

Later I heard from the birds and the bees they hung my red brick wall next to Cezanne and Pissarro. Staring at it for hours, they say,

“So Impressionistic …So Monet!”

Falling in love

Bora Bora 030Maybe one day I shall become a poet,
and write a book. Each page will be
enjambed with my tongue.
I shall publish it on recycled paper
and leave plenty of space in the margin
for your notes.

When you chose to relax
with a glass of wine, open my
book & like a dolphin dive in.
Leaving splashes of my words on
your couch.

Do not swim just sink into my poem
and let the music fill the pores of your soul.
For here my reader, my lover you will be
safe forever…