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CreateAn orange the size of a pea,
A plate-the size of a coin,
A litte truck that could be lifted by the tip of your finger,
A flower that may have been cute and tiny
but didn't smell as good
Tiny palms and fingers-inky
smeared with myriad hues.
We created our own little somethings...
Shaping our worlds with nothing
but our own imagination...
And a pack of Play Doh.
Summer ParadiseDo you remember?
Every childhood memory I cherish
When I think of those warm summer days
out in our balcony
A bit of which was a little garden which we fancied to be our very own farm
We planted little green sprouted garlic pods and watched them grow
we plugged the little pipe and filled the balcony
with ankle deep water and strewed neem leaves
pretending they were tiny fish that would nibble our toes
we hung a bedsheet and sat underneath it imagining it was our tent
There we had it all...
A lake with squirming 'fish', our very own wigwam to shield us from the merciless sun...
We bathed our feet in the water occasionally spraying it on each other...
relishing the coolness of every drop...
laughing and playing like only little children ever can...
Do you remember?
Indian Potpourri IIISouth was simply superb. Josh had reached God's own country-Kerala. The profusely viridiscent landscapes glided past in slow motion as he ferried the lakes. There is the immensely variegated boat race festival known as Onam. Long boats are oared by brown, sinewy men-each one vying to win the race. The women dress in white and gold, slowly sway, carrying small mud lamps around colorful patterns drawn on the ground with powders in every imaginable color called Kolams also called rangolis in the north.
Huge elephants are indispensable during Onam. The pachyderms are scrubbed by the proud, smiling Mahouts in lakes and then adorned with red and gold brocade and paraded with howdahs (saddles).This is the land of Kathakali,the indescribably complex, holy and radiant dance-danced by an all male cast. They sit for hours together and paint their faces predominantly with greens, reds, black and yellow and emote subtly yet articulately displaying a plethora of histrionics-pomp, pain, piety and pur
Indian potpourri IIKarnataka- the painted sign proclaims (in three languages).The train grinds to a halt. The smell of metal is in the air. It's been a grimy journey. But eagerness and anticipation fills Josh Hartlett as he has reached Bangalore (Bengalooru)-all cosmopolitan. The itinerary says it was known as the pensioner's paradise a few years ago. However urbanity has hit it and made it more urban than most other cities. It is inhabited by a few foreigners. It was easy for Josh to see why. Its temperature was more pleasant than other cities.
It is also known as the garden city. It has plenty of greenery. But it was sad as he realized that pollutants are taking their toll. There were the green, cool gardens- Lal Bagh, Cubbon Park-to name a few. He found decent food in Bangalore- Pizzerias, McDonalds, and KFC… Quaint British villas hobnobbed with huge skyscrapers.
He found most people speaking good English, Hindi and Kannada.
This is known as the Silicon Valley. He found colossal IT parks with delegate
Indian potpourriIndian food was at first unpalatable. Josh had been on an All India trek.He tried the Northern food that was available in every little shanty called Dhabas. It was mainly from a place called Punjab (lit. the land of five rivers). He grew to relish it. They offered bread made in a tandoor (a pot like oven).Fresh, hot and delicious. He tried tandoori murg (spicy chicken cooked in the tandoor), and kofta curries (vegetables/cheese, meat balls smothered in thick spicy gravies), kebabs (skewered edibles), Biriyanis (spiced rice) along with a generous supply of raw onions, curd, green chillies and lime wedges. The spices they used were mainly was garlic, onions, cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, peppers, cashews….
Kashmiri food boasted of fruit-both dry and fresh .He began to enjoy Kashmiri pilaf (rice cooked with pieces of fresh and dry fruit) and naans and kulchas (pancake bread sprinkled with fruit as well) and ghosht (meat mainly mutton).Gujarati and Rajasthani food was succulent even in its b
Chaos or CosmosIt's amazing....How the greatest anthropologists cannot unravel the biggest mystery ?I would choose the most flabbergasting and bewildering mystery as the human psyche,the essential soul within the Homo Sapien.It is as if we are trying put together the jigsaw puzzle of human race-its beginning and evolution.But the more we conclude the more baffling it gets.Our religions have developed mythological and fantastic theories of how we originated...
To think of how only two percent of the human brain functions.The rest is a colossal waste.Imagine if we could harness all the positive potential that we could build upon and work together with a common goal.But we let our petty differences and foibles rule and stifle our common motto-the ultimate human revolutionary evolution...
