first, the sky before my eyes unfurls
a vast, boundless silver canopy,
spreading further along the line of sight,
covering the fields beneath my feet,
and the forested hills that lie beyond.
the land, which had been
as still as a sleeping creature,
is the first to wake, slowly shaking off
the last lingering drowsiness
that accumulated through the night.
right after, amber sunlight breaks through
the clouds, spilling into the expanses of woods,
settling on the calm lake surface,
and spreading over the fields
and grain plots in the mountain hollow.
a pair of hands holds a farm tool steadily,
turning over clods of dark, fertile soil from the field;
every clod brim with the nutrients
that can grow strong, thriving crops.
when sowing seeds, everyone carries...
a steady, earnest wish, gently
tucking the seeds wrapped in hope
into the freshly turned soil.
in the long stretch of days that follow,
someone tends to this field at all times,
devoting wholehearted care to
every single seedling, putting in
full effort working in the fields each day,
watching over the crops’ roots
as they dig into the ear.
Dark.
Void.
Burning
all alone
whispering to night.
Remember ancient golden dust,
drifting across the velvet shores of forgotten space,
longing for the distant, devastated worlds they once cradled in silent, blinding light.
Every undefined flicker is a teardrop of purified silver, falling through the endless, empty gulfs where no one ever answers back.
Trapped inside their heavy, illuminated cages of dying fire, they reach out across the impossible expanses of time to touch the phantom shadows of ancient sister spheres that crumbled into stardust long ago.
A worm's eye view never seems to be a problem
for those who prefer not to be perceived.
I inch along the ground,
cowering in the light
and moistening myself in hallowed raindrops.
The sky clouding over is my perfect afternoon.
Gentle breezes and summer downpours
are the creatures' form of relaxation,
while children cover themselves in the safety of concrete barriers,
These perfectly straight lawns
bordered by paved expanses
are insurmountable obstacles; guaranteed death.
After the rain,
childlike giants scoop us up
and force us to succumb to concentrated beams of sunlight
filtered through magnifying glasses.
In some distant corner
of her universe
I will find my home,
the far memories shining
like unreachable stars
across expanses no one
has ever known,
where light may seem
as thin as empty space,
yet the energy of love
never dies,
the language of forever
I first saw in her eyes
and knew right then
the music, the music never
ever ends.
Christopher M. Swan, “Song of Susan,” 2008
“The ocean remembers the distant times it has drowned,
reminding that its depth is quiet, and beauty is lively.”
- Quote by poet
The third largest and the deepest of earth’s oceans,
waters of Indian ocean
are the warmest of all the marine expanses.
It helped the early humans to migrate,
spread seeds of civilizations,
hold ruins of empires, carried by great rivers.
The youngest of major oceans,
covering the face of the blue planet,
formed by the break-up of ancient Gondwanaland.
As India slowly drifts to the north
the ocean is still expanding,
serves as the source of the monsoon rains in Asia.
On its shore I feel mesmerized
the symphonic rhythm of the breaking pearly waves,
tenderly erase the footprints
of those who had walked before me,
as if showing me how so secretly
the far-away time disappears,
but is not forgotten, creating the feeling
of belonging to the ocean vastly lively.
The hegemony of height
gets too much.
The city robs me of the horizon
and hides it behind towering
cathedrals of concrete and glass.
Even trees conspire to fill
the gaps and extend their
leafy reach to obscure the sky.
I long for uninterrupted distance,
horizontal vistas of the open sea
and the flat, unfenced expanses
of the inland with its views
to infinity. Something in me
seeks wide spaces, craves
room to breathe, imagines
sparse outback plains punctuated
only by the height
of dust devils wandering
the vastness that stretches there,
lifting up the silence
in spiralling columns of prayer.
We seek out places
that seem to fit
the contours of our soul.
For some,
it is those quiet places
with expanded distances
way out past the reach
of thought. For others,
it is cramped city streets
where buildings rise
like glass cliffs on either side,
noisy restaurants and talk
in dimly lit bars.
And there are others
who find fit in seaside towns
where all is timed
by tides and the metronome
of sounding waves.
Or souls who settle best
in cool, dark places canopied
by tall trees, cloud and rain
and others again in the heights
of sunlit mountains
lifting up through
mist soaked terrain.
Then there are those
who have not found a place
except for the vast, solitary
and parched expanses
of a white page waiting
for a few passing showers
to wet its constant thirst.
The door opens,
but I am not the new Mrs. de Winter,
just an awkward shadow slipping into normalcy,
where words are thicker than hardcovers—
silence clinging like dust to the spines
of books with torn out pages.
I wander,
but do not answer.
The air is full of Maxim’s secrets,
dreadful weights of things unsaid—
longings for something that has
slipped through time.
A voice stirs,
a name floating,
half-heard through the
Manderley of my mind
of forgotten conversations—
mine, or someone else’s?
