A life after death
prayerfully sought in churches —
Mushrooms in tree stumps

" Get off the road, quick!"
Listen carefully,
Maybe just in Australia,
they all say that.
I don't know......

Just like an angel flung out of space ,
My love for you will always be genuine,
A beautiful flower in my garden,
I'll  forever water you,
Keep you close to the window so that you can flourish,
You're  no ordinary flower but a  queen in my garden,
Your  enticing pheromones will feel the room,
And I'll be the only bumblebee to pollinate you, my love,
Deep inside your alluring  petals  covered  with your nectar,
I'll be so committed in your garden,
I'll keep coming back for more and more,
And you'll magnificently bloom in all seasons.

The sun's back out, smiling like it knows something we don’t,  
no clouds to crowd its face,  
as if it’s finally done with yesterday’s storm  
and is ready to show off a little.  
I stand there, gazing up like a kid  
seeing the sky for the first time.  
The grass is waving, happy to be here,  
and the trees—good grief—are downright dancing,  
with birds singing along like a chorus  
that has no idea how good they sound.  
It’s like a time machine in the air,  
taking me back to those days  
when I ran through fields of grass  
as if the world could never end.  
I remember climbing trees with my best friends—  
our laughter, the only music we needed.  
Everything felt permanent then,  
as if joy lived in every pocket of the universe,  
just waiting to slip out.  
But, of course, time,  
the ultimate party crasher,  
came along, as it always does.  
And yet, isn’t it strange how  
those days still manage to sneak in?  
The memories sit there,  
like old photographs in a drawer,  
always ready to make my heart laugh  
when I pull them out.  
So, yeah, it’s not so bad,  
growing up,  
not when the past still gives me a wink  
now and then.

Take me to that fantasy sea world,
When the night is calm and lonely,
Scatter my ashes onto the shores,
Let the waves take me into the deep sea,
Where the whales and dolphins sing,
As I dance along to their sweet and lovely tunes,
And my soul will be at peace.

Today I saw brown mountain peaks touching the sky and what a grand sight it was,
As I was humbled by the silence of greatness that doesn't need to shout.
As I was mystified by the rolling valleys beneath.
The mountains, so eerily vast and huge made me feel nervous about my silly human apprehensions.
Time has tested the fate of these mountains, their  peaks still don't bend to anyone.
An eagle flew between these great walls, as if taking a casual evening stroll.
I wonder if the bird admires the beauty in the stillness of these earthly structures.
I wish I could be the eagle, flying as high as the top of the hills, as if conversing and chatting with them.
The mountains are obviously not made of smooth rocks and unmarked skin,
Their surface and body have stories to tell.
If you notice, there are rocks on the mountain chest making a pattern just like ocean waves, creating a painting upon a painting of God.
The limestone that flows so easily on the back of the mountain, like beautiful hair let down.
And the curves on top, the bends on its peak,
The mountain is not a triangle.
It's a woman sleeping peacefully,
Do not disturb her,
For she is She is mother Nature...
She embodies the mountain spirit and has great power.
Do not disturb her,
For she is our mother Earth.
Soon, light gets stolen from the blue skies
As stars come to their job shift, it's now their time to shine.
When the moon rises behind the mountain peaks, the cosmic body feels smaller than the hills.
It becomes the cherry on top of the cake,
It becomes the eye of the mountain.
As the hills breathe and rest,
The soil beneath  ever shifting and changing.
The mountains have been crafted over a thousand of years through storms and rain and dust and water.
A thousand years after I die, the mountains will still be there.
Brown peaks touching the sky,
Undefeated and unconquered.
And I will be the eagle flying between the mountain peaks.

At times
Sound of rain is so soothing
calms wilderness of mind
brings a chillness inside out
best relaxation I could ask for
as rain washes of everything out there
it could cleanses our thoughts!

The raven's beak smashes into the eggs,
to eat up the yolk and take one for the road,
for his mate who distracts the humming-birds,
by flying close to the nest and causing distraction.

By the time the hummingbirds realize,
what's left in the nest is a yellow slime of a mess,
their babies lost to the hunger of these evil birds,
smart, intelligent and as cold as their deadly eyes.

darken sharp wings and no love in their eyes,
they'll snap up anything that can easily die,
worms, insects, eggs & the babies in the nest,
Satanic birds, be at your wariest.

Late afternoon, caught between the grip of night and day,  
I lie here, drifting in the soft current of my thoughts,  
listening to the rain perform its solo,  
a steady, unhurried melody tapping the windowsill.  
The trees are on their feet, swaying to the beat  
while the sky pounds out its drums,  
a little gloomy, like a mood that’s settled in for a while.

But I don't mind—it’s chilly, sure,  
but there’s always a blanket handy,  
and a hot cup of tea if I’m feeling fancy.  
The show reaches its crescendo,  
each instrument—wind, rain, thunder—growing louder,  
like nature’s band is playing its final number.

The wind, like some wild soloist,  
whistles into the night,  
and the rain, with a little more bravado,  
sings its heart out.  
The sky, well, it’s thundering now,  
making sure no one forgets its role.

It’s a storm, a performance so intense  
you can almost hear the crowd holding its breath.  
And then, as quickly as it began,  
the storm takes its bow,  
leaving behind a scene of broken branches and soggy lawns.  
The audience, too, seems to weep  
in the aftermath,  
as though they’re mourning the end of something grand.

But that’s the thing with nature’s orchestra—  
you know it’ll come back,  
with or without an encore.