Birds – Poem by Jack Rolph

On this beaten, barren shore,
we are as birds of a feather;
ravaged by the endless swells,
we stand and flock together.

Some of us cannot make flight:
the world has clipped their wings;
doomed before they left the egg,
they plunge to the dirge we sing.

A few shall soar above their kin
and rise to the heavens, like flame:
we trill our praise, their wing beat stills
and they plummet, all the same.

Most will stand and wait ashore
and caw their discontent;
each cry that adds to the tumult
a tale of failed ascent.

Do what we will, have we no choice
but to do what we will do?

Hear the anguish in our cries:
our screeches as we question why,
from those who fail before they try
to those who scrape the stars on high,
it is that birds may only fly
when we must all fall from the sky.

Until You Come and Wake Me Up

Fatal desperation?

From the Soul to the nib of the Pen


The lights in this big and empty room tremble as my legs shiver
and your name with each skipped breath touches my lips without kissing
The walls embedding your shadow echo the song I heard over the phone
and its words go all out finding the meaning without you around
I leave the door open, I leave my voice there
for you to come, for you to hear

Within the folds of the sheet of no end, I’ve hidden all my thirst and desires
and the fathomless creases on it read the letter I haven’t yet sent
My hands stretch to touch your face emerging like a rainbow in the clouds
and my ears in this aching silence try to hear the song you haven’t yet sung
I shut the lights off, I shut my eyes
for a dream to come, for a love to live within

Until you come…

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Florida Panther – Poem by Barry Middleton

the panther scans the swamp
black tipped ears listen
to the hiss of distant traffic
now familiar as a sibilant wind
brushing the palmetto prairie
and rushing through pine flats
to warn of encroaching enemies

south of the Caloosahatchee
females and cubs know peace
to the north the big male
ranges a hundred miles
dodging his natural enemy
the alligator no match for him
unlike the machines of humans

the hunt was good today
he settles in the underbrush
east of town to rest and dream
and sleeping flicks his ears
and purrs as southern winds
carry the sweet perfume
of the Everglades northward

Dharanindra: King of Medang and Srivijaya

Visual Treat and Food for Thought! Great work by Bama

What an Amazing World!

Candi Sewu, the Second Biggest Buddhist Temple in Indonesia Candi Sewu, the Second Largest Buddhist Temple in Java

Chapter 1, Part 7

Panangkaran’s reign in the kingdom of Medang ended in the year 775, leaving a legacy of a new Buddhist kingdom as well as starting the era of Hindu-Buddhist temple construction within his realm. His successor, Dharanindra, emerged as an even more powerful ruler than Panangkaran. Thanks to Sailendra’s turn to Buddhism and intermarriages with the ruling family of the Sumatra-based Buddhist kingdom of Srivijaya, the Medang-Srivijayan union became a major power in Maritime Southeast Asia.

During his reign Dharanindra, also called King Indra, commissioned the construction of Manjusrigrha, ‘House of Manjusri’ after the most important bodhisattva in Mahayana Buddhist tradition. The design of the temple, however, is believed to have been made during Panangkaran’s rule. Taking the layout of a mandala – a symmetrical shape symbolizing the universe in Buddhism cosmology – the main temple at the…

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Desert Moon by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Your One Phone Call

Facing the wind
A whispering low whistle past my ears
Shadow of my cross behind me

I am dead
To this surrounding world
Dying since I was born

But living the adventure
More than most
And still not enough

I am here in the desert
Licking the sand from my lips
Long hair like a beat Sampson

Buried up to my neck
My sins as the sand
Weighting me down
Still trying to dig out of this grave

The night sky filled with clusters of stars
Witnesses to my thirst

After so much time spent in the gathering crowd
Loners and self edifiers
Hanging on
To tall peaks of illusion
Not knowing how far the fall would be

I let go a long time ago
A swan dive
Down through swirling dreams of transparent ghosts
Voices calling me
My mother crying
My father yelling
My wife pleading about things…

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Bart Wolffe


Ragged sky at twilight, raw-edged angles of twigs,

An evergreen now-grey ivy leaf scrapes my sight

And all is obtuse, not cohesive, this disembodied day

In winter, no art of refinement, a landscape unfit

For the painter’s brush. But yet, the torn sky

Is bleeding tonelessly, hue of a cold sea frozen

As relentless night’s unrested mind procures

The objects of observation, swallows all

With the same appetite for remorseless oblivion.

And where is the merciful one now?

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He’s a family guy: Great Indian Hornbill


It’s been 72hours since I spotted Great Indian Hornbills in Valparai for the fourth time. A few things have changed in my life since then.

It’s as though someone turned my life’s volume knob way down. The bedroom walls are starting to whisperback. Last night, we watched each other peel in strange places. It was unsettling in a sexy way. Or vice-versa. I am unsure. Either way, wedidn’tmakeeye-contact in the morning.

But there’s no confusion in my mind about how it feels to be close toGreat Indian Hornbills.

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A Ten Question Interview With The Artist… Chumki Sharma

Your One Phone Call

Why do you write?

I write to leave a legacy. My insignificance in the universe is strangely offensive to me. The fact that every morning I am a day closer to death and with me, everything I love will die too wounds me. Poetry is my war against mortality.

What books do you read?

I read a lot of fiction-thrillers and drama. Ancient history fascinates me too. Rarely poetry.

What inspires you?

I am inspired by life and the business of living. Pulling it apart at the seams and seeing what’s inside. Like an archaeologist digging for clues. I look underneath the surface of what is seen, to find the places that are not seen but felt.
The creative process itself brings me to a place of being totally present and that process itself is inspiring. Just the act of looking through the viewfinder of poetry slows me down and…

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Hats of to George Bruckner! looks like an impressionist canvas

Cariboo Photo Journal by George Bruckner

Lighthouses that are perched on cliffs along the coast lines, guiding against the restless sea. This image of lighthouse with an anchor upfront has a memorial of those that lost their life on sea.


Most of the coastlines  be it the Atlantic or Pacific had their first settlements established in order to derive their livelihood from the seas, they were clustered in groups in coves around the crinkled coast line, perching their fishing stages perilously down the cliffs.

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