Who’s to know,you ask, thinking I cannot hear your mind.How could I not. Look at us, we are not ordinary beings in an ordinary set up. Look at that. Nothing beneath except molten sweating atmosphere .

I feel it, planet mass and ire

smelting staring at our reckless harvests

our silken garbage and culture clubs

embroidered with negligence;

sacred altars smeared with disregard for

each other’s offerings of Love:

Who’s to know,

you ask, thinking I cannot see your mind.

How could I not. Look at us, we are not ordinary beings

in an ordinary set up. Look at that.

Such a tiny planet, and humanity thinking

we have time and infinity to exhale being

ordinary, unlovable… spit fires and short-sighted

dwarf dragons ;

oh go  de- tox that need

if all you kiss is  hate.

………….

Image via Wikipedia

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I watch my friend  Deshan

fall in love again,

leaving behind some fingerprints

new pictures line your walls,

the shadows are re – arranged, boxes, and other unopened things

like tomorrow’s calendar …; they each tremble against

promises being made, tiptoeing gently

between days of the week, dusk and dawn

new shelves, clothes, shoes ;

old things must pass away before

they return, renewed ;

care runs deep, hurting deep,

waiting for each others’ whispers

for each other

for each

new beginning

new glasses, new spoon and

curtain

new shades,

shadows

like prayers lingering at the doorways

and sill,

afraid to break the new ness

of new address

I feel you,

staying young

clasping at freshness

lugging in those lilies

photographs..

staying

growing  young..

allowing,

Change  to feel welcome..

Opening those boxes slow

lingering

laughter curling at the edges of your mouth

humor and sunshine

waiting to cross that dotted line

waiting to say Goodbye before

Hello…

waiting to hold hands, again…

My dear Friend, what can go wrong when you  care that much

about everyone..

………..

“Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others.” ― Jonathan Swift

“There is something inside you that has NEVER been expressed before. There is a unique style, a huge love, a wonderful creativity and something eternal within you! Don’t ruin this precious gift by thinking you should be a carbon copy of someone else. Be you and you will have all the protection and happiness you can imagine!”
― Jackson Kiddard

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Everything I met yesterday

pulls me into tomorrow :

Nothing was wasted

Nothing.

Esp not today.

Innerdialect.

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Thank you http://photoblog.msnbc.msn.com/_news 

The 55th annual World Press Photo Contest :  a picture by Samuel Aranda as the World Press Photo of the Year 2011 ;

Jury chair Aidan Sullivan said: “The winning photo shows a poignant, compassionate moment, the human consequence of an enormous event, an event that is still going on. We might never know who this woman is, cradling an injured relative, but together they become a living image of the courage of ordinary people that helped create an important chapter…”

Aranda, a  freelance photographer from Spain, traveled to Yemen on assignment for The New York Times. In December he gave an interview to the newspaper about the difficulties of working in Yemen—and the warmth of its people.

“What I would really like is for this photo to help the people of Yemen,” he told The British Journal of Photography after learning of the award. “I think it’s a country that is often forgotten.”

(Winning entry was Jurors choice from 101,254 images, 5,427 photographers, from 124 participating countries … one of which /below).

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Thanks toVisitStPeteClearwater.com   and my friend InnerSongs – Scott N. Loveall, neighbour to Clearwater:))

RE-  CREATION.

( wake boarding with dolphins : StPeteClearwater )

Can I ?

We are so differently-abled

My feet are toe-d, yours’ flipped

My arms have ten little fingers

yours’ skim the horizon

Yours is that endless smile

spanning species

I… have been taught to not always

be that friendly.

Careful.

Of People.

Handshakes.

Too much heaven.

Hey Wake boarding with you:

what a new emotion.

Image via Wikipedia

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Loved these pics., thought to share :

so much left to visit, meet understand : and am thinking, there are places we will never see in this life, even each other;

so much I will never understand : why my dear friend’s husband had to go so early, why Mona has this wheelchair, when do tears stop, how do some of us heal so quick? And some cannot?

How come Timmy  smiles through the steel in his hip bones? Where does Clara J. get her funny stories in cancer ward? What on earth is going on with that family other side of our street and the wife never-never stops smiling, though I know she’s beat up every time he gets home drunk?

How does a Tiger feed piglets? ( check this link above), and humans will tear each others’ scalps if asked to share space?

When will Kamal stop grieving ? What do I say ? Isn’t it  healthy to give him space  ? Can we all go out for a movie ? Is laughter illegitimate? Should we heal that fast ? Can we reach out and dare try re-capture traces of what we used to be, before the Tsunami stole our License to live?

Am I defined by my Nation?  My culture? My husband and children ? My roots? My grandparents maternal and paternal, and their associated roots, intra-personal differences and spatial decrees?

Should I stay in my ancestral banyan Tree, should I root another? What if there are no more trees, and I had to rent a chair, a mat, a pair of Hawaii chappals, would that be me ?

Can I live and laugh again, after all our assassinations and killer-tides?

So today I planted a little Lime tree in my kitchen balcony. That is not me, and yet, she is. New. Different.