Shouldn't we be applying the 'agree to disagree' and 'win-win' strategies to iron out differences and ego clashes between us.After all this body and our personalties are perishable.
The idea of Nirvana is a bit too far-
NavratriNavratri, has the literal meaning nine nights (alliterative!).Celebration takes place for nine consecutive nights. The very mention of the word brings poignant memories The lights dancing along the heavily brocaded Ghaghra cholis. The mirror work beautifully formulated by some unsung artists. A million sparkle-spangled, vividly-hued, intricately embroidered full skirts swishing. Softly tinkling silver bracelets, anklets moving to the exotic rhythms. Hordes of smiling women with foreheads intensely beaded with perspiration. They pant while dancing but have ecstasy writ on their countenance.
The staccato rhythm never pauses while they pirouette. They carry decorated foot-long sticks and clack There's the unfailing beat .
Myriad hues reds, yellows, greens, blues. Gyrating fast and slow. There's the sweetmeats they gorge on to keep their pep. Icecreams, Aam ras, chats. The nights go by They dance till the wee hours of the dawn. Special provisions are made. There i
Blind beliefsJosh learnt the history of India piecing together the events that were narrated by a slew of people including the sants (the beggar monks that claimed to be in a state of renunciation), the merchants (vending all and sundry), the "guides" (who told scarcely credible stories of how, when, where and why the tourist spots existed), the palm readers and astrologers, the eager bystanders who nodded (the very oriental nod) and elatedly spoke gibberish.
He moved through the (high class) discotheques and through sleepy villages that had never seen power supply. There was rubbish strewn on roadsides some places and there were touching tales told of how people worshiped the Gods that took forms of trees, animals, human beings (yes, pantheism was rampant in India).He found it disconcerting that people, who were that sagacious and sane, worshiped snakes (often offering milk to the hooded asps called cobras) and the bloodthirsty Kali (mother Goddess).They had deities and demigods that ruled over mo
TajHe had visited most tourist spots that India boasted of, including the pearl Mosque city of Agra (at its bewitching best on a moonlit night) he snapped copiously away at it. The scented night made deep lasting impressions in his memory. He visited Chandni Chowk with its myriad hued hawkers. The festive iridescence casting a spell in its native chaos
He was spell bound at the peddlers and their wares. He then inferred something. There would never be that merry gaiety and pomp contiguous with the rich, splendid culture that this
new world had offered him in his country. Behind the garrulity and (seemingly) rude conduct of these simple hearted, almost bucolic mannered people, there lay a warmhearted concern and solicitude that no one in his "developed" continent could ever hope to match. He saw these curios, antiques and artifacts that were tremendously well-crafted and painstakingly wrought.
He saw sophistication in the city created by Le Corbusier called Chandigarh.
He saw the vas
It Is a PrayerEach morning when I wake
Before my feet touch the floor
A prayer rings through my mind
Starting the day with boundless hope.
Each day as I walk the halls
Pounded by the daily grind
A prayer pops into my head
Sustaining the energy needed to proceed.
Each evening as I lay to rest
The sun setting and moon aglow
A prayer precedes my slumber
Issuing in dreams of a better day.
Jesus' FaithThe good and faithful servant
is the one
who trusts Him
is always waiting
for their Master~
for the Masters Voice
I’m living for the Lord
I’m dying for the Lord
I’ll suffer for the Lord
Because He said:
”My God and your God,
My Father and your Father””*
Jesus adopted us into the Family of God
Jesus, our Brother
He did it all for us
He loved God perfectly,
loving us perfectly
and dying to save
Like we deserved to die for our sins
and He took our place on the cross
He took our place in our death
Jesus died for us!
Do you get it?
He really did
“Now even though you die
You will live”**
Just like Jesus did
Just like Jesus did
Cause He had the perfect trust
Christ had the perfect FAITH
God the Father whom the Son came out of His bosom
HE WAS GOD
The ONE GOD
1599 Geneva Bible (GNV)
16 Jesus s
RemoteThe pond eye
drunk with Oklahoma rain
comatose in the yolk
of a centrifuge
is my third
Egrets perch high in sycamores
like leaning lashes.
sickly black oaks
and hold mass at feeder ducts.
Turtles dart beneath the pupil
as cows come blundering
into the inner blue
of a vast
The Dream I Am HavingPerhaps our Easter gathering
is a fool’s beautiful errand.
Maybe it is māyā, all of this,
China ice tea on English saucers,
silver settings for apparitions,
pimento cheese and hummus,
an offering to idols on cream linen relief.
