Retreat

  FLANEUR TO PILGRIM Long after I will have left this place step into the spaces that will remain unclaimed, un-erased, because I left them blank, deliberately, emphatically, loudly blank. Spaces of freedom, locales, not mine, but those I inhabited, the uninhabitable, like a flaneur wandering in alleys, bye lanes, old marketplaces where nothing surprised, Pick up the cues and wander in them, let your heart freely range, until my words and thoughts will cease to speak and lead you to the dark hiding places of your own. How much remains, and what remains when the old manuscript pages are palimpsests of erasures, both deliberate by the hands of the scribe and those when Time will intercept. You may trace the evolution of a scribe who began as a flaneur and somewhere along when the tedium began, searched for the path of a pilgrimage

 I like it, I like it when your heart beats from the notebook of heaven wonderful poems! Thanks, Sushama! ❤📖💻👍🌹😇😘🌟 It's so nice to ride a bike next to the forest of your dreams It's so nice that I pedal with a smile on my face through this forest-narrative up to you Poetry Every day, every verse, every tree on every road listening the voice of your heart ... It's so nice to ride a bike Through the forest of your dreams ... An exceptional night, with poetic dreams, dear Poetry! Sem Xtz 28 Nov. 2020

  So direct in its simplicity. The virgin in the bright red dress, Conceals nothing from our sight. Tighe O'Donoghue Ross At the crack of dawn, the night slides. Myriad images, stored in memory, archetypes, old and new, dance before the eye of the mind. n simplicity of the spirit of giving, and in the humility of receiving the creativity wll dawn., Beneath the lake the mermaids sleep, by the night they rise and take away the bounty and return where they belong. Sushama Karnik

Words are eternal wanderers ... As they travel the worlds and the sky, they connect the fireplaces of friends that fit together to understand the same soul existence of the world. How fragile we are from the inside and yet the same. We are both the smallest and the giants because we can lift and lower each other with words.  @Andrea Beres, Pest, Hungary Jan. 10, 2020.

  Impressionism : A Sunny Afternoon A sun-drenched afternoon. She in blue The white silk flows, an abundance of softness, a sprawling river of tender snow. With a needle between her fingers she bends over the dress she is mending for the coming summer season. Dreams in her eyes and perhaps some song on her lips her fingers draw the silken strand deftly in and out. Time, in rapture, is standing by, mute and still. Some day, in future, she will come by again with her child who is playing now at her feet, the child will have grown up to be a beautiful maiden, and she a watchful guide. Sushama Karnik 17-11-2020