it is always there
though not always within vision
of course
for only sparkling minds
see the sparkles in their skies
but sparkling once alight
and tools within our grasp
and all other elements
being right
without brokenness
or shadows
without question-marks
or slow-downs
and in shameless consort
we say: glow
and glow it does at our command
and from our fingers rise
roaming scents of pure fragrance
made tangible
and true.
Waterdrops would waddle down the hillside every morning, following the path laid down by his ancestors in many years gone by. Each day, he descended—drawn by habit, by the patterns sewn into his life, with no qualms, no questions to be pondered—and each evening, he returned. It did not occur to Waterdrops to consider the question that occurs to you and I—why?—and so, daily, he wandered up and down the hill, was warmed beneath the sun, and gently, surely, with no hopes nor fears to fill, lived out his quiet life.
Where we find meaning, it’s deep within ourselves. Not out there—not on the internet. Not in the images of others, other lives, not in the lies—we eat them up, rapacious, with our eyes, until they eat our hearts. We swallow bites of presentation, of fabrication, and digest. We perceive, to occupy our minds. But beneath perception lies the truth inside—unoccupied, we find it in our dreams. The truth is there in music, played on heart-strings, composed upon our skins. The truth is there in tears brought forth by melodies divine, by poetry, by the pangs of night’s desire. These are the essences of meaning that lie beneath our love. Truth is not in shallowness and shortness, short attention spans, short thought. Not in the photos flashing on our phones, swiped and swept aside. The truth is there in notes and notions that run up and down our spines, shiver there, linger there, and infiltrate our souls. I cannot tell you what is truth—but I tell you, it is there.
And remember—this is what matters. Words. What matters is not their matter but that they matter still. Still, quiet perfection in words. Balance, and structure, not straight-laced, but lucid and dreaming all at once.
What matters is not their matter, but that they matter still.
It’s the sound—the sound of the crows, of the seabirds, and the horns and the motors. I love the sound of India. I love the feel of it—its warmth in winter (though I have not known its rains). Here, there is too much silence—far, far too much silence for comfort. It is not the blanketing, calming silence of the countryside. It the is the broken silence of the suburbs, halting and haunted by a presence unseen.
wash me clear
lay me down
and again lift me up
let the knots loosen
and the focus drift
let the seas rise and fall
and feel the rhythm shift
take notice
of the moments
as each one passes by
and re-listen
to the glisten
of a one-time audible smile
And this
is all you wanted
it’s this simple
and this small.
How I felt upon seeing that bright spot in the sky.
A single, bright star.
So long had I been gazing upon a different sky that I was quite shocked to see it. A single, bright, close star.
My eyes glued to the star as the taxi streaked quietly on into the gloaming, and the star through the window grew only brighter.
And again, she thought that she might cry.
To England, where my heart lies.
Sweet hymnal music and the chirp of springtime’s birds.
Brickwork, colours so varied and subtle, aged. Repainted, refreshed, changed, restored.
Pink Mayfair! Oh, glory!
Just to walk there — here, there, and everywhere — just to walk there is to live. Not for so long — so long — have I felt so alive.
Para-gliders — five of them — loop across the bright, warm blue sky. The day is cloudless, stirred by a slight, light breeze. How far can they see, from up there? A vast stretch of billowing, bloated mass of inhabited land. The ocean; the ships beyond the horizon. What do they see of me? A small, black splodge; an ant on grass, as insignificant as the winged ant that just now alights upon my scribbling page.
On the subject of insects — there are bees about, hovering peacefully above the clusters of yellow daisy-like blooms that sprout from the grass in ragged patches wilted by the sun. The occasional fly goes by my ear.
Another sky-watcher makes his way across the blue; a light plane, mumbling and growling back and forth, the light shining silver on the white body of the plane.
Sunbathing season has begun. The lawns are littered with girls baring themselves to the warm spring sun, so I am not out of company with my cotton bath-sheet to spread upon the grass. Contented-looking babies are wheeled about the gardens by their mothers.
Distant, high-pitched screams come from above, as another para-glider’s chute opens with a strange crackling roar.
The breeze feels layered; it buffets across my skin in alternating, mingling streams of cool, dry, quick air, and pockets of languorous, humid warmth.
Magical: Day One 