blaming

job

breath

breath

anger

death

kindness

energy

mother earth

death

Bryan Appleyard

We tell stories to ourselves; of our journey from birth to death, friends, families, who we are and who we want to be. Or public stories about history and politics, about our country, our race or our religion. At each moment of our lives these stories place us in space and time. They console us, making our lives meaningful by placing us in something bigger than ourselves. May be the story is just that we are in love, that we have to feed the cat or educate the children. Or may be it is about a lifelong struggle for salvation or liberation. Either way-however large or small the story- the human impulse is to make sense of each moment by referring it to a larger narrative. We need to live in a world not of our own making. 

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Cosmo

Kolambi poovu

By the seashore

Death

Looking back and thinking,
I cannot believe that this whole story,
Of gain and losses,
Was about a few lies hidden,
A few stupid moves across the board,
That none dares for fear,
A few blind thrashes at the unseen foe,
And desperate lunges at the seen,

You dont know what fear
When you know that it doesnt matter,
For you run far and wide across the vast spaces,
Searching for refuges,
Mirages in the scorching desert land.

You dont know fear either,
When your heart is numb and cold,
Can never raise a war-cry,
But only fight
To live or to die.

You and Me

You were the strain of music that I lost somewhere in my life. One day I just stopped singing and lost you somewhere along the way. The songs that you taught all sang of how your tears would make garlands of songs for my neck.

Yesterday, when I remembered that we had required nothing but togetherness to be happy every day and how hours of looking into each other's eyes could bring in a new life after every parting. Then the song played on my lips again; but this time I guess I know how to make garlands with tears as well.

Introduction to Daily Meditations by Omraam Mikhael Aivanhov

Old Friend

Islands

Today when I write our short, short story in words,
I want sunshine and laughter, tickles and giggles,
Naughty days and kisses, joys in our land of dreams,
But when words do come they have traces of tears,
A lost treasure, none can see or enter, a little space
A sacred space, where words are ciphers and myths,
Everyday a new script, with details added in for spice,
Beneath starry skies, on the seashore on lovely nights,
Music that heaven played with moonlight and waves,
Now silence, tears, aching hearts and burning memories,
Memories that never heal nor fade, written with fire,
Unreal, surreal, drawn with circles, colours and blood.
We wave desperate, deaf and blind, on either shore,
Having burnt boats and with tears, shout to each other.