November 2017 M T W T F S S « Feb 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30
- autumn clarity Connection Contemplation Deeper Truth Existentialism Haiku Moment Inner Knowing Inner Life Intuition Knowing memories Moment of Peace Monochrome Mystery Photo Photography Poetry Prose Remembrance Ruminations sentimentalism Silence Spirituality Stillness sub consciousness Uncategorized Visual Poetry Winter Wondering
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Blogs I Follow
- DoubleU = W
- Journeys in Spirit
- Walking my path: Mindful wanderings in nature
- Dreams Never End
- The Morning Porch
- AshiAkira's Blog
- Find Your Middle Ground
- Serpent Box
- Dancing on Frozen Beaver Ponds
- DSH notebook
- Quiet Pilgrim
- In A Spacious Place
- American Eagle Blog
- Belinda Broughton
- Bri Bruce Productions
- Virgilio is on a quiet journey...and wondering...
- Ming Thein | Photographer
Snow is falling silently
while I think of my friend,
alone in a coffee shop,
It is 10:03 pm, Tuesday.
It is just a wish,
a description, an ideal,
but still with no face.
But I know there is not just one.
But where and when and how?
Questions that are not easy to answer.
Questions that are beyond me to answer.
I just live with them.
From time to time they gain prominence
and I cannot do anything except to just
accept that it is what it is.
I can only hope that one day
the veil will come down in a perfect
manner, ignoring issues and,
with a full heart, willingly and softly
accepts without questions scars
and still unhealed wounds
where flowers can bloom.
I do not know what to say.
I just wish that the leaves on the ground
can talk and tell you that even in the
depth of winter it still feels like Autumn.
There is a stillness
that runs deep
that strokes the soul
and a luminous silence
that unlocks an ancient longing
that I still do not understand.
I just walk, wondering, as I come
to terms with the deeper truth of life.
And part of that deeper truth is
not understanding that ancient longing.
These are uncertain times and
the more urgent our need for poets who can see
the different shades of gray
in a pale early morning winter sky,
who can hear birdsongs even in the absence
of birds, who can wipe away tears even from far away.
The poet can redefine doom and make it
sweet but a moment of abandon surfaces
when a poet becomes silent and doom
releases its own vile definition.
The message is clear: that poets must be
kept alive for their relevance and for their
ability to rebuke, cajole, lament, praise,
provoke, dream wildly, see deeper truths through metaphors,
symbolisms, rummage through the complexities of
metaphysical thoughts, and courageously touch the beyond.
And I am comforted just by the thought that
they exist in the fullness of life’s reality.
Pause, listen long and deep enough
and discern, and be the truth that
you have been seeking all along.
This is how the wise heart operates.
Alone in this cold Grey November morning.
In this moment, I deeply surrender
to the pale sunlight, the silent leaves,
the wet grass that is still green.
There are no birds, no songs,
only the fluency of silence,
the knowing without words, the necessity of truth
and the feeling of bare, uncomplicated existence.
And this is more than enough to heal.