Christ is our washed mirror image. Christ, our Brother, was not simply introducing Himself to us...but introducing us to our perfected self.
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You can’t write novels on ashes, can you?
Maybe just the word, "Sorry."
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I'd rather wash my hands of religion, than to be brainwashed by it.
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"I remember you in the way a man wrought by a fitful dream thrashes his hands in the air,
trying to grasp something he can see but cannot touch."
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The bible speaks of clay...I guess, made of sand-castles, eventually washed away by tide would work in the same context. Fortunately, body is only our carriage of descent, carrying substance of Spirit-omnipotent.
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Some of the respected people ask me how we get pain when
Our soul is amar body destroyed into the ashes you make your stupid thoughts
I just asked are you dead or alive because three naama one is ashes second is your body which is sucking giving unnecessary demand of health third is death.so when you leave think are you alive after that how much will be the pain because since from birth it happens.
With love all
Aghori mhabharamnad
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Majestic heralds in form of misty fog silently convey the roar of yearning mountains.
The eternal silence of sea giggling n tickling the feet, display the clamor of a child. Dancing rainbows over restless waves invite for ballad.
Silently pouring rain wipes off the tears n fears, silent mentor calls on the terrace to show how quietly it washes off what's not desired.
Dense forests, gorgeous moon, twinkling stars......silence speaks
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When dreams become ashes
and ashes are blown by winds
Realities are born
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The skies in Oregon before this Easter are cloudy, rainy and stormy. Like the storms in our lives they pass, the sun comes out, and we have been washed clean and there is a sense of peace. Ever storm eventually passes—with faith, hope and patience, we find a lesson.
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The sands of time move in and out with the tide, to revisit other shores, some over and over again, perpetuating lessons, rebuilding sandcastles, and bringing messages, like the whispering ocean voice carrying secrets from seashells, the notes written in ancient languages in glass containers for translation.
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If you still remember me someday, I was like a little star that flashed in your life once.
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I feel dashed upon the rocks like my soul is forlorn but my hope in faith never dies.
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I am all for cremation. Love it (the idea of it all)...cremation it is! ashes released to a breeze (not interred into some cavity of a wall, like a nagging, painful, loose filling); ashes released into a breeze, balmy, or freezing full of life, that carries it into the nostrils and bodies of the gorgeously unsuspecting, eventually infecting their minds in ways they are totally unaware of, yet magic still remains.
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Why Peer Faqeers and Gadi nasheens are trying to enrich themselves at the expense of the Poor??
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Our mirror has smashed into shards somehow
Sharp, angry and scattered; look at us now by Robert
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Breakdowns sometimes are the reasons to rise up from the ashes and shine.
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While you may not ignore me,
I’ll be ashes before you understand me.
—Mirza Ghalib, Urdu translation by Michael R. Burch
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What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to kill and plunder?
For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!
When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,
when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?
('What Would Santa Claus Say?' by Michael R. Burch)
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Even if they were to be washed with the storngest detergents in the world, thoughts of dirty minded people would never be as clean as you think
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10. Poetry is ink blotted, soul driven splashes that cry to be read, beg to be understood and unabashedly sings to give to its readers.
Robert J. Lindley
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Some awfy solitary nostalgia so with customery worlds colours and brushes-
No! It's not enough.
still my sketch best suits in your ashes. ..
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I find nothing in my life is right, i end up things with acute fight, my protection is my parents favourite rite, they want to make my life super bright, i am lashed out day and night, the reason is hard to find. It does not matter what i feel or like.
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Freedom is a leashed dog, one is only as free as far as their leash extends.
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Unvoiced ideas are soundless victims, dashed upon the rocks of wishful thinking.
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GOD requires an invitation.......but the devil crashes the party!
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Some people rise above the bonds of bygone oppression. Yet others seem to wallow forever in the ashes of their father's demons ...
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icicles dancing from my eye lashes
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Ty, July. I'm choked for words to toast. And when my earth departs in the wake of mercury rising, and ashes become ashes and I get smoked. It would certainly be poetic to use the pass on being born again.
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"Grief does not sneak up. It grabs us, shoves us down, smashes our face in, and kicks our shins."
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Prose holds a mirror up to society while poetry smashes the mirror then presents it as such.
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