I find few moments more soothing
Than a cool, grey day
Whose listless breezes stir a gentle rain
Droplets patter pane and sill
And I, warm and dry
With a steaming mug
Turn the pages of a book
Offering scant attention to its contents
I find few moments more soothing
Than a cool, grey day
Whose listless breezes stir a gentle rain
Droplets patter pane and sill
And I, warm and dry
With a steaming mug
Turn the pages of a book
Offering scant attention to its contents
There was a small crack
Which let the light in
Amber and warm
To dispel the gloomy darkness
But left the shadows
So I could see both
Where I was going
And where I’d come from
I drive past the sign with a chuckle. Then realize I need to turn back for this photograph.
It occurred to me some time ago that paradise is not a place on a map, but a state of being. For me, it seems obvious, that state of being involves movement… though, often, a metaphorical interpretation works just fine.
Me: Hey Google, avoid highways.
Google: OK. Avoiding highways.
Me: WTF Google!?
Me… again: Google, avoid dirt roads.
Google: I do not understand that request.
Me: Mmmfph.
Every now and again
CTL ALT DEL
I paddle out onto the calm sea
Despite the listless surf
Rather, no
Because of it
I love the thrill of catching a wave
The feel of the board cutting through the water
The acceleration as the curl builds
And, yes
Even the tumult
When the sea punishes me
For my errors
But I love too
The moments between waves
The calm quiet introspection
Gentle swells sway me
An ocean hammock in the breeze
Take a deep breath
And another
Feel my resting heart beat
In a state of peace
Here am I
Rapt in my own presence
In time with the rhythm
Of nature
Some days
I prefer these long deep breaths
Over the exhilaration
Of a racing heart
So I paddle out
Sit with my being for a while
Then paddle back in
At peace with the world
And myself
Reach for me, my friend
From the gloom besetting you
I have light to spare
Golden glory of sunrise
Remind me
Existence is a miracle thrice
That there is something to observe at all
That there is something to observe it all
And that I am both those somethings
Snow dusts the hills
Rice flour on sourdough crust
Endless patterns
In burnished bronze
No subject
No object
No meaning
The explorer’s
Essential pleasure
Existential textures