Breeze Of The Ocean Quotes

Close your eyes and turn your face into the wind. Feel it sweep along your skin in an invisible ocean of exultation. Suddenly, you know you are alive.

I met his dark brown eyes. His fingers skimmed the back of my hand. The sensation tickled like a spring breeze yet hit me like a wave rushing from the ocean.

We were going to the long field which today looked like an ocean, although I had never seen an ocean; the grass was moving in the breeze and the cloud shadows passed back and forth and the trees in the distance moved.

I want you to crave the crisp ocean breeze as much as I do. I want your soul to be as rain-swept as mine.

If lighthouse becomes a burning candle, flickered upon ocean's insanity. Your sailing heart there anchors to handle the obsessed breeze towards sand dune's vanity.

I finally found him sitting on his balcony. He was leaning back against the wall with his eyes closed. Soft music played, and a cool ocean breeze blew back my hair as I stepped on to the balcony and inhaled the scent of the sea. "May I join you?" I asked softly. He didn’t bother opening his eyes. "If you like." The moon in the dark sky looked like a giant white plate dipping its edge into the ocean. We sat quietly for a while. I closed my eyes too and listened to him hum along in harmony with the music. "You haven’t played your guitar in a long time. I miss it," I said when the song was finished. Ren turned away. "I fear there is no music left in me.

I hope this book carries you somewhere magical. I hope it lest you feel ocean breezes in your hair and smell spilled bear on a karaoke bar’s floor. And then I hope it brings you back. That it brings you home, and it fills you with ferocious gratitude for the people you love. Because, really, it’s less about the places we go than the people we meet along the way. But most of all, it’s about the ones who stay, who become home.

I'm so alive. As I stand facing the beauty of the never-ending Pacific Ocean, a late afternoon breeze blows down from the hills behind. As always, it is a beautiful day. The sun is making its final descent. The magic is about to begin. The skies are ready to burn with brilliance, as it turns from a soft blue to a bright orange. Looking towards the West, I stare in awe at the hypnotic power of the waves. A giant curl begins to take form, then breaks with a thundering clap as it crashes on the shore.

I toss my clothes on the nearest rock, feeling the breeze on my skin. With no hesitation, I dive in, the cool water wrapping around me like silk.

A few of those ocean breezes would come in handy here.” Houston, Texas, had lots of aspects going for it, but its climate was not among them.


i am standing upon the seashore. a ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. she is an object of beauty and strength. i stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other. then someone at my side says: "there, she is gone!" "gone where?" gone from my sight. that is all. she is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and she is just as able to bear the load of living freight to her destined port. her diminished size is in me, not in her. and just at the moment when someone at my side says: "there, she is gone!" there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout: "here she comes!" and that is dying.

What of miniature boats constructed of birch bark and fallen leaves, launched onto cold water clear as air? How many fleets were pushed out toward the middles of ponds or sent down autumn brooks, holding treasures of acorns, or black feathers, or a puzzled mantis? Let those grassy crafts be listed alongside the iron hulls that cleave the sea, for they are all improvisations built from the daydreams of men, and all will perish, whether from the ocean siege or October breeze.

In my mind, I built stairways. At the end of the stairways, I imagined rooms. These were high, airy places with big windows and a cool breeze moving through. I imagined one room opening brightly onto another room until I'd built a house, a place with hallways and more staircases. I built many houses, one after another, and those gave rise to a city -- a calm, sparkling city near the ocean, a place like Vancouver. I put myself there, and that's where I lived, in the wide-open sky of my mind. I made friends and read books and went running on a footpath in a jewel-green park along the harbour. I ate pancakes drizzled in syrup and took baths and watched sunlight pour through trees. This wasn't longing, and it wasn't insanity. It was relief. It got me through.

down Cambridge road through the bushes on Charlestown Common a scurry of red ants. Had he really seen them or imagined them? But all about him people were exclaiming, ‘Look, there they are!’ Those red ants were British soldiers. To his left the last moment of sunset light was dying. The day had been amazingly warm, but with night a fresh breeze came up off the ocean. Lights began to glimmer in Charlestown and on warships. Seemingly there was nothing more to be seen from Beacon Hill. Silently people turned to go to their houses. ‘Look!’ Johnny cried. You could see the flash of musket fire, too far away to be heard. Fireflies swarming, hardly more than that. –4– Getting

Here in this ocean, in the midst of all this water, with the red flags on those distant buoys flapping in the sea breeze, I find myself unable to treat our house in Tokyo as anything but a dream.

And the way it felt?" I whisper, as if that might soften the blow of embarrassment I'm about to deal. "Is that how you were feeling - how you feel - about me?" A breeze comes off the ocean, and my skin feels strangely empty and open as he gives an almost imperceptible nod.

The calm serenity of the breeze as it blows across the ocean releases the tangled web within my mind.

In his writings, Proust suggests that our memory is separate from us, residing in the ocean breeze or the smells of early autumn—things linked to the earth that recur periodically, confirming the permanence of mankind. For me and no doubt many of my contemporaries, memories are associated with ephemeral things such as a fashionable belt or a summer hit and therefore the act of remembering can do nothing to reaffirm my sense of identity or continuity. It can only confirm the fragmented nature of my life and the belief that I belong to history.

Again, there were maidens who cherished the firm belief that he had come from the sea. Because within his breast could be heard the roaring of the sea. Because in the pupils of his eyes there lingered the mysterious and eternal horizon that the sea leaves as a keepsake deep in the eyes of all who are born at the seaside and forced to depart from it. Because his signs were sultry like the tidal breezes of full summer, fragrant with the smell of seaweed cast upon the shore.

A needle is such a small brittle thing. It is easily broken. It can hold but one fragile thread. But if the needle is sharp, it can pierce the coarsest cloth. Ply the needle in and out of a canvas and with a great length of thread one can make a sail to move a ship across the ocean. In such a way can a sharp glossy tongue, with the thinnest of thread of a rumor, stitch together a story to flap in the breeze. Hoist that story upon the pillar of superstitious belief and a whole town can be pulled along with the wind of fear.

Bright blue eyes. Strong hands. Ocean breeze on sun-bronze skin. A kiss on a beach. Sand in the sheets. The day when everything changed.

When a drop draws help from the ocean, it is an ocean in itself, and a little seed, through the outpouring of rain, the favour of the sun and soul-refreshing breeze, will become a tree with the utmost freshness, full of leaves, blossoms and fruits. Therefore do not consider thy capacity and merit, but rely upon the infinite Bounty and trust to His Highness the Almighty.

She hadn’t known air could taste like this, so wide, so open. Her body a welcome. Skin awake. The world was more than she had known, even if only for this instant, even if only in this place. She let her lips part and the breeze glided into her mouth, fresh on her tongue, full of stars. How did so much brightness fit in the night sky? How could so much ocean fit inside her? Who was she in this place?

This is, ultimately, a book about home. [...] I hope this book carries you somewhere magical. I hope it lets you feel ocean breezes in your hair and smell spilled beer on a karaoke bar’s floor. And then I hope it brings you back. That it brings you home, and fills you with ferocious gratitude for the people you love. Because, really, it’s less about the places we go than the people we meet along the way. But most of all, it’s about the ones who stay, who become home.

That night, Tom took a bottle of whisky, and went to watch the stars from near the cliff. The breeze played on his face as he traced the constellations, and tasted the burn of the liquid. He turned his attention to the rotation of the beam, and gave a bitter laugh at the thought that the dip of the light meant that the island itself was always left in darkness. A lighthouse is for others; powerless to illuminate the space closest to it.

Before he could stop me, I turned on my heel and sprinted back to the safety of my dinghy. I needed to be out on the water, out among the waves. I needed the sea breezes to push the building panic from me, needed the rhythmic pull of the ocean swells to set my mind right again.

It is summer, let mind dances like the waves with the music of ocean breeze.

Not that anyone ever asked me, but all the company I ever needed was a book and the breeze at the edge of the ocean. I was happiest when I was alone

At least I know what love is. Like clouds love the sky, ocean loves sand, winter loves snow, snow loves breeze, it's all connected. It's called unconditional love. It's in our heart.

What is dying? I am standing on the seashore. A ship sails to the morning breeze and starts for the ocean. She is an object and I stand watching her Till at last she fades from the horizon, And someone at my side says, “She is gone!” Gone where? Gone from my sight, that is all; She is just as large in the masts, hull and spars as she was when I saw her, And just as able to bear her load of living freight to its destination. The diminished size and total loss of sight is in me, not in her; And just at the moment when someone at my side says, “She is gone”, There are others who are watching her coming, And other voices take up a glad shout, “There she comes” – and that is dying.

Lucky" (feat. Colbie Caillat) Do you hear me, I'm talking to you Across the water across the deep blue ocean Under the open sky, oh my, baby I'm trying Boy I hear you in my dreams I feel your whisper across the sea I keep you with me in my heart You make it easier when life gets hard I'm lucky I'm in love with my best friend Lucky to have been where I have been Lucky to be coming home again Ooohh ooooh oooh oooh ooh ooh ooh ooh They don't know how long it takes Waiting for a love like this Every time we say goodbye I wish we had one more kiss I'll wait for you I promise you, I will I'm lucky I'm in love with my best friend Lucky to have been where I have been Lucky to be coming home again Lucky we're in love every way Lucky to have stayed where we have stayed Lucky to be coming home someday And so I'm sailing through the sea To an island where we'll meet You'll hear the music fill the air I'll put a flower in your hair Though the breezes through trees Move so pretty you're all I see As the world keeps spinning round You hold me right here right now I'm lucky I'm in love with my best friend Lucky to have been where I have been Lucky to be coming home again I'm lucky we're in love every way Lucky to have stayed where we have stayed Lucky to be coming home someday

Places I love come back to me like music, Hush me and heal me when I am very tired; I see the oak woods at Saxton's flaming In a flare of crimson by the frost newly fired; And I am thirsty for the spring in the valley As for a kiss ungiven and long desired. I know a bright world of snowy hills at Boonton, A blue and white dazzling light on everything one sees, The ice-covered branches of the hemlocks sparkle Bending low and tinkling in the sharp thin breeze, And iridescent crystals fall and crackle on the snow-crust With the winer sun drawing cold blue shadows from the trees. Violet now, in veil on veil of evening, The hills across from Cromwell grow dreamy and far; A wood-thrush is singing soft as a viol In the heart of the hollow where the dark pools are; The primrose has opened her pale yellow flowers And heaven is lighting star after star. Places I love come back to me like music– Mid-ocean, midnight, the eaves buzz drowsily; In the ship's deep churning the eerie phosphorescence Is like the souls of people who were drowned at sea, And I can hear a man's voice, speaking, hushed , insistent, At midnight, in mid-ocean, hour on hour to me.

