The Cozy Cabin

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Comment by Jorgelito Hagens on January 19, 2021 at 8:32am

haha

Comment by Michael Johnson on January 18, 2021 at 9:17pm

Driving BEFORE morning coffee pandemic blues and just being intolerant

Comment by Chris Durbin on December 24, 2020 at 5:05am

Now that's a "cozy cabin!

Comment by Sharikee on December 23, 2020 at 6:03pm

Comment by PITA SIKSIKA WARRIOR on December 20, 2020 at 11:13am

Comment by PITA SIKSIKA WARRIOR on December 20, 2020 at 11:12am

MAY YOU ALL HAVE A VERY WARM HAPPY CHRISTMAS AND VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR AND STAY SAFE ALWAYS PLEASE

Comment by Sharikee on December 19, 2020 at 1:29pm

Comment by Chris Durbin on December 19, 2020 at 11:37am

Rumi
“WEAN YOURSELF

Little by little, wean yourself.
This is the gist of what I have to say.
From an embryo, whose nourishment comes in the blood,
move to an infant drinking milk,
to a child on solid food,
to a searcher after wisdom,
to a hunter of more invisible game.

Think how it is to have a conversation with an embryo.
You might say, "The world outside is vast and intricate.
There are wheatfields and mountain passes,
and orchards in bloom.

At night there are millions of galaxies, and in sunlight
the beauty of friends dancing at a wedding."

You ask the embryo why he, or she, stays cooped up
in the dark with eyes closed.

Listen to the answer.

There is no "other world."
I only know what I've experienced.
You must be hallucinating.”

― Rumi, The Essential Rumi

Comment by Sharikee on December 14, 2020 at 1:15pm

Comment by Michael Johnson on December 13, 2020 at 10:09pm

Self Pity is a desolate place, hard to visit let alone to dwell..
Self Pity – Poem by Rod McKuen
~
Spring has never seen
this country,
where lilac root stays frozen, cold.
And monotonous river rolls
And runs and rolls some more.
No birds fly here,
none will.
No fox will chase his rabbit down
pinning him to the frozen ground..
Not even cloud will come to cover
the grey that stays on grey.
And when the universe has turned
upon itself
this place will still be waiting here.
Challenging nothing.
Changing nothing.
Doing nothing for itself.
Not creeping ivy or thistledown
has found this piece of land
and stayed,
where evening is the rule
and not the welcome home.
No scholar comes to study here.
How much frozen solitude can be
set down in even alien country?
When darkness falls it falls forever,
over the homestead, over the sea.
An overwhelming desolation spreads
hinted death, destroying the breath
of branch and bone.
Awesome the silence,
appalling the gloom
that crowds this once wide land
into single room.
Do not come here by mistake
or by design.
The highway in is easy enough
to find, but the road away
is a tangled maze
that turns the days to year,
the year to decade and beyond.
Swans will not go swimming
here, nor cattle feed, nor sparrows
breed and populate.
This is no resting place. It is
a place of empty nests picked
clean, ruins that reverberate
down centuries gone and yet
to come.
Fallen angels manage
to avoid dropping in upon these
acres, never green.
Nothing perishes, germ or grain.
only different shades of decay
distinguish rock from harder place.
But if the ear could hear it,
pick it up,
the language practiced would be
made of layered mould. Odd times
when the wind is right
you can hear the nails
being driven home.

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