Dinesh's photos

On the road side

We read to know we are not alone. - C.S. Lewis

May be after 4 or 5 decades!

www.temesgen.com/

It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home, A heap o’ sun an’ shadder, an’ ye sometimes have t’ roam Afore ye really ’preciate the things ye lef’ behind, An’ hunger fer ’em somehow, with ’em allus on yer mind. It don’t make any differunce how rich ye get t’ be, How much yer chairs an’ tables cost, how great yer luxury; It ain’t home t’ ye, though it be the palace of a king, Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped round everything. Home ain’t a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute; Afore it’s home there’s got t’ be a heap o’ livin’ in it; Within the walls there’s got t’ be some babies born, and then Right there ye’ve got t’ bring ‘em up t’ women good, an’ men; And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn’t part With anything they ever used—they’ve grown into yer heart: The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore Ye hoard; an’ if ye could ye’d keep the thumbmarks on the door. Ye’ve got t’ weep t’ make it home, ye’ve got t’ sit an’ sigh An’ watch beside a loved one’s bed, an’ know that Death is nigh; An’ in the stillness o’ the night t’ see Death’s angel come, An’ close the eyes o’ her that smiled, an’ leave her sweet voice dumb. Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an’ when yer tears are dried, Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an’ sanctified; An’ tuggin’ at ye always are the pleasant memories O’ her that was an’ is no more—ye can’t escape from these. Ye’ve got t’ sing an’ dance fer years, ye’ve got t’ romp an’ play, An’ learn t’ love the things ye have by usin’ ’em each day; Even the roses ’round the porch must blossom year by year Afore they ’come a part o’ ye, suggestin’ someone dear Who used t’ love ’em long ago, an’ trained ’em jes’ t’ run The way they do, so’s they would get the early mornin’ sun; Ye’ve got t’ love each brick an’ stone from cellar up t’ dome: It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home. "Home" ~ Edgar Albert Guest (1881-1959)

“If you walk on snow you cannot hide your footprints” George Herbert

There comes a little space between the south side of a boulder and the snow that fills the woods around it. Sun heats the stone, revels a crescent of bare ground: brown ferns, and a tufts of needles like red hair, acorns, a patch of moss, bright green....... I sank with every step up to my knees, throwing myself forward with a violence of effort, greedy for unhappiness-- until by accident I found the stone, with its secret porch of heat and light, where something small could luxuriate, then turned back down my path, chastened and calm. "Depression in Winter" ~ Jane Kenyon

Now the stone house on the lake front is finished and the workmen are beginning the fence. The palings are made of iron bars with steel points that can stab the life out of any man who falls on them. As a fence, it is a masterpiece, and will shut off the rabble and all vagabonds and hungry men and all wandering children looking for a place to play. Passing through the bars and over the steel points will go nothing except Death and the Rain and To-morrow. "A fence" ~ Carl Sandburg HFF -- friends and visitors

Chopped down for no particular reason

Sing hey! For the bath at close of day that washes the weary mud away A loon is he that will not sing O! Water Hot is a noble thing! O! Sweet is the sound of falling rain, and the brook that leaps from hill to plain; but better then rain or rippling streams is Water Hot that smokes and steams. O! Water cold we may pour at need down a thirsty throat and be glad indeed but better is beer if drink we lack, and Water Hot poured down the back. O! Water is fair that leaps on high in a fountain white beneath the sky; but never did fountain sound so sweet as splashing Hot Water with my feet! "Bath song" ~ JRR Tolkien

Now that black ground and bushes - saplings, trees, each twig and limb--are suddenly white with snow, and earth becomes brighter than the sky, that intricate shrub of nerves, veins, arteries - myself - uncurls its knotted leaves to the shining air. Upon the wooded hillside, pied with snow, I hear only the melting snow drop from the twigs "Winter sketches" ~ Charles Reznikoff

Red winged black bird

To be demolished (July 21st 2013)

February 6th 2008