Then overwhelmed by the sense of that unknown infinity, like one bewildered by a strange persecution, confronting the shadows of night, in the presence of that impenetrable darkness, in the midst of the murmur of the waves, the swell, the foam, the breeze, under the clouds, under that vast diffusion of force, under that mysterious firmament of wings, of stars, of gulfs, having around him and beneath him the ocean above him the constellations, under the great unfathomable deep, he sank, gave up the struggle, lay down upon the rock, his face towards the stars, humble, and uplifting his joined hands towards the terrible depths, he cried aloud, "Have mercy.

Don’t try to fit me in a box… My life is not one dimensional. I’m the summer breeze and the hurricane… I’m the serene lake and the raging ocean… I’m the gentle poet and the rough warrior… I can build and I can destroy... I can romance and I can ravage... I can be wise and I can be silly... I can and WILL be everything that the length, depth, and breadth of life will allow... KNOW THIS! Your labels don’t limit me… they limit your experience of me. Don’t confuse the two.

She could not have asked for a more perfect day. The sun was shining, the humidity was low. There was a slight breeze. The water was a silvery blue. It was a bright, beautiful, early, autumn day. Perfect.

My mom always said, there are two kinds of love in this world: the steady breeze, and the hurricane. The steady breeze is slow and patient. It fills the sails of the boats in the harbor, and lifts laundry on the line. It cools you on a hot summer’s day; brings the leaves of fall, like clockwork every year. You can count on a breeze, steady and sure and true. But there’s nothing steady about a hurricane. It rips through town, reckless, sending the ocean foaming up the shore, felling trees and power lines and anyone dumb or fucked-up enough to stand in its path. Sure, it’s a thrill like nothing you’ve ever known: your pulse kicks, your body calls to it, like a spirit possessed. It’s wild and breathless and all-consuming. But what comes next? “You see a hurricane coming, you run.” My mom told me, the summer I turned eighteen. “You shut the doors, and you bar the windows. Because come morning, there’ll be nothing but the wreckage left behind.” Emerson Ray was my hurricane. Looking back, I wonder if mom saw it in my eyes: the storm clouds gathering, the dry crackle of electricity in the air. But it was already too late. No warning sirens were going to save me. I guess you never really know the danger, not until you’re the one left, huddled on the ground, surrounded by the pieces of your broken heart. It’s been four years now since that summer. Since Emerson. It took everything I had to pull myself back together, to crawl out of the empty wreckage of my life and build something new in its place. This time, I made it storm-proof. Strong. I barred shutters over my heart, and found myself a steady breeze to love. I swore, nothing would ever destroy me like that summer again. I was wrong. That’s the thing about hurricanes. Once the storm touches down, all you can do is pray.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea! All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.

The roses are swaying gently around me in an ocean breeze. I can smell them from here. I can hear the waves and I can hear the chimes making a lovely music. I’m smiling at myself with my very red lips. I’m telling myself it’s time to go.

It’s not possible to ever forget the life moments where, in the morning ocean breeze, you can walk along the beach and pick colorful shells and corals… pity you are not allowed to take them home, but you can always take a picture or video.

Blow on, ye death fraught whirlwinds! blow, Around the rocks, and rifted caves; Ye demons of the gulf below! I hear you, in the troubled waves. High on this cliff, which darkness shrouds In night's impenetrable clouds, My solitary watch I keep, And listen, while the turbid deep Groans to the raging tempests, as they roll Their desolating force, to thunder at the pole. Eternal world of waters, hail! Within thy caves my Lover lies; And day and night alike shall fail Ere slumber lock my streaming eyes. Along this wild untrodden coast, Heap'd by the gelid' hand of frost; Thro' this unbounded waste of seas, Where never sigh'd the vernal breeze; Mine was the choice, in this terrific form, To brave the icy surge, to shiver in the storm. Yes! I am chang'd - My heart, my soul, Retain no more their former glow. Hence, ere the black'ning tempests roll, I watch the bark, in murmurs low, (While darker low'rs the thick'ning' gloom) To lure the sailor to his doom; Soft from some pile of frozen snow I pour the syren-song of woe; Like the sad mariner's expiring cry, As, faint and worn with toil, he lays him down to die. Then, while the dark and angry deep Hangs his huge billows high in air ; And the wild wind with awful sweep, Howls in each fitful swell - beware! Firm on the rent and crashing mast, I lend new fury to the blast; I mark each hardy cheek grow pale, And the proud sons of courage fail; Till the torn vessel drinks the surging waves, Yawns the disparted main, and opes its shelving graves. When Vengeance bears along the wave The spell, which heav'n and earth appals; Alone, by night, in darksome cave, On me the gifted wizard calls. Above the ocean's boiling flood Thro' vapour glares the moon in blood: Low sounds along the waters die, And shrieks of anguish fill the' sky; Convulsive powers the solid rocks divide, While, o'er the heaving surge, the embodied spirits glide. Thrice welcome to my weary sight, Avenging ministers of Wrath! Ye heard, amid the realms of night, The spell that wakes the sleep of death. Where Hecla's flames the snows dissolve, Or storms, the polar skies involve; Where, o'er the tempest-beaten wreck, The raging winds and billows break; On the sad earth, and in the stormy sea, All, all shall shudd'ring own your potent agency. To aid your toils, to scatter death, Swift, as the sheeted lightning's force, When the keen north-wind's freezing breath Spreads desolation in its course, My soul within this icy sea, Fulfils her fearful destiny. Thro' Time's long ages I shall wait To lead the victims to their fate; With callous heart, to hidden rocks decoy, And lure, in seraph-strains, unpitying, to destroy.

She was so many layers. One layer was sweet and shy. The next layer was dark and unpredictable. Under that, a layer of fierce dominance. She was the ocean, with its riptides and its soft, clean breeze and its beauty and its chilling, shark-filled depths." -Veronica

She was the night, in love with the stars, always chasing the moon. He was an early cup of coffee, in love with her wild ocean breeze, her mischievous ways, her childish play.

A refreshing west coast breeze carried a few clouds toward the main door of the car shop by the ocean's rocky beach on the island.

...Here, near the ocean, the breeze teaches insects kind ways...

If he truly loves you, he will love you when you are an ocean breeze but also when you are a summer storm. You were not made to be loved in parts You were meant to be loved as a whole.

The ocean breeze returned, stinging his eyes, causing moisture to pool. He blinked it away before Claire could see, because… Anthony Rawlings didn’t apologize and he didn’t cry… that’s the truth.

Sometimes, I see myself standing on a beach, my bare feet buried in the wet sand. And there’s no one on the beach, just me, but I don’t feel alone. What I feel is alive. And it seems like the whole world belongs to me. The cool breeze whistles through my hair, and something tells me I have heard that song all my life. I’m watching the waves hit the sand, the ebb and flow of the waves crashing against the distant cliffs. The ocean is ever moving—​and yet there is a stillness that I envy.

Lines Composed in a Wood on a Windy Day My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring And carried aloft on the winds of the breeze; For above and around me the wild wind is roaring, Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas. The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing, The bare trees are tossing their branches on high; The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing, The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky. I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray; I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing, And hear the wild roar of their thunder to-day!

A breeze lifted off the ocean and several hundred notes from the wind chimes tinkled like ice shaken in silver cups. They altered the mood of the forest the way an orchestra does a theater when it begins tuning up its instruments.

Something changed in my heart. The hardened frost-glittering surface melted just a little to allow my feelings for Callan to blaze bright. I wouldn’t be fighting for revenge or ruthless justice. This time, I’d be fighting for love and connection.

And at last, the wicked Queen's spell was broken, and the young woman, whom circumstance and cruelty had trapped in the body of a bird, was released from her cage. The cage door opened and the cuckoo bird fell, fell, fell, until finally her stunted wings opened, and she found that she could fly. With the cool sea breeze of her homeland buffeting the underside of her wings, she soared over the cliff edge and across the ocean. Towards a new land of hope, and freedom, and life. Towards her other half. Home.

Every spring the meadow in front of the house became an ocean of canary-colored mustard blossoms, and when a wind came up, it was like watching a sea of rippling golden waves rising and falling with the breeze like breakers just before they pound into a reef.

Wine is so complex, I mused. Thousands of experts and hundreds of thousands of amateur experts would rhapsodize or vilify the vinification of these seemingly simple bunches of grapes. But in the end, it was just these innocuous clusters, photosynthesis, rain or no rain, cool ocean breezes, alluvial soils, that produced these epiphanies in the bottle hundreds and thousands of miles away.

A Tear And A Smile - I would not exchange the sorrows of my heart For the joys of the multitude. And I would not have the tears that sadness makes To flow from my every part turn into laughter. I would that my life remain a tear and a smile. A tear to purify my heart and give me understanding Of life's secrets and hidden things. A smile to draw me nigh to the sons of my kind and To be a symbol of my glorification of the gods. A tear to unite me with those of broken heart; A smile to be a sign of my joy in existence. I would rather that I died in yearning and longing than that I live Weary and despairing. I want the hunger for love and beauty to be in the Depths of my spirit,for I have seen those who are Satisfied the most wretched of people. I have heard the sigh of those in yearning and Longing, and it is sweeter than the sweetest melody. With evening's coming the flower folds her petals And sleeps, embracingher longing. At morning's approach she opens her lips to meet The sun's kiss. The life of a flower is longing and fulfilment. A tear and a smile. The waters of the sea become vapor and rise and come Together and area cloud. And the cloud floats above the hills and valleys Until it meets the gentle breeze, then falls weeping To the fields and joins with brooks and rivers to Return to the sea, its home. The life of clouds is a parting and a meeting. A tear and a smile. And so does the spirit become separated from The greater spirit to move in the world of matter And pass as a cloud over the mountain of sorrow And the plains of joy to meet the breeze of death And return whence it came. To the ocean of Love and Beauty----to God.

Things that remind me of Mother are these: the truth ‘mid deception, a warm summer breeze, the calm within chaos, a stitch in a rip, a comforting blanket, the smile on her lip, an ocean of love in a heart big as whales, the morals in everyday stories she tells, a wink amid laughter, the wisdom in books, the peace in humility, beauty in looks, the light and the life in a ray of the sun, the hard work accomplished disguised as pure fun, concern in a handclasp, encouragement too, the hope in a clear morning sky azure blue, the power in prayers uttered soft and sincere, the faith in a promise, and joy in a tear. These things all attest to the wonder and grace of my precious mother, none else could replace.

