Dinesh's photos with the keyword: D

An eternal charm seems to emanate from these places forgotten by the time. May be the Photography refines senses and gives the ability to see the world through new eyes.

The grass so little has to do,– A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain, And stir all day to pretty tunes The breezes fetch along, And hold the sunshine in its lap And bow to everything; And thread the dews all night, like pearls, And make itself so fine,– A duchess were too common For such a noticing. And even when it dies, to pass In odors so divine, As lowly spices gone to sleep, Or amulets of pine. And then to dwell in sovereign barns, And dream the days away,– The grass so little has to do, I wish I were the hay. ~ Emily Dikinson

I am the mown grass, dying at your feet, The pale grass, gasping faintly in the sun. I shall be dead, long, long ere day is done, That you may say: "The air, to-day, was sweet." I am the mown grass, dying at your feet. ~ Margaret Gilman Davidson

"Sorrow and scarlet leaf, Sad thoughts and sunny weather. Ah me, this glory and this grief Agree not well together!" ~ "September song" ~ Thomas Parsons

These pools that, though in forests, still reflect The total sky almost without defect, And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver, Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone, And yet not out by any brook or river, But up by roots to bring dark foliage on. The trees that have it in their pent-up buds To darken nature and be summer woods— Let them think twice before they use their powers To blot out and drink up and sweep away These flowery waters and these watery flowers From snow that melted only yesterday. "Spring Pools" ~ Robert Frost

Awaken to the mystery of being here and enter the quiet immensity of your own presence. Have joy and peace in the temple of your senses. Receive encouragement when new frontiers beckon. Respond to the call of your gift and the courage to follow its path. Let the flame of anger free you of all falsity. May warmth of heart keep your presence aflame. May anxiety never linger about you. May your outer dignity mirror an inner dignity of soul. Take time to celebrate the quiet miracles that seek no attention. Be consoled in the secret symmetry of your soul. May you experience each day as a sacred gift woven around the heart of wonder. ~ John O'Donohue

My wife took an apple to work this morning, hurriedly picking it up and out of a plastic bag on the kitchen counter, and though she has been gone an hour, the open bag still holds in a swirl the graceful turn of her wrist, a fountain lifting. And now I can see that the air by the closet door keeps the bell-like hollow she made spinning into her winter coat while pushing her apple through a sleeve and back out into the ordinary. ~ Ted Kooser

Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring; That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling. "September" ~ William Wordsworth

.................... spending my time, as the saying goes, watching until the watching turns into feeling, so that I feel I am myself a small bird with a terrible hunger, with a thin beak probing and dipping and a heart that races so fast it is only a heart beat ahead of breaking------ and I am the hunger and the assuagement, and also I am the leaves and the blossoms, and, like them, I am full of delight, and shaking. Excerpt: "Summer Story" ~ Mary Oliver

From childhood's hour I have not been As others were- I have not seen As others saw- I could not bring My passions from a common spring- From the same source I have not taken My sorrow- I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone- And all I lov'd- I lov'd alone- Then- in my childhood- in the dawn Of a most stormy life- was drawn From ev'ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still- From the torrent, or the fountain- From the red cliff of the mountain- From the sun that 'round me roll'd In its autumn tint of gold- From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by- From the thunder, and the storm- And the cloud that took the form (When all the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view. "Alone" ~ Edgar Allen Poe

There is a place where the sidewalk ends And before the street begins, And there the grass grows soft and white, And there the sun burns crimson bright, And there the moon-bird rests from his flight To cool in the peppermint wind. Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black And the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And watch where the chalk-white arrows go To the place where the sidewalk ends. Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go, For the children, they mark, and the children, they know The place where the sidewalk ends "Where the sidewalk ends" ~ Shel Silverstein

I don’t reproach the spring for starting up again. I can’t blame it for doing what it must year after year I know that my grief will not stop the green. The grass blade may bend but only in the wind. It doesn’t pain me to see that the clumps of alders above The water have something to rustle with again. I take not of the fact that the shore of a certain lake Is still - as if you were living - as lovely as before. I don’t resent the view for its vista of a Sun-dazed bay. I am even able to imagine Some non-us sitting at this minute on a fallen trunk. I respect their right to whisper, laugh and lapse into happy silence. I can even allow that they are bound by love and That he holds her with a living arm. Something freshly birdish starts rustling in the reeds. I sincerely want them to hear it. I don’t require changes from the surf, Now diligent, now sluggish obeying not me. I expect nothing from the depth near the woods First emerald, then sapphire then black. There’s one thing I won’t agree to: My own return. The privilege of presence - I give it up. I survived you by enough And only by enough, to contemplate from afar. “Parting with a view” ~ Wislawa Szymborska

..................................... still. I want in my life is to be willing to be dazzled - to caste aside the weight of facts and may be even to float a little above this difficult world. I want to believe I am looking into the white fire of a great mystery. I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing - that the light is everything - that it is more than the sum of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do. Excerpt: "The Ponds" ~ Mary Oliver

The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go or driven like hail stream bitterly out to one side and fall where the salvias, hard carmine— like no leaf that ever was— edge the bare garden. "Approach of Winter" ~ William Carlos Williams

Another year gone, leaving everywhere its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves, the uneaten fruits crumbling damply in the shadows, unmattering back from the particular island of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere except underfoot, moldering in that black subterranean castle of unobservable mysteries - roots and sealed seeds and the wanderings of water. This I try to remember when time's measure painfully chafes, for instance when autumn flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing to stay - how everything lives, shifting from one bright vision to another, forever in these momentary pastures. "Fall Song" ~ Mary Oliver

Once there was a man who filmed his vacation. He went flying down the river in his boat With his video camera to his eye, making A moving picture of the moving river Upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly Towards the end of his vacation. He showed His vacation to his camera, which pictured it, Preserving it forever: the river, the trees, The sky, the light, the bow of this rushing boat Behind which he stood with his camera Preserving his vacation even as he was having it So that after he had had it he would still Have it. It would be there. With a flick Of a switch, there it would be. Be he Would not be in it. He would never be in it. “The Vacation” ~ Wendell Berry

I felt both pleasure and a shiver as we undressed on the slippery bank and then plunged into the wild river. I waded in; she entered as a diver. Watching her pale flanks slice the dark I felt both pleasure and a shiver. Was this a source of the lake we sought, giver of itself to that vast, blue expanse? We’d learn by plunging into the wild river and letting the current take us wherever it willed. I had that yielding to thank for how I felt both pleasure and a shiver. But what she felt and saw I’ll never know: separate bodies taking the same risk by plunging together into the wild river. Later, past the rapids, we paused to consider if chance or destiny had brought us here; whether it was more than pleasure and a shiver we’d found by plunging into the wild river. ~ Gregory Orr