Spirit, art and life unfolded

Years in my eyes Woe is me Not anything to do with the givens of this life There is urge and surge Unknown is calling I can't hear or feel, then what else There is abundance of dissatisfaction Scarcity of trust Paucity of means Is this a story common to all or am I on a different trip?

This deepest cut, ever-deepening An unwelcome visitor, none can stop It gnaws, it preys A cry, a whimper in slow, mournful cadences Even when you yearn to forget, it won't relent A devil's pastime, a persistent plight The wind blows strong today, in intermittent sighs The morning dawned cool, pleasant, and calm But tiny mosquitoes and bees return When the wind subsides, the pain resumes A recurring theme, the wound deepens, never numb.

 Beyond me Beyond sea Behind the mountain Holy shrine, none visited, unworshipped Melodies stand still Fragrances dulled A well and a bell Who blew the conch shell? Shrill echoes fill eerily

Spirit is alive, Rest laid to rest. What is best is the quest, Lest the unceasing, ever perishing wants Meet the dust. In sombreness, they form the crust.

The Jilledu tree, with its light purple-tipped flowers, has been a constant companion since my childhood. I vividly remember the white fluid that oozed out when we broke its twigs or pulled its leaves, a phenomenon that both fascinated and intimidated us. While we avoided exploiting its medicinal properties, we couldn't help but be aware of them. These trees were an integral part of our terrain, a ubiquitous presence that shaped our memories, dreams, and ambitions. The Jilledu, along with the Tumma, were the silent witnesses to our childhood escapades, their presence a reminder of the joy and wonder of discovery that defined our early years.

The seasonal shedding of yellow flowers creates a stunning, vibrant carpet on roadsides, in parks, and across various places. This natural phenomenon transforms ordinary paths into picturesque scenes, inviting admiration and providing a delightful burst of colour to the surroundings. It's a simple yet captivating spectacle that brings joy and a sense of wonder to those who take a moment to appreciate it.

  A vibrant duo of white and pink adeniums thrive in a single pot, their beauty never faltering, regardless of the hour. Nearby, a repurposed tire hangs from the window pane, transformed into a charming planter. The overall scene is a delightful and engaging fusion of nature and creativity, offering a constant reminder of the serenity and joy that can be found in the most ordinary things.

This is an artwork featuring a painted leaf on a textured surface. The quote written on it, "Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower" by Albert Camus, emphasises the beauty found in the changing seasons. Vibrant yellow and green colours are used to make the leaf stand out vividly.

Who are my foes, Not allowing me to progress, Conniving to see my regress. All along the way, these 6 enemies thrived, Letting me feel worse and deprived. As my butterfly wings take me aloft, I feel rolling on the ground adrift. No one told me to be cautious, With these internal foes. They grew with me as my kin, They always win. In the playground of life, They have given me all the strife. The poem explores the struggle with internal enemies, symbolized by the fragile and transient nature of butterfly wings. The six internal foes - Kama, Krodha, and others - grow alongside us, much like kin, and can hinder our personal growth and development. Despite their ephemeral nature, these internal enemies can have a profound impact, stifling our potential and preventing us from becoming the best version of ourselves. The poem highlights the importance of acknowledging and overcoming these internal struggles to achieve true progress and self-realization.

In the early morning light, the garden stood as a testament to nature’s delicate balance. The vibrant leaves of a plant now bore the silent scars of an unseen assailant. Tiny, irregular holes punctuated the verdant expanse, as if an artist with a careless hand had peppered the canvas with errant brushstrokes. The culprit, a humble caterpillar, crept along the edge of a leaf, its minute jaws working tirelessly. This small creature, almost imperceptible, wrought its havoc with a quiet determination. The leaf's edges, once smooth and whole, now looked like the worn pages of an ancient manuscript, each nibble a forgotten story etched in the plant's flesh. The delicate lacework of damage was akin to the fine embroidery of an invisible hand. It was as if the garden, in all its glory, had been gently whispered upon by the breath of tiny marauders, each leaf telling a tale of survival and beauty interwoven with the inevitability of decay.

Nothing is late, nothing is wasted, nothing is lost I'm revisiting childhood in the 70s Eating neredu after being on the tree A satisfaction that puts aside all other marauding wants, desires Happy that I reduced them to few or none Seeking delight in small adventures Finding thrills in capturing beauties of nature on mobile And writing feelings down Do something when all that you want to do becomes impaled Small or big, no distinction When you walk away with a smile on your lips, that's the real deal Far out! I'm groovin' back to my childhood vibes, reliving the fab seventies. I'm diggin' the sweet taste of neredu, plucked straight from the tree, man. This simple pleasure is where it's at, blowin' all other desires away. I'm stoked about small adventures, snappin' pics of nature's trippy beauty with my camera, and puttin' my feelings into words, man. When all else seems like a bummer, I find my happy place in these small joys. No need fo