The World Has Need Of You” everything here seems to need us —Rainer Maria Rilke I can hardly imagine it as I walk to the lighthouse, feeling the ancient prayer of my arms swinging in counterpoint to my feet. Here I am, suspended between the sidewalk and twilight, the sky dimming so fast it seems alive. What if you felt the invisible tug between you and everything? A boy on a bicycle rides by, his white shirt open, flaring behind him like wings. It’s a hard time to be human. We know too much and too little. Does the breeze need us? The cliffs? The gulls? If you’ve managed to do one good thing, the ocean doesn’t care. But when Newton’s apple fell toward the earth, the earth, ever so slightly, fell toward the apple.

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago--never mind how long precisely--having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs--commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?--Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster--tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here? But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand--miles of them--leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues--north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither? Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries--stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

You must feel the rustle of the leaves. You must feel the rumble of the clouds. The flowers sing their own songs. The bees create their own rhythm. The waves serenade with distinct notes. The breeze captivates in its own chords. And the moon mesmerizes in her own melodies. You must understand the symphony of nature.

I let her go. She didn't step back. “I need to either get you out of my system so I can go back to my life, or fall in love with you so much it changes my life completely. Ever since I saw you, I wanted you.” My jaw clenched. Did she know how hard that was to admit? “You break all my rules and scare me half to death.

The community of Partageuse had drifted together like so much dust in a breeze, settling in this spot where two oceans met, because there was fresh water and a natural harbor and good soil. Its port was no rival to Albany, but convenient for locals shipping timber or sandalwood or beef. Little businesses had sprung up and clung on like lichen on a rock face, and the town had accumulated a school, a variety of churches with different hymns and architectures, a good few brick and stone houses and a lot more built of weatherboard and tin. It gradually produced various shops, a town hall, even a Dalgety's stock and station agency. And pubs. Many pubs.

Start with something you love. The laughter of your child. Sunlight on the ocean. Your beloved dog. A favorite song, music itself. Perhaps a photo, like my caribou. A favorite spot—your garden, the cliffs at the sea, the family cabin. Someone dear to you. We begin with the things we love; this is the way back, the path home. For we don’t always draw the connection—God made these specifically for you, and he gave you the heart to love them. You’ll be out for a bike ride in the very early morning, cool breeze in your face, all the sweet, fresh aromas it brings, the exhilaration of speed, and your heart spontaneously sings, I love this! The next step is to say, So does God. He made this moment; he made these things. He is the creator of everything I love. Your heart will naturally respond by opening toward him.

There was a feeling of freshness and vigour in the very streets; and when I got free of the town, when my foot was on the sands and my face towards the broad, bright bay, no language can describe the effect of the deep, clear azure of the sky and ocean, the bright morning sunshine on the semicircular barrier of craggy cliffs surmounted by green swelling hills, and on the smooth, wide sands, and the low rocks out at sea—looking, with their clothing of weeds and moss, like little grass–grown islands—and above all, on the brilliant, sparkling waves. And then, the unspeakable purity—and freshness of the air! There was just enough heat to enhance the value of the breeze, and just enough wind to keep the whole sea in motion, to make the waves come bounding to the shore, foaming and sparkling, as if wild with glee. Nothing else was stirring—no living creature was visible besides myself. My footsteps were the first to press the firm, unbroken sands;—nothing before had trampled them since last night’s flowing tide had obliterated the deepest marks of yesterday, and left them fair and even, except where the subsiding water had left behind it the traces of dimpled pools and little running streams.

A cottage on the rocky shoreline, with knotty pine floorboards and windows that are nearly always open. The smell of evergreens and brine wafting in on the breeze, and white linen drapes lifting in a lazy dance. The burble of a coffee maker, and that first deep pull of cold ocean air as we step out onto the flagstone patio, steaming mugs in hand.

My nights are full of long walks and the scent of ocean breezes and the sound of people singing. Sometimes, I hear your voice in my dreams and I wake with a start, but I’m getting better at soothing myself back to sleep these days. Perhaps in time I will stop asking God for his forgiveness. Perhaps I will be able to uncurl the defenses around my heart and let someone see me the way you saw me: vulnerable and naked and totally trusting. I have one final promise to make to you, one I will never break. I promise to live, richly and shamelessly and with my arms wide open to the world. If there was any part left of you at the end that wished for our great happiness, that truly wanted what was best for us, I think it would be pleased to hear me say it. I do not know if I have justified my choice to you, but I think I have justified it to myself, and that has brought me peace enough.

how on still nights, when there is no breeze stirring the waves, the Nautilus sails on the blue waters of the Indian Ocean in his “ship of pearl.

From the way his face lit with curiosity to the slight tilt of his jaw, even the lingering scent of brine and breeze gave him away.

he caught a whiff of salt on the breeze and the sky unfurled itself, a lover stretching out to reach the ocean below.

Hanging out by the ocean is about as cool as it gets at sea level, as the ocean acts as air conditioning and creates breezes.

Watch the waves crash upon the shore. Feel the sea breeze on your face and smell the salty sea air.

Feel the kiss of ocean breeze, Hear the song of dancing wave Let your soul fly away with seagulls To fill the heart with the joy of life.

It comes in Ocean Breeze and Tropical Paradise. I prefer Ocean Breeze, but it dries the scalp.

She’s facing the ocean, her black waves dancing in the night breeze, the moonlight brushing against her skin. Muse.

While Max couldn’t define those words using a sentence of his own, he understood their usage and implications in the same way he understood colors, humidity, shame, love, and ocean breezes.

I love you .....the way a river loves an ocean.....I love you....the way a star loves the deep dark night.....I love you .....the way a leaf loves the tree...... even in the parting autumn breeze......you and I will meet again....the way a dawn meets the night......the way a brook meets the sea.....the way a tree meets the sky.....it is not over my friend....it is not over......

~The spirit of a woman~ Is softer than the morning breeze, Tough as nails and strong as steel, But flexible as the willow tree. The heart of a woman Is the foundation of humanity, Grander than the mountains high, But deep as the ocean blue. The wisdom of a woman, Spans across all lands, Withstands all test of time, And is never ending. ~by nancybbrewer ~ www.nancybbrewer.com

She breathed in the scent of lemon blossoms, inspired by how their citrus sweetness mingled with fresh ocean air. Closing her eyes, she ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, tasting a faint saltiness in the moisture laden breeze. She imagined how dark, rich chocolate filled with the brightness of a lemon filling and dusted with chunky sea salt might taste. Delicious, she decided.

Colors sluiced the air with fugal patterns as a shape subsumed the breeze and fell, to form further on, a brighter emerald, a duller amethyst. Odors flushed the wind with vinegar, snow, ocean, ginger, poppies, rum. Autumn, ocean, ginger, ocean, autumn; ocean, ocean, the surge of ocean again, while light foamed in the dimming blue that underlit the Mouse’s face. Electric arpeggios of a neo-raga rilled.

The evening before I departed I stood on the rim of a lagoon on Isla Rabida. Flamingos rode on its dark surface like pink swans, apparently asleep. Small, curved feathers, shed from their breasts, drifted away from them over the water on a light breeze. I did not move for an hour. It was a moment of such peace, every troubled thread in a human spirit might have uncoiled and sorted itself into a graceful order. Other flamingos stood in the shallows with diffident elegance in the falling light, not feeding but only staring off toward the ocean. They seemed a kind of animal I had never quite seen before.

He twirled her, and she spun around, her gown fluttering as if in an ocean breeze before flowing around her like a cloud, rising and falling like a secret of the tide fading to the seclusion of an enigmatic rose in windswept lands.

It's been a while since I've had a moment to miss you, and to cry. This warm, summer breeze on my balcony makes me think of Cape Cod, and your floral swimsuits. How you never worn sunscreen but always told us we had to. Even in this loud city, quiet moments exist where your spirit is present. And I feel like you're sitting next to me on the beach again. So I'll wait until the sun goes down before I go back inside. For now, we can sit here and listen to the ocean.

Roman Centurion's Song" LEGATE, I had the news last night - my cohort ordered home By ships to Portus Itius and thence by road to Rome. I've marched the companies aboard, the arms are stowed below: Now let another take my sword. Command me not to go! I've served in Britain forty years, from Vectis to the Wall, I have none other home than this, nor any life at all. Last night I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near That calls me to my native land, I feel that land is here. Here where men say my name was made, here where my work was done; Here where my dearest dead are laid - my wife - my wife and son; Here where time, custom, grief and toil, age, memory, service, love, Have rooted me in British soil. Ah, how can I remove? For me this land, that sea, these airs, those folk and fields suffice. What purple Southern pomp can match our changeful Northern skies, Black with December snows unshed or pearled with August haze - The clanging arch of steel-grey March, or June's long-lighted days? You'll follow widening Rhodanus till vine and olive lean Aslant before the sunny breeze that sweeps Nemausus clean To Arelate's triple gate; but let me linger on, Here where our stiff-necked British oaks confront Euroclydon! You'll take the old Aurelian Road through shore-descending pines Where, blue as any peacock's neck, the Tyrrhene Ocean shines. You'll go where laurel crowns are won, but -will you e'er forget The scent of hawthorn in the sun, or bracken in the wet? Let me work here for Britain's sake - at any task you will - A marsh to drain, a road to make or native troops to drill. Some Western camp (I know the Pict) or granite Border keep, Mid seas of heather derelict, where our old messmates sleep. Legate, I come to you in tears - My cohort ordered home! I've served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome? Here is my heart, my soul, my mind - the only life I know. I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go!

Are you planning on shooting me for wearing your t-shirt?” I cocked my hip, daring him. I couldn't tear my eyes away. This was a very bad idea—I shouldn't have come. I was in deep trouble with the way my body totally disregarded me, snarling for his touch

the breeze would draw a violin bow across the branches of a tree and I would again hear her lullaby. I would listen to the chime of coins being counted, and I would imagine her laughter. Her voice was caught in the shell of my ear, as if it were the ocean.

Every creature aflame as it swims through the night!   How sea, how shore’s held in a burning embrace!   Then let Eros reign with whom all things commence!   Hurrah for the ocean! Hurrah for the waves 8770 And their crests with the sacred fire ablaze!   Hurrah for the water, hurrah for the fire,   Hurrah for their union, so rare, with each other!   ALL TOGETHER. Hurrah for the gentle caressing breezes!   Hurrah for the caves and their secret recesses!   Lift up our voices in praise of the four:   Water, fire, earth, and air!

