Latest Tweets:

"Keep your face always to the sunshine,
and the shadows will fall behind you.”

-Walt Whitman

"Keep your face always to the sunshine,

and the shadows will fall behind you.”

-Walt Whitman

*1
"To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,Every inch of space is a miracle,Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,Every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the same;Every spear of grass—the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that concerns them,All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.To me the sea is a continual miracle;The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships, with men in them,What stranger miracles are there?” 

-Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

"To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass—the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that concerns them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.
To me the sea is a continual miracle;
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships, with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?” 

-Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

*4

"The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters, is simplicity."

Walt Whitman

Breast Feeding at the Blue Mosque
By Ravi Shankar

Hidden from a queue to bag shoes a woman nurses a childunder a wool scarf in the shadow two fluted minarets castpitched towards incessant sun, a necessity somehow an insultto sharia law, no matter what sustenance a lemonwedgeof breast, God’s own, yields, puckering a tiny mouthuntil bright eyes glaze to doll loll. Fairly alien to ponderraw biology of milk conveyed by ducts lined with capillaries,made from pouring stuff of stars: nourishment that manifestsminerals for bone from pulsing light.Too close to the slickheat pushing outbetween the legs of nearly every woman not your wifebut her as well? How could it be that her very being derivessolely from her relation to you, that she could have no valuein the calculus but to function as temptation, or its dome-blue corollary, disappointment? No cover covers upthose integers holding the place of zeroes, Iznik tiles or after-life virgins. Ostrich eggs on chandeliers don’t dissuade spiders.If the fear of the Lord is not the beginning of our wisdom,then La ilah ha il Allah is a breast in a mouth, else nothing is.
Source for the poem: The Chronicle
Source for the art

Breast Feeding at the Blue Mosque

By Ravi Shankar

Hidden from a queue to bag shoes a woman nurses a child
under a wool scarf in the shadow two fluted minarets cast
pitched towards incessant sun, a necessity somehow an insult
to sharia law, no matter what sustenance a lemonwedge
of breast, God’s own, yields, puckering a tiny mouth
until bright eyes glaze to doll loll. Fairly alien to ponder
raw biology of milk conveyed by ducts lined with capillaries,
made from pouring stuff of stars: nourishment that manifests
minerals for bone from pulsing light.
Too close to the slickheat pushing out
between the legs of nearly every woman not your wife
but her as well? How could it be that her very being derives
solely from her relation to you, that she could have no value
in the calculus but to function as temptation, or its dome-
blue corollary, disappointment? No cover covers up
those integers holding the place of zeroes, Iznik tiles or after-
life virgins. Ostrich eggs on chandeliers don’t dissuade spiders.
If the fear of the Lord is not the beginning of our wisdom,
then La ilah ha il Allah is a breast in a mouth, else nothing is.

Source for the poem: The Chronicle

Source for the art

(via jawbonejoe)

Tiger by Alec Derwent Hope
At noon thepaper tigers roar — Miroslav HolubThe paper tigers roar at noon; The sun is hot, the sun is high. They roar in chorus, not in tune, Their plaintive, savage hunting cry.O, when you hear them, stop your ears And clench your lids and bite your tongue. The harmless paper tiger bears Strong fascination for the young.His forest is the busy street; His dens the forum and the mart; He drinks no blood, he tastes no meat: He riddles and corrupts the heart.But when the dusk begins to creep From tree to tree, from door to door, The jungle tiger wakes from sleep And utters his authentic roar.It bursts the night and shakes the starsTill one breaks blazing from the sky;Then listen! If to meet it soarsYour heart’s reverberating cry,My child, then put aside your fear: Unbar the door and walk outside! The real tiger waits you there; His golden eyes shall be your guide.And, should he spare you in his wrath,The world and all the worlds are yours;And should he leap thejungle pathAnd clasp you with his bloody jaws,Then say, as his divine embrace Destroys the mortal parts of you: I too am of that royal race Who do what we are born to do.

Tiger by Alec Derwent Hope
At noon thepaper tigers roar 
— Miroslav Holub

The paper tigers roar at noon; 
The sun is hot, the sun is high. 
They roar in chorus, not in tune, 
Their plaintive, savage hunting cry.

O, when you hear them, stop your ears 
And clench your lids and bite your tongue. 
The harmless paper tiger bears 
Strong fascination for the young.

His forest is the busy street; 
His dens the forum and the mart; 
He drinks no blood, he tastes no meat: 
He riddles and corrupts the heart.

But when the dusk begins to creep 
From tree to tree, from door to door, 
The jungle tiger wakes from sleep 
And utters his authentic roar.

It bursts the night and shakes the stars
Till one breaks blazing from the sky;
Then listen! If to meet it soars
Your heart’s reverberating cry,

My child, then put aside your fear: 
Unbar the door and walk outside! 
The real tiger waits you there; 
His golden eyes shall be your guide.

And, should he spare you in his wrath,
The world and all the worlds are yours;
And should he leap thejungle path
And clasp you with his bloody jaws,

Then say, as his divine embrace 
Destroys the mortal parts of you: 
I too am of that royal race 
Who do what we are born to do.

(via pisatofevrale-deactivated201401)

The Lilies Whisper PoetryPoem by: Deborah Amar
A summer day can never endOr so it seems each yearThe longer cycles of the sunMake cloudy skies seem clear
Each time the wind begins to chime,And end begins to nearA whisper of the softest sortFlows gently to the ear
The scent and sight enough are greatYet lilies live for moreThe lilies whisper poetryAs none have heard before
The lilies whisper to the dayThat sends the breeze belowIt touches ground that none can seeWhere lilies lively grow
Beautifully arrayed in whiteAnd drinking from the soilFree to whisper their poetryWithout the need to toil
But flowers do not last the yearAnd newer buds must bloomSo short the span of lily lifeTo give new blossoms room
The lilies whisper poetryThat none shall ever knowFor just as summer cannot lastThe lilies cease to grow
But beauty lives from that which diesAnd leaves something to lastFor lilies whisper poetryFor lilies of the past

The Lilies Whisper Poetry
Poem by: Deborah Amar

A summer day can never end
Or so it seems each year
The longer cycles of the sun
Make cloudy skies seem clear

Each time the wind begins to chime,
And end begins to near
A whisper of the softest sort
Flows gently to the ear

The scent and sight enough are great
Yet lilies live for more
The lilies whisper poetry
As none have heard before

The lilies whisper to the day
That sends the breeze below
It touches ground that none can see
Where lilies lively grow

Beautifully arrayed in white
And drinking from the soil
Free to whisper their poetry
Without the need to toil

But flowers do not last the year
And newer buds must bloom
So short the span of lily life
To give new blossoms room

The lilies whisper poetry
That none shall ever know
For just as summer cannot last
The lilies cease to grow

But beauty lives from that which dies
And leaves something to last
For lilies whisper poetry
For lilies of the past

(via gentle-lullaby)

*1
Adventures in Watercolor
An engineer I am not,
Mathematics I disdain.
Endeavoring to study, instead I decide to paint.

Adventures in Watercolor


An engineer I am not,

Mathematics I disdain.

Endeavoring to study, instead I decide to paint.