poetry

...your memory is a warm stone hidden in my hand I'm always turning over...

I now know how your angercame from skeletonsthat rattled in your heartand you couldn't escape them.

And you might try to hide or protect yourself, or compare the different states of love,but you must not grow up, must not act wise when it comes to love.You must stay foolish and fall for every heart will beat in different ways together with yours and love is not meant to be compared, only enjoyed, and suffered, and remembered.

Memory, when it juts, retreats, recovers, shows us how to hold the darkness, how to breathe.

Freud could never be certain, he said,in view of__ his wide and early reading,whether what seemed like a new creationmight not be the work insteadof ___idden channels of memory leadingback to the notions of others absorbed,coming now anew into formhe__ almost known within him was growing.He called it (the ghost of a) cryptomnesia.So we own and owe what we know.

Inconstancy of every second punishes me.The wind, the rain, the clouds, the days,I try to grasp the hours but they banish me,And I remain in the vortex of incongruity.The lone coyote shrieks,Startling my soul into wakefulness.The Cacti bloom and the Wren beckons,Deepening my mind into dreamlessness.And the moments spend time with inconstancy,increasing the ease of uneasiness.Why this daily pilgrimage of ideas?When no saint has ever ceased the day!Still yearning for some magic hour,Where nothing but permanence dwells.Alas, only this thought be the only truth,That certainty in death is constant.And so, in every second, minute, hour,our only gain is memory.Be it bitter or sweet:it is ours!Rejoice.

It__ not magic. I remember because I make comparisons. Not in terms of better or worse, just different. And not all of these memories are great, but they__e mine.Which lends way to believe, that none of our lives are put together on an assembly line. We__e not pre-packaged with memories or programmed with stories. We have to make our own.

You scour these Chinatowns of the mind, translating themlike sutras Xuan Zhang fetched from India, testing waysreturn might be possible against these homesick inventions, trace the traveller's alien steps across borders, and in between discover how transit has a way of lasting, the way these Chinatowns grew out of not knowing whether to return or to stay, and then became home.

We look at the world once, in childhood.The rest is memory

Listen within to find shining poetry and hear extraordinary music. You are a work of art.

The Poetry of LoveWe see the world with the eyes of a small child.We visualize the beauty of the world with an unique magic sense,and unfold our deeper feelings and expectations diffusing the seizing negative forces that stretch out their threatening tentacles.We give blow and shape in our dreams.We seek for Love through unfamiliar new people and new experiences. Love is a vivid spirit, a big breath that touches upon each piece of our existence, our each cell_Love affiliates a lot of forms, exists and fits everywhere.Each flight of a small bird, the flutter of an incredible beauty butterfly, the stones wetted by waters of Aquamarine River, the branches of the trees that dally with the blow of wind, all these is the Spirit of Love.When you love in a genuine way, love everything.You are not bothered by the babble of Nature and the strange reactions of people.You hear the sounds of everyday routine with bigger consequence. Overtakes the meanness consequently and with courage.You seek truth in small things.You live the each moment as if it's unique.Love for nature.Love for life.Love for people.

I find it incredibly amazing how at every sunset, the sky is a different shade. No cloud is ever in the same place. Each day is a new masterpiece. A new wonder. A new memory.

We are our memory,we are that chimerical museum of shifting shapes,that pile of broken mirrors.

Memories come to mind like excavated statuesthat have misplaced their heads.

I'm sure that you didn't think I would notice,but we memorize the strangest things in a personwhen we're in love with them.

the flicker of a memoryis all we can cling tofor our cherished ghostsFrom "Cat Paws on a Windscreen

You'd think hindsight would do us some goodBut all it does sometimesIs add glass to the kaleidoscope

How do you like your blue-eyed boy Mr Death?