Then set out after repeated warning the grizzly Afghan Duryodhan in blazing sun removed sandal-wood blooded stone-attired guards spearing gloom brought out a substitute of dawn crude hell’s profuse experience Huh a night-waken drug addict beside head of feeble earth from the cruciform The Clapper could not descend due to lockdown wet-eyed babies were smiling . in a bouquet of darkness in forced dreams The Clapper wept when learnt about red-linen boat’s drowned passengers in famished yellow winter white lilies bloomed in hot coal tar when in chiseled breeze nickel glazed seed-kernel moss layered skull which had moon on its shoulder scolded whole night non-weeping male praying mantis in grass bronze muscled he-men of Barbadoz pressed their fevered forehead on her furry navel . in comb-flowing rain floated on frowning waves diesel sheet shadow whipped oceans all wings had been removed from the sky funeral procession of newspaperman’s freshly printed dawn lifelong jailed convict’s eye in the keyhole outside in autumnal rice pounding pink ankle Lalung ladies

The sun is no more than a tiny pinpoint of orange light atop an indigo sea now, leaving the sky violent shades of hot pink, lavender, and teal. Evening breezes play over us, carrying the scent of the ocean. It's getting cold, but Macon's body is warm and solid against mine.

It is a wonderful morning with the sun shining bright and flowers smiling. There is a sweet breeze kissing my face while a hot cup of coffee warms my heart and awakens my mind. The primordial songs of ocean waves are soothing my soul. I am not on earth; I am in heaven on earth.

167 It’s one of those days when the monotony of everything oppresses me like being thrown into jail. The monotony of everything is merely the monotony of myself, however. Each face, even if seen just yesterday, is different today, because today isn’t yesterday. Each day is the day it is, and there was never another one like it in the world. Only our soul makes the identification – a genuinely felt but erroneous identification – by which everything becomes similar and simplified. The world is a set of distinct things with varied edges, but if we’re near-sighted, it’s a continual and indecipherable fog. I feel like fleeing. Like fleeing from what I know, fleeing from what’s mine, fleeing from what I love. I want to depart, not for impossible Indias or for the great islands south of everything, but for any place at all – village or wilderness – that isn’t this place. I want to stop seeing these unchanging faces, this routine, these days. I want to rest, far removed, from my inveterate feigning. I want to feel sleep come to me as life, not as rest. A cabin on the seashore or even a cave in a rocky mountainside could give me this, but my will, unfortunately, cannot. Slavery is the law of life, and it is the only law, for it must be observed: there is no revolt possible, no way to escape it. Some are born slaves, others become slaves, and still others are forced to accept slavery. Our faint-hearted love of freedom – which, if we had it, we would all reject, unable to get used to it – is proof of how ingrained our slavery is. I myself, having just said that I’d like a cabin or a cave where I could be free from the monotony of everything, which is the monotony of me – would I dare set out for this cabin or cave, knowing from experience that the monotony, since it stems from me, will always be with me? I myself, suffocating from where I am and because I am – where would I breathe easier, if the sickness is in my lungs rather than in the things that surround me? I myself, who long for pure sunlight and open country, for the ocean in plain view and the unbroken horizon – could I get used to my new bed, the food, not having to descend eight flights of stairs to the street, not entering the tobacco shop on the corner, not saying good-morning to the barber standing outside his shop? Everything that surrounds us becomes part of us, infiltrating our physical sensations and our feeling of life, and like spittle of the great Spider it subtly binds us to whatever is close, tucking us into a soft bed of slow death which is rocked by the wind. Everything is us, and we are everything, but what good is this, if everything is nothing? A ray of sunlight, a cloud whose shadow tells us it is passing, a breeze that rises, the silence that follows when it ceases, one or another face, a few voices, the incidental laughter of the girls who are talking, and then night with the meaningless, fractured hieroglyphs of the stars.

Here I was with the guy I maybe-loved, relaxing by the ocean with salty crisp breezes and blue-gray sea curving into a for-ever horizon. We even had background music to add to the romantic ambience. And except for the "can't kiss because he's my brother" thing, this was the perfect romantic moment.

Bottle cork, bottle cork There’s naught within but lees. The glowing eyes of Jack O’Lantern Dance on evening’s breeze; Goblin fires light the wood And flicker through the trees. The clouds, they say, are whipping cream, The oceans seas of teas, The rain a fall of diamonds, The moon a ball of cheese.

However, whatever frightening mask it might assume, the national spirit in its original state was of pristine whiteness. Traveling through a country like Thailand, Honda realized more clearly than ever the simplicity and purity of things Japanese, like transparent stream water through which one could glimpse pebbles below, or the probity of Shinto rites. Honda’s life was not imbued with such spirit. Like the majority of Japanese he ignored it, behaving as though it did not exist and surviving by escaping from it. All his life he had dodged things fundamental and artless: white silk, clear cold water, the zigzag white paper of the exorciser’s staff fluttering in the breeze, the sacred precinct marked by a torii, the gods’ dwelling in the sea, the mountains, the vast ocean, the Japanese sword with its glistening blade so pure and sharp. Not only Honda, but the vast majority of Westernized Japanese, could no longer stand such intensely native elements.

There was something restorative about the sea breezes. Standing at the edge of the world, the water swirling around your feet and inching you deeper into the sand, while staring off at the expanse of the ocean is grounding. Some people said it made them feel small, but it didn’t do that for me. It made me feel a part of something big.

Reluctant to return to the empty rooms of Bluebell Cottage, Olivia ate fish and chips on the harbor wall, dangling her legs over the side just like she used to as a little girl, even though it made her mam anxious. The breeze nipped at the back of her neck and whipped up a fine sea spray that settled on her hands, leaving sparkling salt crystals as it dried. Fairy dust, she used to call it. She breathed in the fresh air and absorbed the view: tangerine sky and dove-gray sea, ripples on the surface of both, like dragon scales. She savored the sharp tang of vinegar on her tongue, letting her thoughts wander as the sun slowly melted into the sea, turning it to liquid gold.

I draw myself up next to her and look at her profile, making no effort to disguise my attention, here, where there is only Puck to see me. The evening sun loves her throat and her cheekbones. Her hair the color of cliff grass rises and falls over her face in the breeze. Her expression is less ferocious than usual, less guarded. I say, “Are you afraid?” Her eyes are far away on the horizon line, out to the west where the sun has gone but the glow remains. Somewhere out there are my capaill uisce, George Holly’s America, every gallon of water that every ship rides on. Puck doesn’t look away from the orange glow at the end of the world. “Tell me what it’s like. The race.” What it’s like is a battle. A mess of horses and men and blood. The fastest and strongest of what is left from two weeks of preparation on the sand. It’s the surf in your face, the deadly magic of November on your skin, the Scorpio drums in the place of your heartbeat. It’s speed, if you’re lucky. It’s life and it’s death or it’s both and there’s nothing like it. Once upon a time, this moment — this last light of evening the day before the race — was the best moment of the year for me. The anticipation of the game to come. But that was when all I had to lose was my life. “There’s no one braver than you on that beach.” Her voice is dismissive. “That doesn’t matter.” “It does. I meant what I said at the festival. This island cares nothing for love but it favors the brave.” Now she looks at me. She’s fierce and red, indestructible and changeable, everything that makes Thisby what it is. She asks, “Do you feel brave?” The mare goddess had told me to make another wish. It feels thin as a thread to me now, that gift of a wish. I remember the years when it felt like a promise. “I don’t know what I feel, Puck.” Puck unfolds her arms just enough to keep her balance as she leans to me, and when we kiss, she closes her eyes. She draws back and looks into my face. I have not moved, and she barely has, but the world feels strange beneath me. “Tell me what to wish for,” I say. “Tell me what to ask the sea for.” “To be happy. Happiness.” I close my eyes. My mind is full of Corr, of the ocean, of Puck Connolly’s lips on mine. “I don’t think such a thing is had on Thisby. And if it is, I don’t know how you would keep it.” The breeze blows across my closed eyelids, scented with brine and rain and winter. I can hear the ocean rocking against the island, a constant lullaby. Puck’s voice is in my ear; her breath warms my neck inside my jacket collar. “You whisper to it. What it needs to hear. Isn’t that what you said?” I tilt my head so that her mouth is on my skin. The kiss is cold where the wind blows across my cheek. Her forehead rests against my hair. I open my eyes, and the sun has gone. I feel as if the ocean is inside me, wild and uncertain. “That’s what I said. What do I need to hear?” Puck whispers, “That tomorrow we’ll rule the Scorpio Races as king and queen of Skarmouth and I’ll save the house and you’ll have your stallion. Dove will eat golden oats for the rest of her days and you will terrorize the races each year and people will come from every island in the world to find out how it is you get horses to listen to you. The piebald will carry Mutt Malvern into the sea and Gabriel will decide to stay on the island. I will have a farm and you will bring me bread for dinner.” I say, “That is what I needed to hear.” “Do you know what to wish for now?” I swallow. I have no wishing-shell to throw into the sea when I say it, but I know that the ocean hears me nonetheless. “To get what I need.

For the first time his senses began to register the exotic, heady atmosphere of Mumbai...the odors most insistently demanded his attention. There were layers upon layers of them, all present at once but individually distinct. They shifted in strength and character with the ocean breeze that blew soft, irregular gusts across his face. First came the sharp tang of engine fuel mingled with an even more acrid burning smell, as though something unnatural had been set alight to blanket the city with a smoldering stench. A shift in the air's direction brought a fresher aroma of salt and brine floating in from the sea. It gave way to the hot smell of spices frying in oil, which in turn incongruously merged with the subtle reek of garbage.

Cassandra lifted the apple to her lips. The sunny scent was strong as she bit into it. An apple, from a tree in her very own garden, a tree planted many years before that still produced fruit. Year in, year out. It was sweet. Were apples always so sweet? She yawned. The sun had made her very drowsy. She would sit, just for a little while longer, until the gardener arrived. She took another bite of the apple. The room felt warmer than it had before. As if the range had suddenly begun to work, as if someone else had joined her in the cottage and was beginning to make lunch. Her lids were heavy and she closed her eyes. A bird somewhere sang, a lovely, lonely tune; breeze-blown leaves tapped against the windows, and in the distance the ocean breathed steadily, in and out, in and out, in and out...

