The psychedelic moment,
when your heart trips on awareness.
Drinking deep, the ale of timelessness.
Knowing well, these words are an illusion, a geometrical dream of thought.
We are alive, but like a ghost disguised, haunted by the breath of hope.
I am haunted by the beauty of this moment, as it leaves my side.
A burst of color, I am born.
Can you feel me softly caress your face, as I fall like jasmine summer rain?
‘The Birth’
âœï¸CHAPTER 1âœï¸
Touching a Zuni petroglyph for the first time, a jolt of indissoluble energy travelled up my spine, and penetrated the deepest most reaches of the pineal gland. I closed my eyes as if in lucid trance, and let my mind wander into the world of the brave ones who lived with Nature immersed passionately in Nature. They respected the Earth in the purest sense, they to me, were and are the real custodians of Earth. All ancient tribes were meant to inherit the Earth. Earth and Mother Nature are God. You can worship anything or anyone, but the fact remains that once your flesh has melted and been eaten away by the worms, you will become food for MOTHER EARTH. You will become what you were always meant to be- ONE WITH EARTH.
âœï¸CHAPTER 2âœï¸
An icy breeze pinched my cheeks as I stood alone atop the red mountains, where the twilight mist rising from the Zuni ruins whispered and echoed strange secrets into my ear. They told me to ‘find peace in chaos or else the mist will swallow my mind and I shall wander the Earth aimlessly in a state of perpetual anxiety’. As I stood atop the ruins allowing the ancient dust to enter my lungs, I felt a gentle but urgent tap on my heart. As I opened my eyes, I saw a flight of color dance before me. A hummingbird suspended in air like an elegant ballerina of the wind, hovered close to my face, looked me in the eye, and dissipated into the roar of silence that confronted me atop the lone cliff. Was it the spirit of the ancient one urging me to say a prayer for humanity? Have we hurt our planet beyond repair? Have we torn out the heart and soul of Mother Earth so that we can drink the blood of life itself to appease our greedy human heart? Are we vampires of existence?
âœï¸CHAPTER 3âœï¸
I still keep the rocks that I had found lying near the ancient ruins close to my bedside. When things get tough, I touch them, inhale the ancient dust and close my eyes waiting for the hummingbird to dance upon my heart again, telling me that there is still time to save the Earth.
My Hiking Diaries
~©Ansul Noor~
New Mexico, 2012
When the evening falls And the daylight is fading,From within me callsCould it be I am sleeping?For a moment I stray, Then it holds me completelyClose to home – I cannot sayClose to home feeling so far awayForever searching; never right,I am lost in oceans of night. Forever hoping I can find memoriesThose memories I left behind.Lyrics -Enya
Posted by A Different Kind of Garden on Thursday, 9 August 2018
When the evening falls
And the daylight is fading,
From within me calls
Could it be I am sleeping?
For a moment I stray,
Then it holds me completely
Close to home – I cannot say
Close to home feeling so far away
Forever searching; never right,
I am lost in oceans of night.
Forever hoping I can find memories
Those memories I left behind.
‘As the Evening Falls’
Written by Enya
If it be true that I'm reborn,May my spirit take reposeunder the Blossom Tree, Just me, the skies, and the choir of birds,And with this thought,My eyes shall close.~A.Noor~Ruhaatish.com
Posted by A Different Kind of Garden on Sunday, 20 May 2018
If it be true that I’m reborn,
May my spirit take repose
under the Blossom Tree,
Just me, the skies, and the choir of birds,
And with this thought,
My eyes shall close.
‘A Different Kind of Garden’
A new leaf unfurls,
but nothing unfolds without reason.
Seasons all cluster
like drops of clouds
in the palm of my hand.
If I try hard enough,
this cloud can drench the parched soul
or warm the frozen heart?
So why not make it rain,
try hard enough to distill the seasons into a magical cloud?
It’s so easy to not try.
A new leaf unfurls,
but nothing unfolds
without reason.
‘Unfurling’
If the ink of love runs dry,
I’ll still keep writing.
Knowing that each word I write,
will be my last token.
The pen of my heart,
will never give up.
So I still write,
I still sing,
I still wait,
For fate to find,
The pages of my life,
The chapters of my soul,
The truths I cannot hide,
Cause this pen never lies.
The winds of time will bring,
my heartbeats to a still.
But the words will
never fade,
as they of dreams were made.
I hope one day you’ll find,
The words I leave behind.
The words I leave behind.
The words I leave behind.
‘The Ink of Love’
Mine wilting breast, perched on a parched heart,
Hath time dressed light, or enamoured hope in rags,
And doth the song haunt thee tempest?