The girls in their lace, and their cousin
rushing from footpath to bamboo garden,
a cache of oracles quick on their shoulders,
they are the brim of all worldly possessions,
though, they themselves are possessors.
I am full and satisfied to sleep in my sleeves
and believe in the dream of my wonderful life.
Truth IsTruth is whatever you make it to be
Truth is whatever makes you feel better about yourself
Truth is just words that causes nothing but pain and no joy
Truth is whatever you make it to be
Multiple truths and little lies
Truth is whatever you believe it is
It's been that way for many years
Why does it matter? Truth is never absolute
Truth is found in songs, television, and art
Truth is praised and preached in a philosophy class
Truth is that God is dead and you can do whatever you want
But in the end, we only confused ourselves
Truth is as Holy Week is about to end, a price was paid before we were born
Truth is in one week, two worlds collided in a way never seen before
Truth is a price was paid through a love that is forever true and unending
Truth is a price was paid when the son of God was beaten and humiliated for us
Truth is that we are just as bad a Judas Iscariot
Even in the small things that we do
But the truth is that because the Son of God died for us, you can have eternal life
Mary Mother of James and Joses: Calvary"Come down off the cross!
I hear them jeering from afar,
as I watch from a distance
how you suffer, forsaken by all.
They taunt and they jeer,
they gamble for your clothes;
no one shows pity,
no compassion anywhere.
Nails have pierced
your hands, your feet,
and blood runs down
your thorn-crowned brow.
If I could but cling
to that cruel cross,
and kiss those blood-stained feet,
and show you someone loves you still -
why am I too afraid?
Come down off the cross -
Why don't you?
I know that you can.
Why do you let them do this to you?
Why do you suffer, forsaken by all?
So many hopes,
so many dreams -
what of them now?
Weren't you the Messiah?
Weren't you the King?
Now you are helpless,
crying in pain,
What becomes of us
when you are gone?
"My God, my God,
why have you forsaken me?"
why are you forsaking us?
Why now, when everything was just beginning?
Why do you let them do this to you?
Why do you suffer, forsa
Daughters of Jerusalem: CryI cry
for you -
for those scars on your back.
for you -
for the cross that you bear.
and for what's soon to come.
I can't bear to look,
and yet I'm staring,
as blood and sweat
pour down your face.
I cry and cry,
I cry for you.
for you -
they say you're innocent.
for you -
they said you'd save us all.
and all those dashed hopes.
You pass - you stop.
You look at me,
as streaming tears
flow from my eyes.
Why do you cry?
Don't cry for me.
Cry for yourselves -
cry for your sins.
for you -
because of their cruelty.
But do I ever cry
when I'm cruel myself?
for you -
for the wrong they were doing.
But do I ever cry
for the wrongs that I've done?
Do I ever see
the wrong path that I'm walking
for the death I am bringing
In your suffering,
in your pain,
you thought first of me.
As they lead you
to your death
you want life for me.
How can I comprehend
this crazy love
that turns a day of mo
Storm CrusherHow does a storm pass?
How does an hour pass?
How does our youth
Our innocence our happiness
If I am torn from life
Let me die.
And I will lie
For ages of men,
Moss creeping over me,
Until I am renewed.
Then I will Spring
From my rest
And declare with
That I have come.
I was torn from life
From Youth from
But the hours and storm
I was torn from life
Through the vice of grief
But I have triumphed.
I prepared myself and now
CyborgÖffne deine Augen
und spiegle mich darin
erkenne meine Wirklichkeit
und suche ihren Sinn.
In deinen hellen Augen,
viel heller als die meinen
Wissen erwacht, Seele entfacht
da will ein Feuer scheinen.
Da will ein Wille Funken sprühen
will die Seele Feuer stieben
will ein Glimmen sich erheben
will ein Herz im Nu erbeben.
Ich allein hab dich geschaffen,
formte dein perfektes Herz
schweißte dich zusammen
und schenkte dir -- den Schmerz.
mechanici want to kiss every aching wound you have,
bandage your heart every time it bleeds,
and patch up your mind over and over
because not a single tear deserves to fall
from your brandy-drenched eyes
but this dripping heart of mine can only feel
and the healing honey words it flames get caught
in the back of my throat and on the roof of my mouth
so i only have these passionate guttural cries
to tell you that i care all too much
and in order to fix you up again,
i would need to tear myself to tatters
and trade all of my working parts
for your leftover, fading pieces
but i just haven’t figured out how.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More