I want to fly over the mountain's peek as winds Want to bring up the sand of ocean's bottom Want to sprint faster then leopard Want to fly like feather do with the breeze Want to drawn deep into the ocean like sun do Want to conceal behind the clouds like moon do Cold as outer space Warm as earth's womb To be silent as desert's are Want to roar louder then the thunders do innocent as a child i want........me back))))))

The whiff of ocean on the southern breeze and the smell of burning asphalt brought back memories of summers past. It had seemed as though those sweet dreams of summer would last forever: the warmth of a girl’s skin, an old rock ‘n’ roll song, freshly washed button-down shirt, the odor of cigarette smoke in a pool changing room, a fleeting premonition. Then one summer (when had it been?) the dreams had vanished, never to return.

We sat within the farm-house old, Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, Gave to the sea-breeze damp and cold, An easy entrance, night and day. Not far away we saw the port, The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, The lighthouse, the dismantled fort, The wooden houses, quaint and brown. We sat and talked until the night, Descending, filled the little room; Our faces faded from the sight, Our voices only broke the gloom. We spake of many a vanished scene, Of what we once had thought and said, And who was changed, and who was dead; And all that fills the hearts of friends, When first they feel, with secret pain, Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, And never can be one again; The first slight swerving of the heart, That words are powerless to express, And leave it still unsaid in part, Or say it in too great excess. The very tones in why we spake, Had something strange, I could but mark; The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rattling in the dark. Oft died the words upon our lips, As suddenly, from out the fire Built of the wreck of stranded ships, The flames would leap and then expire. And, as their splendor flashed and failed, We thought of wrecks upon the main, Of ships dismasted, that were hailed And sent no answer back again. The windows, rattling in their frames, The ocean, roaring up the beach, The gusty blast, the bickering flames, All mingled vaguely in our speech; Until they made themselves a part Of fancies floating through the brain, The long-lost ventures of the heart, That send no answers back again. O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned! They were indeed too much akin, The drift-wood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within.

He then said something in Arabic to Ali, who made a sign of obedience and withdrew, but not to any distance. As to Franz a strange transformation had taken place in him. All the bodily fatigue of the day, all the preoccupation of mind which the events of the evening had brought on, disappeared as they do at the first approach of sleep, when we are still sufficiently conscious to be aware of the coming of slumber. His body seemed to acquire an airy lightness, his perception brightened in a remarkable manner, his senses seemed to redouble their power, the horizon continued to expand; but it was not the gloomy horizon of vague alarms, and which he had seen before he slept, but a blue, transparent, unbounded horizon, with all the blue of the ocean, all the spangles of the sun, all the perfumes of the summer breeze; then, in the midst of the songs of his sailors, -- songs so clear and sonorous, that they would have made a divine harmony had their notes been taken down, -- he saw the Island of Monte Cristo, no longer as a threatening rock in the midst of the waves, but as an oasis in the desert; then, as his boat drew nearer, the songs became louder, for an enchanting and mysterious harmony rose to heaven, as if some Loreley had decreed to attract a soul thither, or Amphion, the enchanter, intended there to build a city. At length the boat touched the shore, but without effort, without shock, as lips touch lips; and he entered the grotto amidst continued strains of most delicious melody. He descended, or rather seemed to descend, several steps, inhaling the fresh and balmy air, like that which may be supposed to reign around the grotto of Circe, formed from such perfumes as set the mind a dreaming, and such fires as burn the very senses; and he saw again all he had seen before his sleep, from Sinbad, his singular host, to Ali, the mute attendant; then all seemed to fade away and become confused before his eyes, like the last shadows of the magic lantern before it is extinguished, and he was again in the chamber of statues, lighted only by one of those pale and antique lamps which watch in the dead of the night over the sleep of pleasure. They were the same statues, rich in form, in attraction, and poesy, with eyes of fascination, smiles of love, and bright and flowing hair. They were Phryne, Cleopatra, Messalina, those three celebrated courtesans. Then among them glided like a pure ray, like a Christian angel in the midst of Olympus, one of those chaste figures, those calm shadows, those soft visions, which seemed to veil its virgin brow before these marble wantons. Then the three statues advanced towards him with looks of love, and approached the couch on which he was reposing, their feet hidden in their long white tunics, their throats bare, hair flowing like waves, and assuming attitudes which the gods could not resist, but which saints withstood, and looks inflexible and ardent like those with which the serpent charms the bird; and then he gave way before looks that held him in a torturing grasp and delighted his senses as with a voluptuous kiss. It seemed to Franz that he closed his eyes, and in a last look about him saw the vision of modesty completely veiled; and then followed a dream of passion like that promised by the Prophet to the elect. Lips of stone turned to flame, breasts of ice became like heated lava, so that to Franz, yielding for the first time to the sway of the drug, love was a sorrow and voluptuousness a torture, as burning mouths were pressed to his thirsty lips, and he was held in cool serpent-like embraces. The more he strove against this unhallowed passion the more his senses yielded to its thrall, and at length, weary of a struggle that taxed his very soul, he gave way and sank back breathless and exhausted beneath the kisses of these marble goddesses, and the enchantment of his marvellous dream.

I am not a women that takes anything for granted, I'll lay endlessly With you and talk about meaningful and logical, I'll watch the stars at midnight and the way they twinkle back; to let me know they see me too, I'll wind the window down just to feel the breeze, I'll turn the music up when I love a song, I'll sit with the ocean when I feel lost, I'll cry when my heart hurts & I'll listen to you when yours is hurting too, I know the kind of women I am, and im not shy in showing her to the world.

The sun had burned off whatever morning fog and low clouds had gripped the city, and now a glorious fall day was upon them. Warm sunlight caressed his face as cool ocean breezes carried the sound of gulls and the tang of salt. He remembered the stab of pain he had felt when he had thought he would not see the day, and the terror and panic that had gripped him as rough hands had placed him upon the gallows returned. Erik felt a choking sensation in his own chest, and suddenly, without any ability to control it, he began to weep. Roo

Man is a thinking reed but his great works are done when he is not calculating and thinking. ‘Childlikeness’ has to be restored with long years of training in the art of selfforgetfulness. When this is attained, man thinks yet he does not think. He thinks like showers coming down from the sky; he thinks like the waves rolling on the ocean; he thinks like the stars illuminating the nightly heavens; he thinks like the green foliage shooting forth in the relaxing spring breeze. Indeed, he is the showers, the ocean, the stars, the foliage.

THE OLD GROWTH, THE MAPLES, turned first. They rusted one leaf at a time, where ocean breezes bruised them, late in August. Paulo, the tree warden, once told Journeyman that the first trees to change reveal a map of damage. The earliest turning were those once sickened or lightning-struck. So Journeyman saw the season as a theater of succumbing. The wind’s bite called each tree to solidarity with the weakest. Only the evergreens were refuseniks. Primordial trees, dinosaur trees—in their gummy hearts, they were deader than the trees that turned.

In the morning light the scene was beyond compare. The mountains and the hills were bathed in the soft light of the coming day, and the glowing, richly tinted clouds that encircled them. The lighter green of the hillsides contrasted with the deeper shades of the valleys and the graceful foliage of the waving palms that extended around the beach. The groves of orange trees bending with their golden fruit, mingled with the breadfruit trees, and the banana with its great green leaves, while the morning breeze, laden with the breath of flowers, came from the shore, distilling a fragrance rarely inhaled in other lands.

Okay. He's not coming back. Is he? No. I thought back to biking that first day in Oregon. Weston and I weaving back and forth, taking up the whole street, loving the August air and ocean breeze. I remember him calling me his "neighbor" every night as we'd lie in our hammocks. "Oh, how's the family, neighbor?" he'd ask. "Oh, great." We'd started with such fire and magic. With a shared destiny and destination. The beginning of a grand adventure is pregnant with a thousand futures. Every possible best thing. But the end is often a fizzle. For us, Weston left for a wedding. And didn't come back. And just like that, a chapter was done.

The ship began moving. And Chaol—the man she hated and loved so much that she could hardly think around him—just stood there, watching her go. The current grabbed the ship, and the city began to diminish. The ocean breeze soon caressed her neck, but she never stopped staring at Chaol. She stared toward him until the glass castle was a sparkling speck in the distance. She stared toward him until there was only gleaming ocean around her. She stared toward him until the sun dropped beyond the horizon and a smattering of stars hung overhead. It was only when her eyelids drooped and she swayed on her feet that Celaena stopped staring toward Chaol.

Mermaid queens didn't often have a reason to move quickly. There were no wars to direct, no assassination attempts to evade, no crowds of clamoring admirers to avoid among the merfolk. In fact, slowness and calm were expected of royalty. So Ariel found herself thoroughly enjoying the exercise as she beat her tail against the water- even as it winded her a little. She missed dashing through shipwrecks with Flounder, fleeing sharks, trying to scoot back home before curfew. She loved the feel of her powerful muscles, the way the current cut around her when she twisted her shoulders to go faster. She hadn't been this far up in years and gulped as the pressure of the deep faded. She clicked her ears, readying them for the change of environment. Colors faded and transformed around her from the dark, heady slate of the ocean bottom to the soothing azure of the middle depths and finally lightening to the electric, magical periwinkle that heralded the burst into daylight. She hadn't planned to break through the surface triumphantly. She wouldn't give it that power. Her plan was to take it slow and rise like a whale. Casually, unperturbed, like Ooh, here I am. But somehow her tail kicked in twice as hard the last few feet, and she exploded into the warm sunlit air like she had been drowning. She gulped again and tasted the breeze- dry in her mouth; salt and pine and far-distant fires and a thousand alien scents.

It was one of those perfect nights, listening to the waves crash, feeling the warm summer breeze, watching the sun set over the ocean as the moon rose up in the sky. I looked out over the cliffs and I thought about the explorers who had sailed from places like this, what they'd accomplished, mapping the unknown world, charting our place in the universe. How many times had they failed and fallen down only to get back up and try again? How many times had they sailed out on an impossible voyage and made a successful return home? I sat there with Carola looking out over the endless horizon. It was strange, but I felt like everything was going to be okay. The end of my story was not yet written, and I still had the chance to make it extraordinary.

I press the blue glass triangle to my lips and smile for Matt, my best-friend-that’s-a-boy, my last goodbye to the brokenhearted promise I carried like my journal for so long. Somewhere below the black frothy ocean, a banished mermaid reads my letters and weeps endlessly for a love she’ll never know – not for a single moment. Before the trip, Frankie and I set out to have the Absolute Best Summer Ever, the summer of twenty boys. We’ll never agree on the final count – whether the boys from Caroline’s should be included in the tally, whether the milk-shake man was too old to be considered a “boy,” whether her tattooed rock star interlude was anything other than a rebound. But in the end, there were only two boys who really mattered. Matt and Sam. When I close my eyes, I see Sam lying next to me on the blanket that first night we watched the stars – the night he made me look at everything in a different way; the breeze on my skin and the music and the ocean at night. But I also see Matt; his marzipan frosting kiss. All the books he read to me. His postcard fairy tales of California, finally coming to life in Zanzibar Bay. When I kissed Sam, I was so scared of erasing Matt. But now I know that I could never erase him. He’ll always be part of me – just in a different way. Like Sam, making smoothies on the beach two thousand miles away. Like Frankie, my voodoo magic butterfly finding her way back home in the dark. Like the stars, fading with the halo of the vanishing moon. Like the ocean, falling and whispering against the shore. Nothing ever really goes away – it just changes into something else. Something beautiful.

