Retreat

Wrapped in a shawl of dainty leaves of some tamarind green the bulbul arrived, rested awhile, and flew to some coastal town unknown to me. Not yet bothered about the worries of finding a mate and building a nest, the bulbul hopped and flew around. The spot of red on its crown was missing still. But why should the bird worry? It never even knew it must wear a red crown. It was Nature's job to worry. And everything in Nature comes in its own time, in its own way. Sushama Karnik 16 August 2019

Jay Dev Like  ·  Reply  ·  1y Tony Langmach You are really great at painting with words & it inspires a lot  Sushama Karnik   - PS. I have heard from Shantha on Pluspora Like  ·  Reply  ·  52w Sushama Karnik So she is on Pluspora! How is she?  1 Like  ·  Reply  ·  52w Tony Langmach Yes, She is just started on PP & only said hi & shared a poem  Sushama Karnik

The river, mysterious, beyond the bend unseen, and here before my eye, calm. After a turbulent day, this window , and the twilight shadows. This calm river can cause a storm. But this her normal flow, will move me beyond the world I see and I happen to hear the melody of water, a pure dream. On a rare day a boat comes without a mast, too far in the distance, someone rowing with ease, someone who knows the secret of the wind and in no hurry at all to reach a farthest shore. For such a one a candle while it lasts, a candle that dreams that it would be as big as a lighthouse for the distant boat. Sushama Karnik (c) August 7, 2020 Thanks for the image,  @Night passage Night passage Night passage Night passage Timeline 4 hours ago

ARE YOU THE PROPHET... Drop it, the chant, the rosary of beads; watch dissolve the mist. Such a flow of honey, not honey, not a mist,just a flow, an alertness, an awareness of being. The flow expands, but does not sweep you off the feet. No more fear in the deluge of peace. Are you lost? Are you there for me? I no longer need the comfort of your being. It expands and carries all that remains of me. I come back and hear the voices of agony ; voices of suicides choking in tunnels, I know not the cause. I see a poet being accused of terrorism, a revolt that he could not carry. His audience accuse him of an incomplete mission, of leaving them dangling in the air with impotent words of poesy. "Truth is incorruptible", they had heard him say. "Show us the Truth; give us hands either to kill ourselves or kill Truth." "The cowards cannot kill", he said. The corrupt cannot kill the incorruptible" They who were half-way on ...