Some days We are broad enough and spacious enough to allow our inner ocean to absorb life’s fevers. I feel that sometimes too.
This poem is delicious ( like salty not too hot potato chips) how the story of life is backgrounded in the poem and your body/hands and the vast body of ocean are foregrounded together. It’s as if your body is remembering her earth mother, her worth and the girth of her capacity for life.
Such hopeful reverence for all of our lives.
Soothing hands are your poetry hands Naz, thank you 🙏🏼
Lois, I can always count on my poetry hands especially when my story hands don't have a clue what's going on lol. Thanks so much for your spacious and grand comment. I love your interpretation. Life's fevers. Ah, yes. Yes. Yes. There has been lately life around here. And hope. Thanks so much for your kind words. Much love 💕
This is wonderful, N. It reminds me of Rumi, and of fables and parables. It's so evocative of peace, and of that in-between place when we just are, not really thinking or feeling, and not really "being" either. We are just us. I love the images of the ocean and its salt held in the speakers' hands. So gorgeous. You should be very very proud, Nazish. <3<3<3<3<3<3<3
You are always so kind, my dearest friend. Rumi reminds me of a time now turned to dust. It was salt too with its melancholy. I should be proud? Maybe I should. Thanks so much for reading ❤️
There is miles and miles of sadness in this life, Trevor. Like an ocean we see. Tides rising and crashing. Crushing. But then the sun always comes up. It never fails us.
This is the essence of melancholy, my friend - yet those hands have grasped a life, and your mind now winnows it, sifts it, finds the seeds of meaning within it and then bakes them into fresh loaves of Poetry which you share generously.....
I love the contemplative tone of this poem Naz
Some days We are broad enough and spacious enough to allow our inner ocean to absorb life’s fevers. I feel that sometimes too.
This poem is delicious ( like salty not too hot potato chips) how the story of life is backgrounded in the poem and your body/hands and the vast body of ocean are foregrounded together. It’s as if your body is remembering her earth mother, her worth and the girth of her capacity for life.
Such hopeful reverence for all of our lives.
Soothing hands are your poetry hands Naz, thank you 🙏🏼
Lois, I can always count on my poetry hands especially when my story hands don't have a clue what's going on lol. Thanks so much for your spacious and grand comment. I love your interpretation. Life's fevers. Ah, yes. Yes. Yes. There has been lately life around here. And hope. Thanks so much for your kind words. Much love 💕
A lovely refreshing piece!
Thanks so much! 😊
This is wonderful, N. It reminds me of Rumi, and of fables and parables. It's so evocative of peace, and of that in-between place when we just are, not really thinking or feeling, and not really "being" either. We are just us. I love the images of the ocean and its salt held in the speakers' hands. So gorgeous. You should be very very proud, Nazish. <3<3<3<3<3<3<3
You are always so kind, my dearest friend. Rumi reminds me of a time now turned to dust. It was salt too with its melancholy. I should be proud? Maybe I should. Thanks so much for reading ❤️
Salt-sketched destiny...beautiful poem!
Thank you, Maya. I have always held 'salt' in very high regard.
This is a stunning piece ot work, Nazish. Love the opening, drawn in immediately.
Thanks so much, Robert. Your words mean so much! ❤️
"There is nothing except a soft wind here", and yet, there is so much in this poem. Thank you for sharing.
Thanks so much for reading and commenting, my friend ❤️
—"A hard life is not less worth than an easier one" Yes, so true. Beautiful poem.
Thanks so much, my friend ❤️
An aura of sadness permeated this one. Thank you for sharing.
There is miles and miles of sadness in this life, Trevor. Like an ocean we see. Tides rising and crashing. Crushing. But then the sun always comes up. It never fails us.
So very true. Always need such a reminder of the cyclicality.
"I look
at my hands,
salt-sketched
destiny;
the nowheres,
the friendships,
the almosts."
This is the essence of melancholy, my friend - yet those hands have grasped a life, and your mind now winnows it, sifts it, finds the seeds of meaning within it and then bakes them into fresh loaves of Poetry which you share generously.....
Not a nowhere.
Not an almost.
You will have many friends.
Best Wishes
Dave :)