Cauliflower

There is no cause for alarm. Ever. My watchword will be "equanimity" from now on.

Help!!!!!!!! (loud scream!!!!!!)

See, I didn't even flinch. Even though there is a tiger that is only partially asleep upstairs.

Dangerous, Protected Species

The garden is looking wonderful. I bought a rose cutting from the local supermarket a couple of years ago for about 2 quid and it´s now a fountain of exorbitant, gushing largess. It smells of tropical sugar and marmalade and the flowers are enormous when they fully open.

The holly is doing it's "get ready for Christmas" thingy...

And the locals have the grape harvest in-hand.

Gilty is making sure all remains in order

...and setting off for work is more of a Buddhist experience when inspired by nice views

..From bedroom window

Today's poem:

Brahma

IF the red slayer think he slays,   Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways   I keep, and pass, and turn again. Far or forgot to me is near;         5   Shadow and sunlight are the same; The vanished gods to me appear;   And one to me are shame and fame. They reckon ill who leave me out;   When me they fly, I am the wings;         10 I am the doubter and the doubt,   And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. The strong gods pine for my abode,   And pine in vain the sacred Seven; But thou, meek lover of the good!         15   Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

Who or What Is the Red Slayer?

.......The first line of the poem refers to a "red slayer." In the Hindu social system, members of the military belonged to a caste known as Kshatriya. Because a person in this caste typically burned with a fiery temperament that made him a formidable soldier, he was associated with the color red. Thus, the red slayer is a Kshatriya warrior. Kshatriya is derived from the Sanskrit word katra, meaning rule.

Theme

.......The theme of "Brahma" is this: Human beings can find fulfillment and contentment only when they realize that they are part of a universal entity.

Meter

.......Each line in the poem contains eight syllables. The dominant meter is iambic tetrameter, in which a line consists of four pairs of syllables—the first syllable in each pair unstressed and the second stressed. The last two lines of the first stanza demonstrate the pattern:

.........1...................2................3................4
They KNOW..|..not WELL..|..the SUB..|..tle WAYS

.....1.................2..................3................4
I KEEP,..|..and PASS,..|..and TURN..|..a GAIN. 

Lines 1, 5, and 6 appear to break from this pattern by placing stress on the first syllable of the line. 

Rhyme

.......In each stanza, the first line rhymes with the third, and the second rhymes with the fourth. 

Point of View

.......Assuming the role of Brahma, Emerson presents the first fourteen lines of the poem in first-person point of view. In the last two lines, he addresses the reader, using second-person point of view.
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Summary of the Poem

.......The Hindu god Brahma tells the reader that what appear to be opposites—a warrior and his enemy, remoteness and nearness, shadows and sunlight, and shame and fame—are really the same. Anyone who does not believe this truth lives in error, for all these things are part of the essence of Brahma—the eternal god who is beyond human understanding—and therefore are unified in him and are the same. Even a hymn sung by a Brahmin, a Hindu priest, is part of Brahma's essence. Other Hindu gods—such as Yama, the lord of death; Agni, the god of fire; and Indra, the warrior god and god of rain—long to live in Brahma's essence (line 13), as do the holiest Hindus of the past (line 14). Brahma ends the poem by telling the reader that if he finds his way to Brahma's essence he will have all that he needs for all eternity.

A real and brilliant example of poem that actually rhymes and scans, built on a structural framework that requires inspiration, hard work and craftsmanship. 

I just read an anthology of prize-winning poems from last year. Practically all junk, no rhymes, no proper meter and they didn't scan. Only intellectual rubbish. 

Ed astra

A long, lurid journey into the night.

https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=1120468571331252&id=100001043583366

The time is wrong. Or right. Or wrong. Who knows or cares. - This is turning into a very difficult time. Difficult. Jacob's mother is trying to take him out of the school .She's just being bloody-minded but might do a lot of harm to Jacob. The fact that she gets legal aid means that she can go to court for free but I'm legally obliged to take a lawyer which will probably cost another 1000 euros. She has also appealed against the joint custody ruling. That's going to cost about 1500 Euros. I'm pretty much buggered and there's not a lot I can do.

Cycling by the river near the house

I have to confess to a radical time-lag. It's now the end of August and about 6 or 7 months since my last sentence. So here are some pictures which are much more eloquent.

Mid August 2016

He has been teaching me how to play basketball. A very good teacher he is too!

...And two weeks later..

The holidays are now coming to an end but, of course, I have no grounds for complaint. Long, languorous days and the sun are a balm for all wounds. 

Syrup died but her passing away was relatively peaceful. Gilty aged overnight as a result, changes in the merely physiological which will test our equanimity too. 

"This physical body is not me, but that which I use. These emotions are not me, but that which I control. These mental images are not me, but that which I create."

Today's poem:

Destitute

I walked the walk,
I planned the route.
You baulked the talk
You spurned my suit.
I'm destitute.

Love from afar
A bitter fruit
To raise the bar
Would be astute
I'm destitute.

Within us all
Resides a brute
Whose house will fall
Just like the fruit.
I'm destitute.

It's in your head
Your peace, your caste.
Your home your bread;
Your wealth is vast.
You're home at last.

Defenestration

The Danger of Windows

Yes it's true. Windows can be very dangerous. They get good publicity, but  it's all lies. They hinge on hinges. They let light in but they won't let it back out again. There are windows of opportunity, but these tend to be skylights in vaulted roofs. It's no coincidence that a piece of glass for a window is called a pane. Double glazing is doubly painful. Internal windows. Those are what we need. I'm going to try and open my internal windows and have a long hard look at the boundless expanse of irrepressible life. And when I've stopped being optimistic, I'm going to be more optimistic.

Somebody likes stale bread

I noticed that the pecking order is reminiscent of the Spanish political scenario. It's anarchic, violent and just a feeding frenzy among a bunch of low animals only interested in getting fat and listening to themselves cackle, squeak, trill and waddle about preening themselves. But somebody likes stale bread.

From a couple of years ago now

Only missing the shotgun and a brace of grouse

And then suddenly, it's today. All over again.

Today's poem:

I the window

You opened me to air your friendless rooms

Lay bear the threadbare tapestries of charms

Exonerate the wealth within the gloom

And bathe in light that finds you in my arms

You opened me but then forgot the storm

approaching through the casement eye, the lie

Within the framework of a childless sigh.

The ledge invites; renege what's safe and warm!

Through windows framed the ever-present tense
panes of pain reveal that nought makes any sense
I am the glass that shields you from the rain
Fragile, invisible, your recompense.

Don't jump darling because nobody cares,
Don't leave by the window, leave by the stairs!