The neon orange orb sat low in the sky, slowly breaking free of the horizon like the waking memory of a dream. The salty air smelled faintly of fish, and was thick with humidity and hung like a cloak over my body. The lavender sky at the horizon faded into cerulean above and behind me. The soft breeze whispered past my face, teasing my hair on its way to tickle the sawgrass that swayed in gratitude as if laughing like a child.
 I sat on the top plank of the boardwalk rail, the wood heavy with atmosphere and was damp and cool under my left palm. The surprising warmth of the winter air and the cool of the wood reminded me that yes, I am alive! Yes, I am grateful for this morning! And yes, I am glad to be here!
 The paper in my notebook as I wrote this began to feel sticky and moist within a few minutes. The ink from my pen seemed to grip the paper faster and firmer as if to say, I’m here, I’m happy, and I don’t want to lose this moment. Like my ink, I too wanted to cling to this morning.
 The sky started turning a peachy orange at the bottom and the ocean was sea foam green. The waves were breaking quietly, as if to give my thoughts amplitude so I could record and rejoice in the sea’s majesty. 
 The sand was gray and silky like a freshly pressed pair of slacks. The smooth beach seemed paved with sunlight. A jogger ran by, his knees probably grateful for the even stride the flat surface provided. 
 Chunks of sea foam lay strewn on the beach like remnants of Poseidon’s nightly bubble bath. A seagull circled low in the air, gliding in the sky with its streamlined body as the sun lit its white wings up like an angel’s halo.

The fourth day being spent in such fashion, the Catamarans retired to rest,—little William, at the request of the sailor, repeating the Lord’s Prayer, and ending it, by the dictation of the latter, with a short petition for a wind that would waft them to the westward! It seemed as if that simple petition had been heard and granted. As the sun once more rose over the ocean, its glossy surface became broken into tiny corrugations by a breeze blowing as if from the sun himself. The sail was run up the slippery mast; it was tightly sheeted home; and the Catamaran, rushing rapidly through the water, soon cleared herself from that fatal spot where the slaver had perished. “Westward ho!” cried Ben Brace, as he saw the sail swell out, and the craft, the product of his own skill, walking proudly away through the water like a “thing of life.

Two Points of View If I forget, — May joy pledge this weak heart to sorrow! If I forget, — May my soul's coloured summer borrow The hueless tones of storm and rain, Of ruth and terror, shame and pain, — If I forget! Though you forget, — There is no binding code for beauty; Though you forget, — Love was your charm, but not your duty; And life's worst breeze must never bring A ruffle to your silken wing, — Though you forget. If I forget, — The salt creek may forget the ocean; If I forget, — The heart whence flows my heart's bright motion, May I sink meanlier than the worst, Abandoned, outcast, crushed, accurst, — If I forget! Though you forget, — No word of mine shall mar your pleasure; Though you forget, — You filled my barren life with treasure, You may withdraw the gift you gave, You still are lord, I still am slave, — Though you forget.

Letter You can see it already: chalks and ochers; Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines; Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery; Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass; Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape; A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though: A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse); On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain All angular--you'd think a shovel did it. So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes; Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes, They carp at every gust that stirs them up. At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow Is rusting; and before me lies the vast Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue; Cocks and hens spread their gildings, and converse Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics, Now and then, toss me songs in dialect. In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker; The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff. I like these waters where the wild gale scuds; All day the country tempts me to go strolling; The little village urchins, book in hand, Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging), As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off. The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant Soft noise of children spelling things aloud. The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you! Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live: Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed My days, and think of you, my lady fair! I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times, Sailing across the high seas in its pride, Over the gables of the tranquil village, Some winged ship which is traveling far away, Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds. Lately it slept in port beside the quay. Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge: No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives, Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters, Nor importunity of sinister birds.

Time did exist here, in small amounts (well some of the time) – and there were feint eddies and currents of time here, things that were barely tangible. Feint forces of the universe they were, nearly indiscernible from the nothingness like a warm breeze on a hot summer night. How long he had been here, he knew not – but he was slowly learning to master these barely tangible waves like a new surfer with one foot on the sandy beach and the other on a shiny new board of Hatred. Revenge splashed around his feet like the cold waves of the ocean of Time. Nearby, two other inmates collided with each other, bounced apart spread-eagled and spiraled off into the distance in infinite slowness. The Wetsuit of Insanity clung to his spiritual body, isolating him from the timelessness that seemed to exist here. A wind of Change blew at him from behind and he pushed off from the beach with iron determination and a mental clarity hereto before unknown to him. Something in the microcosm that didn’t even have a name went ‘bling’ and against all the laws of probability, Brad Xyl opened his eyes.

And the enchanted silences converged there too from all realms. And each of the silences also had infinite possibilities and magnification without end. He could have lived in any of the silences for a millennium and not exhausted its mystery. Each of the silences, vast and serene, like a moment on the highest mountain, or a gentle breeze within a mirror, permeated the room, and dwelled at ease with all the others. The silences came from mountaintops covered with snow and the depths of unfathomed oceans, from the face of the moon and the forests at night, from the stalagmites of green caves and the axis of constellations, from human beings in their lonely places and beings in their higher spaces, from the dreams of a newborn babe and the first moments of emerging flowers, from angels and diamonds, from the heart of Time and the languid countrysides, from the hidden dimensions and the hidden heaven, from all the dead and all whose hearts quicken to the highest love, the silences came, and they passed through him, and they altered no spaces, and he noticed how real the room of meditations was for such dancing eternities.

He opened her door, grabbed a quilt from the back of the truck, and pulled her toward the beach. When he found a spot covered with thick sand, he stopped and spread out the blanket. “It’s a little early for sunbathing,” she said. “I don’t remember you being so grumpy in the morning,” he teased. “I didn’t have time for coffee.” He lowered himself to the blanket and pulled her down in front of him. She settled against his chest, his warmth driving away the chill in the air. “Madam . . .” He handed her a thermos she hadn’t noticed before. “Oh, bless you.” She poured the hot brew into the lid, took a sip, and shared with him. Much better. The smell of the brew mingled with the tangy scent of sea air. The cool breeze fanned her skin, pushing her hair from her face, and the water lapped the pebbled shore. The clouds on the horizon were beginning to brighten, the black fading to dark hues of blue. A couple months ago she’d mentioned that she’d never watched a sunrise. He seemed intent on being there for all her firsts. The first time she rented a house. The first time she opened her own bank account. The first time she swam in the ocean. She embraced her freedom, and Beau was there, supporting her however he could.

My mouth kept dropping open, and I would choke on road dust as the city loomed ever closer. When I glanced over at Elka, she was in the same state—wide-eyed and torn between fear and wonderment. Everything seemed like something out of legend. In the shadow of the soaring walls, the city became less of an imposing majestic place and more a heaped, jumbled gathering of wealth and squalor existing side by side. Heady perfumes and the stink of offal wrapped around each other, woven into an overwhelming tapestry by the ocean breeze. Wicker cages full of fowl and small game swung from carts, squawking and chittering excitedly, filling the air with a haze of fur and feathers. Tens and tens of incomprehensible languages rang in my ears. Houses and temples and other buildings made of stone—structures that made my father’s great hall seem like a sheepherder’s hut—rose above the street, level upon level. All of it—the sights and sounds and smells—tangled together into an assault on my senses that made me want to clap my hands over my ears and hide my head. But there was no escaping the chaos as our cart plunged on, heading right toward the very heart of Massilia. With only the bars of my cage between me and the pushing, shoving, singing, shouting crowd, I’d never felt so vulnerable.

The morning after / my death” The morning after my death we will sit in cafés but I will not be there I will not be * There was the great death of birds the moon was consumed with fire the stars were visible until noon. Green was the forest drenched with shadows the roads were serpentine A redwood tree stood alone with its lean and lit body unable to follow the cars that went by with frenzy a tree is always an immutable traveller. The moon darkened at dawn the mountain quivered with anticipation and the ocean was double-shaded: the blue of its surface with the blue of flowers mingled in horizontal water trails there was a breeze to witness the hour * The sun darkened at the fifth hour of the day the beach was covered with conversations pebbles started to pour into holes and waves came in like horses. * The moon darkened on Christmas eve angels ate lemons in illuminated churches there was a blue rug planted with stars above our heads lemonade and war news competed for our attention our breath was warmer than the hills. * There was a great slaughter of rocks of spring leaves of creeks the stars showed fully the last king of the Mountain gave battle and got killed. We lay on the grass covered dried blood with our bodies green blades swayed between our teeth. * We went out to sea a bank of whales was heading South a young man among us a hero tried to straddle one of the sea creatures his body emerged as a muddy pool as mud we waved goodbye to his remnants happy not to have to bury him in the early hours of the day We got drunk in a barroom the small town of Fairfax had just gone to bed cherry trees were bending under the weight of their flowers: they were involved in a ceremonial dance to which no one had ever been invited. * I know flowers to be funeral companions they make poisons and venoms and eat abandoned stone walls I know flowers shine stronger than the sun their eclipse means the end of times but I love flowers for their treachery their fragile bodies grace my imagination’s avenues without their presence my mind would be an unmarked grave. * We met a great storm at sea looked back at the rocking cliffs the sand was going under black birds were leaving the storm ate friends and foes alike water turned into salt for my wounds. * Flowers end in frozen patterns artificial gardens cover the floors we get up close to midnight search with powerful lights the tiniest shrubs on the meadows A stream desperately is running to the ocean The Spring Flowers Own & The Manifestations of the Voyage (The Post-Apollo Press, 1990)