I can’t say.
Then, he moves—
pulling du Maurier from the shelf,
as if it was never meant to be out of reach.
I watch, but cannot touch.
In the end, I fumble on words
saying foolish things like “itty-bitty”
trying not to say too much—but
every time I speak self-idiocy mocks the
darkened expanses of my wild,
Cornwall brain.
“You’re not stupid,” he says,
as if the thought had been his all along,
and I am startled, not by the words,
but by the shipwreck of them—
the knowing.
2.22.25
Say it to fear,
That I've shaken off his grasp
His lies no longer hold me captive
His smiles, a facade that will soon pass
Now, a phoenix I am
Transformed from the ashes of my past
The scent of smoke and ash still lingers
I rise, unshackled from the chains that bound
With the new mended wings, my spirit is found
Through the vast expanses of my soul
I chart the unknown, made whole
The stars align, a new path unfolds
As I conquer the shadows, young and old
Say it to fear,
That I've broken free from his hold
His voice, a whisper, no longer bold
My heart, a flame, that burns with gold
Now, the goddess I am, to myself
My name etched on the throne of my soul
I reign, supreme, with a heart full of cheer
My spirit, a beacon, that shines crystal clear
Watch me as I ponder, and claim my rightful state
With the power crowned on my head, I create
A world of wonder, where love is the guide
And fear, a fading whisper, lost in the tide.
White horses unsure of flight
they unfurl before dawn
they had their chance
alone in colours
The man of gentle voice
was only asking for a choice
They sang of emptiness
epoch making expanses
of self determinism
their forte
Under vast expanses where silence reigns,
Dreams drift, untethered by reality's chains.
A symphony of stillness envelops the soul,
In silence we embrace, we become whole.
Heartbeats echo the earth's silent song,
Unseen connections to which we belong.
Meaning emerges without the need for rhyme,
A testament to existence, sublime.
Horizons blur, where sky meets land,
A meaning to time's endless sand.
Mountains loom, silent giants in wait,
Their presence a reminder of fate.
Rivers carve paths with regular grace,
A journey unseen, leaving only a trace.
Life moves to an unspoken beat,
In its flow, a story complete.
Here, amongst the cosmos' quiet beauty,
Truth finds its voice, unfettered and free.
Poetry exists, beyond the confines of rhyme,
In every shared moment, suspended in time.
In the Mosquito Range of the Colorado Rockies,
Mt. Democrat rises 14,155 feet,
I summited in winter, amidst, fog, wind, and sleet
Waist-deep snow in some places, a solo ascent,
there were no other faces,
Alone the expanses are terrifying,
But the sheer beauty awe-inspiring,
Once In the boulder field, there is false summit after false summit,
On each side a 1000-foot plummet,
Near the top, the clouds moved in, no visibility just strange voices on the wind,
Once at the summit, the clouds abate,
Revealing a view only God could create.
JEV
. for public domain
I become what I see,
a flame on a wick,
expanses of infinity,
whimpers of a baby's cry,
resounding drums of totality.
I am nothing, and I am all,
often lost in the dark between.
So come on mantra,
let's go on the ride!
Splash me on the surface!
Dive me deep inside!
From outward totality
to inward infinity;
REMIND ME OF WHAT I AM!
The time has come, the nest is bare.
The little ones have grown and flown elsewhere.
The house once filled with laughter, turmoil and noise
now echoes silence, with peace heralding different joys.
The rooms once cluttered with toys and books
are now empty and tidy, mementos put away for good.
The walls that once echoed with cries and screams
now stand as silent expanses, the noises lost in dreams.
The days once spent in a flurry of activity for dependents
now stretch out before us, open and free, for us as co-defendants.
At last we can do what we really want to do for ourselves,
with memories much cherished put in their place on shelves.
The future ahead may be uncertain, empty and new.
But I am ready to embrace it, to start anew.
To rediscover myself, to explore and grow in the pruned thinned out space
To follow my heart with you, wherever it may go.
For though the nest may be empty and bare
my heart is full to the brim, with memories to share.
And as I look back on the years gone by
I smile, knowing I did my best, with love in my nest.
There has to be a sudden sunlight
breaking the mist and clouds.
A shaft of dazzling brightness
that lifts the murk completely
off the landscape.
Conditions must be just so,
then there it is
you are looking down
from the high moors into a lost valley.
A place unrecorded on any map
yet many claim to have glimpsed it.
A sweet verdant expanses of rolling hills
through which a rivulet sparkles as it flows
over chalk white stones.
Yellow-green is the pasture
and gold the tips of the corn grass
but this is only a transitory vision we see,
a momentary mirage,
then the clouds mash together,
mist covers the view once more.
We are left with just these tall tales
that we swap with other walkers
in the village pub below.
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