Some days my mind is

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Moments. This happened on the balacony 20th floor fairway Residencies

 Have you watched an Eagle soar? Watched it soar, then glide and soar again then fall free. Have you heard an Eagles call? The 'crek, crek' harsh yet beautiful.

Have you leaned on a rail and turned your face to the sun? Felt the warmth seep into your bones, tingle up the spine and then end on your lips, when you can't but smile.

Let sunlight play on your closed eyelids... A bright yellow, then orange, deep red to indigo. You move your face slowly and the light moves with you green flecks the gold as it burns into orange. Yes that's how you dance with the light. Just standing there, sun in your hair, tilt your face and just be. Wind riffle your through cloths and yes suddenly you realise the birds had been chirping all this while. 

 Some days my mind is a deep dark hell where passion takes over, when the bleeding red and black hate holds sway. Then unwittingly I move to the next day ... to sunshine and yellow hues. Only to wake up again to a place  where memories of love, what was and what could have been sweeps in. Dissipate  in another day where magic of fairies, toadstools and sun dappled flowers seep in. So don't judge me or even pray for me, just walk with me and share my deep dark places, my shadows and my light....

 I pour green tea in my prettiest tea service. This is how I intend celebrating the last pages of 'The lady and the Monk' by Pico Iyer. Pico Iyer led me to the heart of Kyoto, one of the lovliest of old cities in Japan where he spent the four seasons, reading old poems, wandering round temples and just doing as he pleased...and I followed in his wake, lapping up line after line of beautiful prose, ideas and feelings...with him I tentatively probed the tip of the vast ocean that's Zen. "in order to find ourseves, we've got to learn to stop." How the Japanese secede from time in the genteel art of the Japanese tea ceremony. In "tea", (tea ceremony) said Etsuko softly, we can get a taste of eternity..."tea" gives us a concentration, and helps us empty ourselves out. By concentrating on the ritual, on all forms of details, we can clean our selves out" I read. Somewhere in those pages I learnt to pronounce the word ' piquant' as the English would and then the French...with Pico I went an extra step to find out that Monet's "Soleil Levant" was that haunting impressionist sunrise which I loved from for ever but never put a name on let alone pronounce. I learnt in quietness the art of wrapping a gift and actually went that extra mile to have a friends Birthday gift wrapped so beautifully in order to doubly honour the receiver. I read, " later back home, I peeled back layer after layer of the elegant cloth. Simply opening the temples treasure was an almost sensual experience". In these pages I found the romantic sound of Georges Moustaki,Chopin, Baroque music, Beatles music. Then impressionists, Somerset Maugham, Caucer and Madonna, laid out so temptingly for me to pick up and look deeper into. With Pico Iyre I tried out my first Haiku and bagged a new tattoo...

Thank you for this book...as the gentle Sachiko would say...thank you for giving me dream time....

I pour green tea in my prettiest tea service. This is how I intend celebrating the last pages of 'The lady and the Monk' by Pico Iyer. Pico Iyer led me to the heart of Kyoto, one of the lovliest of old cities in Japan where he spent the four seasons, reading old poems, wandering round temples and just doing as he pleased...and I followed in his wake, lapping up line after line of beautiful prose, ideas and feelings...with him I tentatively probed the tip of the vast ocean that's Zen. "in order to find ourseves, we've got to learn to stop." How the Japanese secede from time in the genteel art of the Japanese tea ceremony. In "tea", (tea ceremony) said Etsuko softly, we can get a taste of eternity..."tea" gives us a concentration, and helps us empty ourselves out. By concentrating on the ritual, on all forms of details, we can clean our selves out" I read. Somewhere in those pages I learnt to pronounce the word ' piquant' as the English would and then the French...with Pico I went an extra step to find out that Monet's "Soleil Levant" was that haunting impressionist sunrise which I loved from for ever but never put a name on let alone pronounce. I learnt in quietness the art of wrapping a gift and actually went that extra mile to have a friends Birthday gift wrapped so beautifully in order to doubly honour the receiver. I read, " later back home, I peeled back layer after layer of the elegant cloth. Simply opening the temples treasure was an almost sensual experience". In these pages I found the romantic sound of Georges Moustaki,Chopin, Baroque music, Beatles music. Then impressionists, Somerset Maugham, Caucer and Madonna, laid out so temptingly for me to pick up and look deeper into. With Pico Iyre I tried out my first Haiku and bagged a new tattoo...

Thank you for this book...as the gentle Sachiko would say...thank you for giving me dream time....

Looking my deepest fear in the face

The love I thought was mine

Turned cold and comfortable in another

Being irrelevant and passed over.

Looking at that stark reality

Without rationalising that the love was never mine

But a delusion

Like the flowing river the moments have passed never to be captured again.

Simply that it is over and me just a part of nature that ebb and flow in some form or other

Until I see byond the delusion and end this ever flowing cycle that is samsara.

My deepest fear has been realised and relieved me of the fear of waiting for it to happen.

Maybe this is freedom from fear. There being nothing more to fear. 

Mind of a two timer

 I walk the cowards road

It's covered in thorns and nails.

Your sanctimonious contempt hurt my soul

But let me tell you, my bleeding heels hurt so much more...

I'm two faced, it is the pet hate of the brave...

While one face burns by the fire in your eyes

The other face is looking at hell

You have no clue of the horrors that meet me there...

I lie, I cheat and you puke at the glory that come my way,

I'm greedy...but each morsel sticks in my throat and burns a hole in me.

I have my reasons to walk through this hell...

Reasons spurned by your valour,

Your sneer at my compromise is a mere shadow of the torment in which I cry.

So next time you pour your righteous contempt on my corrupt soul, just remember I still win.

'Cos your eloquance is but a puny blight on the putrid, venomous storm that rages within me...

Self

 No limits, no boundaries

no lines to be crossed

heedless, reckless

this shooting star 

destroying itself

whirling so fast

an illusion of stillness

of great calm

Soul whisperer

 My soul whisperer is me

the one that feels

care and keep,

tenderly watch over

In a world where

those that speak but not hear

tread rough on what's already dear

I move stealthily into position

to be my own soul whisperer

Deep dark places

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Some days my mind is a deep dark hell where passion takes over, when the bleeding red and black hate holds sway. Then unwittingly I move to the next day ... to sunshine and yellow hues. Only to wake up again to a place  where memories of love, what was and what could have been sweeps in. Dissipate  in another day where magic of fairies, toadstools and sun dappled flowers seep in. So don't judge me or even pray for me, just walk with me and share my deep dark places, my shadows and my light....