Romance of the sleepwalker" Green, as I love you, greenly. Green the wind, and green the branches. The dark ship on the sea and the horse on the mountain. With her waist that’s made of shadow dreaming on the high veranda, green the flesh, and green the tresses, with eyes of frozen silver. Green, as I love you, greenly. Beneath the moon of the gypsies silent things are looking at her things she cannot see. Green, as I love you, greenly. Great stars of white hoarfrost come with the fish of shadow opening the road of morning. The fig tree’s rubbing on the dawn wind with the rasping of its branches, and the mountain cunning cat, bristles with its sour agaves. Who is coming? And from where...? She waits on the high veranda, green the flesh and green the tresses, dreaming of the bitter ocean. - 'Brother, friend, I want to barter your house for my stallion, sell my saddle for your mirror, change my dagger for your blanket. Brother mine, I come here bleeding from the mountain pass of Cabra.’ - ‘If I could, my young friend, then maybe we’d strike a bargain, but I am no longer I, nor is this house, of mine, mine.’ - ‘Brother, friend, I want to die now, in the fitness of my own bed, made of iron, if it can be, with its sheets of finest cambric. Can you see the wound I carry from my throat to my heart?’ - ‘Three hundred red roses your white shirt now carries. Your blood stinks and oozes, all around your scarlet sashes. But I am no longer I, nor is this house of mine, mine.’ - ‘Let me then, at least, climb up there, up towards the high verandas. Let me climb, let me climb there, up towards the green verandas. High verandas of the moonlight, where I hear the sound of waters.’ Now they climb, the two companions, up there to the high veranda, letting fall a trail of blood drops, letting fall a trail of tears. On the morning rooftops, trembled, the small tin lanterns. A thousand tambourines of crystal wounded the light of daybreak. Green, as I love you, greenly. Green the wind, and green the branches. They climbed up, the two companions. In the mouth, the dark breezes left there a strange flavour, of gall, and mint, and sweet basil. - ‘Brother, friend! Where is she, tell me, where is she, your bitter beauty? How often, she waited for you! How often, she would have waited, cool the face, and dark the tresses, on this green veranda!’ Over the cistern’s surface the gypsy girl was rocking. Green the bed is, green the tresses, with eyes of frozen silver. An ice-ray made of moonlight holding her above the water. How intimate the night became, like a little, hidden plaza. Drunken Civil Guards were beating, beating, beating on the door frame. Green, as I love you, greenly. Green the wind, and green the branches. The dark ship on the sea, and the horse on the mountain.

When it begins it is like a light in a tunnel, a rush of steel and steam across a torn up life. It is a low rumble, an earthquake in the back of the mind. My spine is a track with cold black steel racing on it, a trail of steam and dust following behind, ghost like. It feels like my whole life is holding its breath. By the time she leaves the room I am surprised that she can’t see the train. It has jumped the track of my spine and landed in my mothers’ living room. A cold dark thing, black steel and redwood paneling. It is the old type, from the western movies I loved as a kid. He throws open the doors to the outside world, to the dark ocean. I feel a breeze tugging at me, a slender finger of wind that catches at my shirt. Pulling. Grabbing. I can feel the panic build in me, the need to scream or cry rising in my throat. And then I am out the door, running, tumbling down the steps falling out into the darkened world, falling out into the lifeless ocean. Out into the blackness. Out among the stars and shadows. And underneath my skin, in the back of my head and down the back of my spine I can feel the desperation and I can feel the noise. I can feel the deep and ancient ache of loudness that litters across my bones. It’s like an old lover, comfortable and well known, but unwelcome and inappropriate with her stories of our frolicking. And then she’s gone and the Conductor is closing the door. The darkness swells around us, enveloping us in a cocoon, pressing flat against the train like a storm. I wonder, what is this place? Those had been heady days, full and intense. It’s funny. I remember the problems, the confusions and the fears of life we all dealt with. But, that all seems to fade. It all seems to be replaced by images of the days when it was all just okay. We all had plans back then, patterns in which we expected the world to fit, how it was to be deciphered. Eventually you just can’t carry yourself any longer, can’t keep your eyelids open, and can’t focus on anything but the flickering light of the stars. Hours pass, at first slowly like a river and then all in a rush, a climax and I am home in the dorm, waking up to the ringing of the telephone. When she is gone the apartment is silent, empty, almost like a person sleeping, waiting to wake up. When she is gone, and I am alone, I curl up on the bed, wait for the house to eject me from its dying corpse. Crazy thoughts cross through my head, like slants of light in an attic. The Boston 395 rocks a bit, a creaking noise spilling in from the undercarriage. I have decided that whatever this place is, all these noises, sensations - all the train-ness of this place - is a fabrication. It lulls you into a sense of security, allows you to feel as if it’s a familiar place. But whatever it is, it’s not a train, or at least not just a train. The air, heightened, tense against the glass. I can hear the squeak of shoes on linoleum, I can hear the soft rattle of a dying man’s breathing. Men in white uniforms, sharp pressed lines, run past, rolling gurneys down florescent hallways.

THE RETURN OF THE GODS Like a white bird upon the wind, the sail of the boat of Manannan mac Lir (Pronounced Mananarn mak Leer), the Son of the Sea, flew across the sparkling waves filled with the breeze that blew Westward to the Islands of the Blessed. The Sun Goddess above him smiled down with warmth upon her friend. The fish in the ocean danced for him beneath the turquoise water; the porpoises leapt above the waves to greet him. Upon the wind was a smell of sweetness, the smell of apple blossom in the Spring of the morning of the world. And in the prow of the boat sat Lugh (Pronounced Loo) the long-armed; strumming on his harp, he sang the Song of Creation. And as they drew closer to the green hills of Ireland, the holy land of Ireland, the Shee came out of their earth-barrow homes and danced for joy beneath the Sun. For hidden in a crane-skin sack at the bottom of the boat was the Holy Cup of Blessedness. Long had been her journeying through lands strange and far. And all who drank of that Cup, dreamed the dreams of holy truth, and drank of the Wine of everlasting life. And deep within the woods, in a green-clad clearing, where the purple anemone and the white campion bloomed, where primroses still lingered on the shadowed Northern side, a great stag lifted up his antlered head and sniffed the morning. His antlers seven-forked spoke of mighty battles fought and won, red was his coat, the colour of fire, and he trotted out of his greenwood home, hearing on the wind the song of Lugh. And in her deep barrow home, the green clad Goddess of Erin, remembered the tongue that she had forgotten. She remembered the secrets of the weaving of spells, She remembered the tides of woman and the ebb and flow of wave and Moon. She remembered the people who had turned to other Gods and coming out of her barrow of sleep, her sweet voice echoed the verses of Lugh and the chorus of Manannan. And the great stag of the morning came across the fields to her and where had stood the Goddess now stood a white hind. And the love of the God was returned by the Goddess and the larks of Anghus mac Og hovering above the field echoed with ecstasy the Song of Creation. And in the villages and towns the people came out of their houses, hearing the sweet singing and seeking its source. And children danced in the streets with delight. And they went down to the shore, the Eastern shore, where rises the Sun of the Morning, and awaited the coming of Manannan and Lugh, the mast of their boat shining gold in the Sun. The sea had spoken, the Eastern dawn had given up her secret, the Gods were returning, the Old Ones awakening, joy was returning unto the sleeping land.  

He stopped and turned around, smiling at me for the first time. “All right, do tell me, please, which of the two is greater, do you think: the Prophet Muhammad or the Sufi Bistami?” “What kind of a question is that?” I said. “How can you compare our venerated Prophet, may peace be upon him, the last in the line of prophets, with an infamous mystic?” A curious crowd had gathered around us, but the dervish didn’t seem to mind the audience. Still studying my face carefully, he insisted, “Please think about it. Didn’t the Prophet say, ‘Forgive me, God, I couldn’t know Thee as I should have,’ while Bistami pronounced, ‘Glory be to me, I carry God inside my cloak’? If one man feels so small in relation to God while another man claims to carry God inside, which of the two is greater?” My heart pulsed in my throat. The question didn’t seem so absurd anymore. In fact, it felt as if a veil had been lifted and what awaited me underneath was an intriguing puzzle. A furtive smile, like a passing breeze, crossed the lips of the dervish. Now I knew he was not some crazy lunatic. He was a man with a question—a question I hadn’t thought about before. “I see what you are trying to say,” I began, not wanting him to hear so much as a quaver in my voice. “I’ll compare the two statements and tell you why, even though Bistami’s statement sounds higher, it is in fact the other way round.” “I am all ears,” the dervish said. “You see, God’s love is an endless ocean, and human beings strive to get as much water as they can out of it. But at the end of the day, how much water we each get depends on the size of our cups. Some people have barrels, some buckets, while some others have only got bowls.” As I spoke, I watched the dervish’s expression change from subtle scorn to open acknowledgment and from there into the soft smile of someone recognizing his own thoughts in the words of another. “Bistami’s container was relatively small, and his thirst was quenched after a mouthful. He was happy in the stage he was at. It was wonderful that he recognized the divine in himself, but even then there still remains a distinction between God and Self. Unity is not achieved. As for the Prophet, he was the Elect of God and had a much bigger cup to fill. This is why God asked him in the Qur’an, Have we not opened up your heart? His heart thus widened, his cup immense, it was thirst upon thirst for him. No wonder he said, ‘We do not know You as we should,’ although he certainly knew Him as no other did.

The wind tousled his hair, and Dain’s chest loosed a little as his gaze broke from the wooden maid to follow a breeze-blown gull toward the horizon. The distant salmon skies dipped over the rim of the sea, and for the first time since boarding, he wondered where the waves might take him.

Danny flicks an ashless cigarette and bounces in place on the couch, occasionally checking the door leading to the kitchen. Crates are stacked along the wall, magazines piled on the floor. I smell fish and char. “You baking?” He frowns. “Nah.” I’m undermining him if I check, but the smell of burning thickens. We enter the kitchen, where hundreds, maybe thousands of reminders blink in the occasional ocean breeze. I never escape the sensation I’m being surveilled, except instead of a penetrating gaze they are commands, observations. DON’T FORGET RICE. PETER IS THE COUSIN WHO STEALS. AN HOUR IS SIXTY MINUTES. CLOVER HATES LILIES. TAKE SHOWER. Some are so old the paper has become cloth soft. Danny plucks one from the wall. SALMON IN THE OVEN. “Damn.” He opens the oven door, releasing smoke. “Oven mitt,” I warn when he is about to barehand the rack.

What is dying?” he wrote. “I am standing on the seashore. A ship sails to the morning breeze and starts for the ocean. She is an object and I stand watching her until she fades from the horizon and someone at my side says, ‘She is gone!’ Gone where? Gone from my sight, that is all. Her diminished size and loss of sight is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says, ‘She is gone!’ there are others who are watching her coming, gladly shouting, ‘Here she comes!’—and that is dying.