A seedling, shed of yesterday’s branch and address.

Piece of a Past, enriched.

Renewed, strengthened, to stand alone. Stand Tall. Leaning on sap that routes back to Heritage, and yet, here, tender once more,  branching out again.

Same green, but new leaf and unfurl.

Free to be.

Renewed.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Am fascinated by Fulgurite ( what Lightning can do : shapes in the sand struck by Lightning : excerpt off mail from a dear friend)..

Fire can make Jewels. Okay, that’s not a new thought, but it just hit me like a flash of Lightning and thunder.

(Some of us need it I guess Have a nice day. And may you find your Treasure, in the sands struck with lightning…

Images for fulgurite

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...gratitude Scott, for kicking my muttering easel back to life... you are a Word Scientist !

www.innersongs.com

” Run Forest run..” he said, my Friend with the Quill,

and the leaves of the trees in my easel

brushed  cobwebs away : not just those,

I was nesting poison words :

“Can’t ! Can’t I can’t..!!”

Months, a year even, we had sat there, congregating among

drying bristle , scowling paint tubes..

The Will had left, my mind was a darkening  puddle

of dead lotus and weed… but

his laughter ran like strangled pain, around my neck :

and we had not even met, the miles are much too long, but words

are such creative things : I reach through this wall and we

are friends, suddenly sharing

everything

mexican unruly waves and

sad stories of kindergarten whales

even dusk and twilight.. or fields of raw silk words like whispers

His verse scatters such jewels across an arid earth

sky  and bristling landscape

I do not understand this thing with words, but there it is

the reason Writers

write. They provoke your sleeping sitars

your ghettos

your basic instincts

your trapeze artists and

forfeited galleries

oh your locks and keys and million

‘ me’s…

with their Innersongs.

Did you know we have an Innersong ..

waiting

waiting

waiting..

Ay it is amazing what a Song can do,

birthed in the pangs of

loss :

after a grain of wheat falls to the ground

to die,

it is born..

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Trapeze heads

Sitar

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Liberating to know I walk alone ….  (cont below…)

Cyganka 1888

Wrapt in You, R Noel, Oil painting series Storms Of Grace

Oil Painting : R Noel  2 of series Storms of Grace .

“It is  liberating to know

that  I walk alone

among a krzillion invisible chariots of fire ;

 but the most liberating of all,

is the knowledge of how little

I know, as compared to what I will

know

tomorrow.”

-innerdialect.

1 of series/ Storms of Grace RNoel oil paints Jan 26th 2012

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Inner palette

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 Slam Week 19

I am this picture

on Your Wall :

Reminders of

an Earth, A Child within;

Of your Colours that bleed, like Needs;

Of Your Shadows that can leave

like birds, or Nest

like death.

Who can say, but You ?

Or of Your Fields of  Words,

folded, kneeling,or

blushing-red ;

of Your Twilight –  Dawns, &

your million moons, that serenade

you,

but where are you?

Where ?

Who can say, but

you ?

( Be good to my friends, saying it out before they’re gone )

Anne and I were little kids on the village school bus that took us an hour into the city. We were  aged 7 and 8, Anne was taller and stronger, she loved the finer things, and I was happier barefoot in the sands by the sea, watching bow leggy sand crab and tourists in shoes hopping away from waves. Years later we met, I was in college and suddenly taller than my best friend, standing across the road from me, the same exotic high cheek bones. I used to have this stammer and was very shy of even entering a crowded room.

With Anne it was easy ; she was fun and very outdoorsy. We chased butterflies and fed each others’ curiosities : Gopalpur on sea  was a sleepy tourist village thick with cottages, closed doors, cranky old women in scarves and gardens no one dared look at. Droves of tourists  with cameras and sunglasses ; shacks by the sea and Nanke-boy the Shell-seller that would not part with one single shell, Banyan trees with roots to swing off, sand dunes perfect for sliding…between Holiday Inn and Palm Beach. I think right there was when I forgot I had a stammer at all. Right there we did not care that my handwriting was all messed up ‘ cuz I used both hands and wrote in reverse : what a mess!  We wrote our names in those sands fast as we could before the winds swept them away.  One noon I  drew your face in the sand and struggled to get your eyes right. You squealed and said you had stupid eyes. It was shocking ; the way you did not know how pretty you were.

Image via Wikipedia

” Hey Ann,” I said, but she looked away. She hadn’t recognised me.  We used to wear little blue   wool caps that Ma had stitched for us both, how could you forget us ?

Had it been her ? She had looked different in little girl clothes I guess. Racing down the hill at Stella Maris, up the guava tree, back in where her parents spread such a fine meal, within laced curtains and silver tea cups. She was a regular princess, a frock for every morning, shoes and sandals to match and eyes like the stars.

I used to be so tiny I know, skinny arms and feet. So yeah maybe she could not say who I was.

Maybe. To this day I wonder that things had changed so much and we’d never really know how or why.

Hey Anne R., if you ‘re anywhere there, write back. Okay? I loved knowing you : just never told you.