227 Following















More noble than us.


More fair, and secure, too.


And fitter.


The Maasai warrior, from the Mara, the Maasai Mara.


Living and walking, hunting and herding in Kenya and Tanzania.


A tribe of bravery, honor, prowess, with deep convictions based around moral and ethical codes.


Such as Olpul, forest cleansing, even spa, where tribe members spend days, and nights; in the forest, members rather than member because the social aspect is also important.


A gathering and exploration in the forest where special soups with different herbs are made, and storytelling sessions are held.


The healing is spiritual, physical, psychological, psychic, and beautiful.


even the birds

understand the olpul

the forest gives







in front of me

kilimanjaro, ah kilimanjaro


either one meter or thousands

but always in front of me






in the blue of the morning

I swim to the top of mount fuji

and bathe in her flanks



The Tea Ceremony


Remember, Yasuko, when you told me about life? When you frothed the bright green tea with a brush, and let it settle, then handed me the small bowl with two hands, bowing.


"You must feel the warmth of the cup, inhale the aroma, and taste," you'd said. "If you do not focus on these tbings and get distracted, then by the time you look down for the tea it will be gone."


She'd sat back up, facing me: "Life is like that," she'd added. "If you do not live now when will you?"


She had giggled too, when I kissed her fingertips after the tea. "I learnt a new word today," she said. "You are a rogue. I learnt the word in the dissinary."


Her accent was soft, her voice so quiet the paper walls did not tremble. Her kimono slid easily and I kissed her bare shoulder.


in tea

the moment is savoured

never lost















Under The Volcano


Who were you? Whom did you love, and when did you pose under the volcano, under the calming presence of Mt Fuji?


Is the twinkle there, in your eye, of a woman loved, and in love? It is, isn't it? Oh I hope you are, were. 


You are beautiful. And when I look at Mt Fuji I think of you sometimes, wonder how you made your tea, how it tasted, how you held your chopsticks, and how you smiled, too. I hope you did. More than anything, I hope you did.


in spring

her eyes fluttered in the breeze

like blossoms

her taste was dark with the longing

of the sweetness of sour cherries















The Balance



an orchestra of pine needles

balancing raindrops












the cold forest

offers warmth





Mostar Bridge

When I was there it was destroyed. A beautiful bridge, and symbol, handcrafted in style, by those wise enough to see it's necessity, and it's fitting graceful arch, set with a mountain backdrop, between the Croat and Muslim quarters of Mostar.


The Croats had destroyed the Muslim side, as well as the bridge, in a mindless frenzy. Croats and Muslims were supposed to be allies, but things happen in war.


They have rebuilt the bridge since those awful days of civil war, and restored the graceful curve, and dignity that the bridge seemed to hold. Nowadays the local youth dive from high atop the middle of the arch into the river below, in brave defiance.


I will always remember when the bridge was not there, though, when the modern world thought it savagely useful to destroy medieval beauty.


ancient dreams

traveller's road spanning rivers

and uniting mountains

shattered in senseless explosions

the past destroyed by the future


Winter Tales



on the branch of a pine tree

the frozen sun


The walk through the snowed-in forest takes a mere hour, as does the walk home again after work. I should always like it to take longer, and can then imagine myself on some inspiring adventure, traversing the great north. 


















rain, a train

doors hiss, a kiss


On The Mountain



High up on the mountains, sound is no longer secondhand. Choices are simpler than on a main street: up or down. And yet the choices are more thrilling than choosing the latest fashionable shirt off one of the multitude of hangers in one of the multitude of shops lining the street; up bad, too late in the day to go on and you will freeze to death, down good as you'll stay alive and be drinking a tea in your tent by nightfall.


the wind

makes its own melody

up the mountain

over the rocks and snow

through the branches of trees

Already Red



already red

the wet fields of Flanders

before the poppies grow










An Autumn Day At The Pond



I watch the ripples

as they move across the pond

slowly I realise 

the ripples disturbing the pond

came originally from me


























The Path



silent path

full of dreams and contemplation

rests for winter

meditation brings

chirping birds

















Winter Silence


winter slide

bare of laughter and screams

of children to come












Friends are rare - much more rare than lovers, who come and go. But that is how it should be: rarety is no impediment.


If I pause to think of where I met true friends, I realise they live in farflung places. Well, far from where I am now.


Baku, in Azerbaijan is captivating for its warm-hearted people, and so is Khartoum, Sudan's capital, and Ammam, in Jordan.


Sometimes the backdrop provides the best friendship, and melting pots like Bahrain or Saudi Arabia are where I met some of my closest.


Butterflies and bees

touch nectar at each flower 

colourful petals

-she sits, under the cherry tree

catching the fluttering blossoms



Source: http://chevrefeuillescarpediem.blogspot.com