Dinesh's photos

With every civil right there has to be a civil obligation ~ Edison Haines HWW Messrs. IP Members

whatscookingamerica.net/basrec2.htm

“The unreal is more powerful than the real, because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it. because its only intangible ideas, concepts, beliefs, fantasies that last. Stone crumbles. wood rots. people, well, they die. but things as fragile as a thought, a dream, a legend, they can go on and on.” ~ Chuck Palahniuk

The curve of your eyes circles my heart A round of dance and sweetness And if I no longer know all that I have experienced It is because your eyes have not always seen me. Paul Eluard.

The woods around it have it—it is theirs. All animals are smothered in their lairs. I am too absent-spirited to count; The loneliness includes me unawares. And lonely as it is, that loneliness Will be more lonely ere it will be less— A blanker whiteness of benighted snow With no expression, nothing to express. Excerpt: "Desert Places" ~ Frost

At the Library

"Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky, We fell them down and turn them into paper, That we may record our emptiness." ~ Khalil Gibran

.................................................. Now the immense loneliness begins. The days go numb, the wind sucks the world from your senses like withered leaves. Through the empty branches the sky remains. It is what you have. Be earth now, and evensong. Be the ground lying under that sky. Be modest now, like a thing ripened until it is real, so that he who began it all can feel you when he reaches for you. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

Various glaciers have covered the area of Central Park in the past, with the most recent being the Wisconsin glacier which receded about 12,000 years ago. Evidence of past glaciers are visible throughout the park in the form of glacial erratics (large boulders dropped by the receding glacier) and north-south glacial striations visible on stone outcroppings.

On summer nights the world Moves within earshot On the interstate with its swish And growl, an occasional siren That sends chills through us. Sometimes, on clear, still nights, Voices float into our bedroom, Lunar and fragmented, As if the sky had left them go Long before our birth. In winter we close the windows And read Chekhov, Nearly weeping for his world. What luxury, to be so happy That we can grieve Over imaginary lives. “Late Hours” ~ Lisel Mueller