Story of my Secret

I need my dove to fly, leaving footprints of blank color.

-----------------fin---------------------------
"when I die, bury my body on that spot,
where i, anxious and in fear of my own self,
killed the hopes and dreams of my garden of azaleas.
Perhaps as lie dead and dreaming, fueled by those dreams
i may give birth to that unknown plant once more."


-----------Begin here-----------------
In your garden of white azaleas,
there is a strange plant, blossoming.
It needed no seed, seeks no water or sun
it existed because it must,
the beauty of the azaleas called for it
to rise out of nothing.

Now your garden is transformed in your mind,
because of one strange plant, that needed nothing.
Your azaleas, seem buoyant and young
Yet you ask yourself, what will it grow into?
Will it lead my prized garden to ruin?

The unknown plant gave off a mysterious scent
creating excitement, doubts, fear in your mind.
Growing ever uncomfortable, day by day,
until you gently kneel by the plant
and pluck it out, unable to whit stand not knowing.

Your garden of Azaleas remained beautiful, sweeter
and your mind has quietened in this safety.
Yet the unknown plant, stubborn in will, rose again.
Day after day, you pull them out, never once curious
of the nature of this plant, that just refused to go.

It has now become one more of your duties,
watering azaleas, weeding, pulling out the unknown plant.
You are amazed, yet refuse it a place in your garden.
One day, that single plant , that grew out of nothing,
whitdrew into the soil, defeated by you.


--------------the myths---------------------
Time sweeps upon your beautiful garden
Azaleas blossomed and lived, and grew tired
their scent waned of its intoxicating perfume
their sight seemed feeble, not delicate, just incomplete
their relentless aura has stopped feeding your soul.

In anger, you plant new roses, hibiscus and carnations.
You learn at once, that they would never belong here.
Growing old and weak and alone, everyday
you eyes and mind wanders, fixing on that spot
where one unknown plant grew, out of nothing

Without wanting to, you wonder, and dream .
You hear echoes in the distance, birds?
A fleeting feeling of sudden warmth, and cold
a fragrant breeze soaring thorough your hair
an intense longing that stops just short or revealing itself.

-----------veritas-----------

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Alexander Graham Bell

A secret is like a dove: when it leaves my hand it takes wing.Who can catch my white dove?

Quote

"Madam, you have between your legs an instrument capable
of giving pleasure to thousands and all you can do is scratch it.

Sir Thomas Beecham (1879-1961) to a lady cellist.

Your Lips

the concave curves begin,
end together in symmetry,
the surface, raised and full
twin cliffs folded together
joined by a river, dividing
the pallet is of maroon, pink
hints of red and sparkling luster
the veins and folds supportive
the proud deposition, assertive
the moon existed here, at a certain moment
so did oceans, lions and cypress
at a certain moment, everything was this
there was no emptying of its spirit
yet none receives a full measure.
This sweetness, exotic amazon flower
Never tasted, yet full of taste, felt.

Your lips, they are made for kissing.
To be kissed, and kissed often
By someone who knows how to.

Something to regret

In all my earlier travels, ive been so exited that i was "there" that the entire experience was ultimately about myself. Now when i think about my last conquest, i realize the difference between a journey and a pilgrimage. Journey is what any tourist undertakes, to benefit from a difference of culture, sights, sounds, smells, tastes. A pilgrimage however, has an objective that far surpasses the act of traveling. It in fact is all about you, but in a difference sense.

Upon seeing the mountains for the first time, (which is etched deeply in me) I felt something inside that just clicked almost audibly. I felt a vast gulf forming inside me, and longed to fill it with the snow capped peaks.Thus, the wanderlust in me that has lain dormant for so long was poked with a firebrand.It remains in perpetual insomnia -awake and raging to push me out of any comfort zone, making me dream of making my feet dirty.

Ultimately, a total experience of any place you go to will never happen, unless you live there. Many places may not even be worth it.. So there is no point in running around trying to grasp everything, see everything. Its like going to a cheap sale, and you are never satisfied, always thinking there might be a better deal in the next stall. (like in Bangkok's flea market).

I regret that i did not slow down, and absorb the scenes that i came across.In fact, its ironic that I was actually too intent on "absorbing" scenes that i ran from one to the other. Its then that you realize that there are many details that are missing. When i visited the Taj Mahal, i was speechless with everything about it. All i remember now of the Taj Mahal is that i was speechless. That maybe enough for many, but i cant stand that. I mean, other than all the obvious details, all i can say is it was beautiful. Like any common tourist would say.I mean i can remember mostly what i saw. But its not enough to move me to paint something beautiful about tragedies of love maybe. Simply put, what i regret is that i failed to record the thoughts and feelings that flowed through me. All that remains now are just pictures.

A pilgrimage is about discovering things about yourself. Its no use to comeback with album fulls of pictures and try to reconnect to a moment long past. To preserve its purity, it must be recorded, with pen, paper and art.

Those thoughts are very precious.

Animal

There is a coldness in my being
There is a being inside my Self
Itself longs to be build rockets
Buildings, towers, love, energy
Towering above my head, always
Heading towards waves. nameless
Counting clouds, naming stars, planets
Smiling softly to old men and children
A man, with wise intelligent eyes
Wisdom and calm permeate his aura
Calmness the sheathe to a storm withheld
Held perpetually, a walking explosion
Restless, i walk to find this being
This being called my vision
The vision of myself.

To touch purity, is to impair its perfection.
Revert.Revert. To pure animal self.

Is there no one, who will share my king?

Thoughts from Afar

Neither the grass grows hither or the flowers bloom,
but even the sky bows down to kiss the highland plume.

Hafeez Jalandhri.

Thoughts on life

The only reason a warrior is alive is to fight, and the only reason a warrior fights is to win. Otherwise why be a warrior? It is easier to count beads.

-Musashi

Did he even exist?

Joseph Patrick O'Brien Jr.
Designed a very particular electrical circuit in 1971.

I want to know who he was.His picture.His life. But i cant find it anywhere. Is he even alive?

It bothers me that great achievements are being forgotten, even when we are awash and drowning in information. That man probably contributed to more than he ever dreamed.

But now, did he even exist? Is he real?

Q and A

I ask you, what is dried leaves and twigs to you?
"chores,a burden- the clutter of gardens!"
But what of its texture and scent, the veins of its surface,
born through rain and wind, alone, for itself?
What of the glory of the shade of which it was part?
the living, breathing, ingenious eating of the celestial drops?
light captured and absorbed, held within and drunk within
a child may wonder why a tree does not glow
(Regret this! that we discard the gifts of innocence).
the gentle falling leaf, gliding upon complex formulas
teaching us invaluable lessons of life and science?

I ask you, what is your eye lashes to you?
"It helps me sleep, and protects my eyes!"
But what of its construct and impeccable design,
the perfectness in its simplicity of multi functionality
blended into every occasion and environment
as if the world was designed with it in mind
man may build bridges to space,
yet can never out do the arc of an eyelash.

I ask you what is your heart to you?
"It is the organ that keeps me alive,
it maybe where my consciousness dwells!"
On this i falter to offer grand explanations!
Who ever in this world understood a heart?
Is it not the woe of our incapability to do so
that has led us to war, toil, towers and dungeons
If it were just a blood soaked organ, perhaps
we humans shall find a costly measure of peace.
are not all laws set to tame the hearts of men?