In fact it should’ve been…

whistling sands,
a windswept procession –
your footprints no more

two giant rivers,
ineluctably wrestling in thy
middle depths

whistling sands,
a windswept procession –
your footsteps no more

the young samurai;
back hand single slash –
a hundred kills and counting!

Thank you Sudhi, and AHH for the new thread…

I’ll also add my final poem in order to orient myself;

I Bring to Thee

sometimes in comfort’s ease, I’ll
find some undiscovered breeze

or in despair’s thrashing woes,
to stay the ache I must compose

I’ll climb upon my children’s backs;
one’s name is thorn, the other rose

and to this task, bound and wed,
I ride the storm and rake the rows

past the teeming river flats, where
the skimming geese convene

o’er the sacred mountain grove,
on through the emerald labyrinthine

last night I scrubbed the starry vault,
with sweated brow of pale moon time

and rode the morning sun horse home,
to bring to thee this brand new rhyme!

Haiku, four days on…

last moments of sunset
reflected on water;
gold on cloud

way out here, in a
distant corner of the woods;
forgetting who one is

someone once said
something along those lines –
even they weren’t close

beneath my kimono,
a gift for my lover,
my quickening step…

uncovering the
secret way soul has of
being with the mystery

Dan Fogelberg and Tim Weisberg; “Since You’ve Asked”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cYdAK9tNj1g

What I’ll give you since you asked is all my time together
Take the rugged sunny days, the warm and rocky weather
Take the roads that I have walked along
Looking for tomorrow’s time, peace of mind

As my life spills into yours changing with the hours
Filling up the world with time, turning time to flowers
I can show you all the songs
That I never sang to one man before

We have seen a million stones lying by the water
You have climbed the hills with me to the mountain shelter
Taken off the days one by one
Setting them to breathe in the sun

Take the lilies and the lace from the days of childhood
All the willow winding paths leading up and outward
This is what I give
This is what I ask you for
Nothing more

What was once imagined is now real… William Blake.

It’s interesting that so little is written about imagination, considering that imagination determines what becomes our reality. We all imagine constantly, feelings, thoughts, memories are all accompanied by ‘images in action”, (or “imagination”) with each image in turn yielding it’s own sequence of imagery, this in turn is accompanied by further feelings, thoughts, memories, possibilities ‘yet to come into manifestation’ etc. To survive being the effect of this constant barrage of imagery, Soul is forced to take command of this internal imagery by imposing the imagery that it wishes to view on the inner screen.

The images that Soul views determine Its experience, whether by conscious control of the imagination, or by being the effect of the uncontrolled imagination. In any case, Soul understands at some point that the images It entertains determine what Its experience will be, and takes steps to become cause in Its own worlds, as much as possible. Knowing that It is the effect of another’s projections is an all important realisation that Soul arrives at, because in so doing, It is able to ride out the effects of a particular set of images and come out ‘intact’ so to speak. Not knowing when one is being the effect of the unconscious or uncontrolled imagination, generally means unnecessary wear and tear that the more disciplined Soul is able to avoid. The uncontrolled imagination is the great bane of the human race, and the cause of much if not all of its woes.

It’s interesting that in stanza 5 of the poem you’ve shared, Sudhi, the protagonist alludes to the moment when his or her’s imagination is inspired and so effects a turn around in his or her general mood, for the better.

Simon and Garfunkel; “April, Come She Will”

April, come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain
May, she will stay
Resting in my arms again

June, she’ll change her tune
In restless walks she’ll prowl the night
July, she will fly
And give no warning to her flight

August, die she must
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold
September, I’ll remember
A love once new has now grown old