Or the melody mask, the stranger in grace?
Tis true, the call silent, deep, surface bold,
Shall mine fears brush, paint strokes on canvas life?
All chimes, a begging bowl of questions lit,
Tust tempts myths, to burn weary paths blind,
Is this quest, just a milestone carved?
Or just an affair, that cold comets craved to lust?
The answers shall burn incense, for darkness whole,
The questions shall immolate reason, for light sole,
Will this delirium parade, the soul transition on hold?
Will mine branches break, for new earth to birth?
Still hath no mercy pout across thin lips cold?
Raw, unclothed I sought, yet thine price ever was life,
I seek not more, just clothe mine soul lost,
Will not seek, lest your mercy beget, bemused fate in regret,
Shall not fear, yet thee seek the cross on the soul,
All mine hands clasped seek, is not thin air bent,
Nor rarefied clouds sent, but winds on wanton mist,
This anger though, never the coffin on parched earth,
These verses though, never your morrow’s pallor,
Answer me soon, thine tears shall be your clouds fury,
For tis’ time, my haunted truth, my hunted reason,
And verses only shall frame a tresspasser’s truths,
And yet time sleeps and thine call burn,
The woods stay, demure and deep, the road allure, dark and dusk,
Cobbled castaways in stone, Coiled tendrils bold,
Obscure paths, lone waters, naked lakes, swampy woods,
I know not, that I am not the wanderer who passed by,
For I whispered and you whispered back “Homeâ€
‘To be or not – The Road Not Taken’
Written by Prakash Rangarajan.© Copyrights reserved.
I waited…for the Spring of life…it came like a shimmering breeze,
blooming for that magic second, and left.
I waited…for the Summer of my dreams, it arrived…like fluttering butterflies,
showering my soul with unfathomable flicker-joys, leaving before I could even smile.
I waited…for the Autumn of my thoughts…they too,knocked on the mind-door,allowing me to contemplate on the
temporary nature of my guise, exiting with a chilly quietness, I sighed.
I waited…for the Winter of my wisdom, it crept into this foolish heart…drowning it into deep oblivion,
where sinner and saint meet wistfully, departing as a tender snowflake, the heart cries.
Yet I still wait for the seasons to change….
‘Seasons’
I close my eyes, I hear them.
Imperceptible chirps.
Tricking me into joyfulness.
How easily the poet is fooled.
Softly whispering leaves,
adding complex dimensions to this unfolding, where reality and memory become one.
My enchanted garden breathing her sweet spells of oblivion, I am smiling but invisibly.
In a parallel cosmos my soul screams.
Now the garden breathes some magic. Runes so ancient that time is irrelevant. Only senses can unravel what the skeptics can never decipher.
The secrets of imagination, remain a sacred art.
I cannot see , hear or touch it, but from afar I water it , with drops of longing evermore.
I smell the sweetness of the desert rose. The Quails peering through the wild grass.
The funny Hare with floppy ears, twitching, listening.
The Hopi Chipmunk, winking, scheming.
The hummingbirds , laughing, drinking.
All is clear, in this parallel world of mine.
Light footed dancing, the dryads and fae folk encircling my heart completely, until I am no more.
By some tear of the wish fabric, or the casting of a prayer, or the falling of some lonely star, the enchanted garden was not lost to me, but lost in me.
I close my eyes, I hear them.
Imperceptible chirps.
Tricking me into joyfulness.
How easily the poet is fooled.
‘Ode to a Garden Lost’
Each time I look at you, I see life and after-life.
This is not the last station but one of many.
At each stop, we change into fresh new clothes and begin a hearty conversation.
And soon, our next stop arrives, and the cycle continues.
There is so much to talk about that we forget to count the seconds only the moments matter.
And never does a dull second cross the hours, even if lifetimes separate us.
Just now I was laughing, but suddenly tears roll down my cheeks, like an unpredictable rainstorm,
becoming a river of memories, that gently flow through my veins,
keeping me alive and ready for the next change of clothes, and pining for new conversations.
This journey is such a great adventure where nothing is certain but small honest moments we’ve shared spontaneously.
No planning, no hurrying, no reservations, just riding, talking, loving purely and laughing.
Ah yes, in tears or joy keep laughing for it’s the laughter that will carry us to the next stop.
Each time I look at you I see life and after-life.
What shall we talk about today?
I’ve donned a fresh new layer of clothes but my soul is the same.
The next stop is here.
Let’s begin again.
Poem By & Copyrights Ansul Noor