The ocean breeze blew her flimsy gown against her body. Hip bones jutted out on either side of her concave stomach. I’d once seen a picture of sacred cows on the Ganges. Starving. “What’s with the outfit?” I asked. “No time to change,” she said. “Had to make a quick getaway.” She kicked the pumps off, pulled the dress over her head. There she stood in a lacy bra and butt-floss thong. Some yacht dads gazed our way. “Evie!” stage-whispered Jack to me. “She’s naked!” “Listen, kid,” said Alycia. “What was your name again?” “Jack?” said Jack. “Right, right. Well, Jack, I can show you naked if you want. But this isn’t it. See this piece of fabric? They call it underwear.” “But I can see your regina.” “Jack, it’s your lucky day.” She turned from us, splashed through the shallows, and dove. Graceful as a dolphin. The yacht dads rubbernecked. She front-crawled out past the breakers. “Why is my day lucky?” asked Jack. I tousled his hair.

Wouldn’t you wish your pirate masters—your former pirate masters—some torture and pain?” “No.” A breeze brought in a fresh misty whiff of the ocean, and Qin inhaled the salty scent. “I guess I was raised to know I was their property and expect… what I got. I feel rebellious for having run away, for being out here wondering how I can make my freedom permanent. But I don’t wish anyone torture and pain. I guess if I wished anything, it would be for something to happen in their lives that would cause them to empathize with others and not treat them so callously.

I like ambient quiet - a gentle breeze, the rhythmic crash of ocean waves. But this quiet is empty and painful. The kind of quiet that leaves nothing for me to hear but my too-fast breathing and my pounding heart.

Juan José de la Vega says the memory of 1973, when he saw one hundred thousand turtles lay their eggs on the beach in a single night, is a treasure no one can take from him. He likes to relive it now and again. He stood alone, surrounded by all that … biology, and the moon was full and bright. A gentle breeze was blowing in off the ocean, and the smell of the sea was strong. All around, on all sides, as far as the eye could see on this bright night, there were turtles: turtles coming in out of the ocean, turtles laying their eggs, turtles returning to the mystery of the sea. Juan José had a sensation of a time before man, a sense of the fecundity of the sea and land. There was something deep and full expanding inside of him, something other people feel only inside a church.

The sun is setting in Destin, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen a sunset like this. The sun sets every day in Florida, and it’s always beautiful, of course. But it strikes differently when you actually take the time to appreciate it. I notice how the streaks of orange seem to be melting into the ocean, and the billowy cushions of white are shifting with the warm summer breeze. I feel a flutter in my stomach when I think about how vast the sky seems to be, never-ending and dimming with every second. Or maybe that’s the effect he has on me.

became

We are raindrops falling into waves in the great ocean. But mainly we are energy in a package, matter of a moment, a little puff of breeze that will whirl away while everything around it continues.

is always easier when it’s smooth sailing, but these waves are what keep it interesting.

Invisible lines of energy fling themselves across continents and oceans, and out to the farthest reaches of the galaxy. Where the lines cross, a vortex of energy sinks deep into the earth and waits. This concentrated energy contains all the possibilities in the universe, all the mathematical outcomes of your choices. If you were to stumble into it, you might feel a tingle, something you could blame on a cool breeze, or déjà vu. Or you might feel nothing at all. Our limited senses simply may not allow us to comprehend the true nature of reality. We think a tree is a tree. But if you look deeper, past the bark and the sap, into the molecules that make up the wood, deeper into the almost completely empty atom until you reach the smallest particles of matter, you will find only waves of energy. Not a solid “thing” at all. And those particles? They have no idea they’re part of a tree. We, too, have no idea what we’re a part of. There are rumors of a select few who have come close to understanding, but they have not come forth to reveal themselves.

You’re putting it in God’s hands. Last time I checked, He was even better than you at making sure things turn out the way they’re supposed to.

some days, i'm delicate like daisies; the other ones, i'm the savage wilderness. there are moments i feel light like the gentle breeze from the ocean, then again, there are nights i feel my burden. i can own my skin, my soul, my style on a couple days of the week, but somehow, someway, insecurities fill in the gaps of this self love i'm practicing. and for a few minutes, i feel like i'm drowning under the weight of my sorrows but then i breath and remind this heart - i am, i exist and i matter.

Gaffer’s torch powers on and then it is turned off again. It is then the sea is visible, the sound of the ocean woven with the racing breeze as they cross a road and follow a sandy path through dunes onto a beach and she knows the name of this beach, she has been here so many times before, and there is a man standing in a pale anorak with his hood pulled up texting into a phone and she sees two inflatable boats by the water’s edge and something inside her is flung when she sees the ocean dark and barren but for the rollers breaking whitely by the headland.

His father saw him off. Demon had dyed his hair a blacker black. He wore a diamond ring blazing like a Caucasian ridge. His long, black, blue-ocellated wings trailed and quivered in the ocean breeze. Lyudi oglyadïvalis’ (people turned to look). A temporary Tamara, all kohl, kabesk rouge, and flamingo-boa, could not decide what would please her demon lover more—just moaning and ignoring his handsome son or acknowledging bluebeard’s virility in morose Van, who could not stand her Caucasian perfume, Granial Maza, seven dollars a bottle.

Are you going to frisk me?" he asked when I stepped in close to measure the width of his shoulders. He smelled of pine and leather and the fresh ocean breeze--- wild and free. "This is a custom tailor shop, not a police station." "I might have a dangerous weapon in my pocket," he teased. I pulled the measuring tape tight under his arms, reminding myself that I was a professional. I was totally unaffected by the rock-hard pecs that flexed under my hands or the fact that I was now so close, I could feel the heat of his body. It was disconcertingly intimate. I'd measured many clients over the years for my dad and not once had I ever felt like I needed an immediate date with my vibrator.

Breathing deeply, she brought the ocean breeze into her lungs. She couldn’t believe how much she missed cold spring nights and the sweet salt air of the Atlantic Ocean. If it were a perfume, she’d buy a bottle and wear it every day.

I huff and step up closer to him, and instantly, I can smell him. He smells like a fresh breeze on the ocean. Light but memorable. I regret that I got this close to him, because he reminds me that despite his personality, he is hot as fuck. Not only do his shaved head and gloved hands intimidate me, they also make me think I’ve been chasing the wrong kind of men most of my life.

The whiff of ocean on the southern breeze and the smell of burning asphalt carried with them memories of summers past.

We sat there for a very long time, just looking at the ocean, the evening sky, and the ship while the sea breeze blew through the trembling grass. As the dusk softened to night, a handful of stars began to twinkle above the dock.

MY LOVE FOR YOU November 5, 2024 at 10:41 AM Verse 1: In the morning light, your face is my dawn Every smile you give, it’s where I belong With every beat of my heart, every whisper of the breeze My love for you, it’s all I need Chorus: My love for you, it’s a never-ending tale Through the highs and lows, it will never fail With every star in the sky, and the oceans so blue My love for you, forever true Verse 2: In the quiet of the night, with the moon shining bright In your arms, I find my light With every touch, every glance we share My love for you, beyond compare Chorus: My love for you, it’s a never-ending tale Through the highs and lows, it will never fail With every star in the sky, and the oceans so blue My love for you, forever true Bridge: Through the storms of life, we’ll stand strong With your hand in mine, where we belong With a love so deep, and a bond so tight We’ll face the world, in the morning light Verse 3: Every laugh, every tear, we’ve shared through the years In your love, I find no fears With every dream we chase, every hope we find My love for you, it’s one of a kind Chorus: My love for you, it’s a never-ending tale Through the highs and lows, it will never fail With every star in the sky, and the oceans so blue My love for you, forever true Outro: So here’s to us, my heart and soul With you, my love, I am whole With every beat, my love grows anew My love for you, forever true

As we walked through the souk, I could smell the wooden souvenirs, artisan crafts and clothes on the breeze flowing up from the ocean through the alleyways.

The beetle, endemic to Africa’s Namib desert—where there is just 1.3 cm of rainfall a year—has inspired a few proof-of-concepts in the academic community, but this is the first time a self-filling water bottle has been proposed. The beetle survives by collecting condensation from the ocean breeze on the hardened shell of its wings. The shell is covered in tiny bumps that are water attracting (hydrophilic) at their tips and water-repelling (hydrophobic) at their sides. The beetle extends and aims the wings at incoming sea breezes to catch humid air; tiny droplets 15 to 20 microns in diameter eventually accumulate on its back and run straight down towards its mouth. NBD

She walked until a surprisingly cold breeze swept past her. She halted. Slowly, Celaena turned north, toward the source of the breeze, which smelled of a faraway land she hadn’t seen in eight years. Pine and snow—a city still in winter’s grasp. She breathed it in, staring across the leagues of lonely, black ocean, seeing, somehow, that distant city that had once, long ago, been her home. The wind ripped the strands of hair from her braid, lashing them across her face. Orynth.

The greatest love story ever told was between a leaf and the sun, between the trees and a breeze, between the sand beneath your feet and the ocean, between you and me

So we went for a stroll in Alumni Park, a grassy lawn in front of Pepperdine that overlooks the coast. Deer trickle down from the hills and rocky bluffs to graze there. The coral trees rise like watchtowers over a pond where fresh water reeds grow, providing a small refuge for ducks and wild birds. At night, a full moon leaves a trail on the ocean’s black waters, and the constant coastal breeze disturbs the tree limbs, sending their leaves into a continuous stirring.

Just off the Atlantic Coast, Lamplighter Village Melbourne boasts one of the finest climates in Florida, with an average temperature of 73 degrees and prevailing easterly breezes off the ocean. New and pre-owned manufactured homes (also known as mobile homes) are available onsite allowing you to take advantage of everything we have to offer. Prices on select melbourne senior housing range between $70,000 to $152,000 with a monthly lifestyle fee of $700. Financing options are available for qualified buyers.Just off the Atlantic Coast, Lamplighter Village Melbourne boasts one of the finest climates in Florida, with an average temperature of 73 degrees and prevailing easterly breezes off the ocean. New and pre-owned manufactured homes (also known as mobile homes) are available onsite allowing you to take advantage of everything we have to offer. Prices on select melbourne senior housing range between $70,000 to $152,000 with a monthly lifestyle fee of $700. Financing options are available for qualified buyers.

Though outsiders always assumed Southern California is perpetually soft and subtropical with the perfect beach breeze, that sweet lick of sunshine, I knew the truth. The real Southern California exists in extremes. It's a place of spontaneous wildfires, and Santa Ana winds, and droughts that turn lakes into craters, splintering the earth like pottery that has crazed. It's a place of storms that transform streets into oceans, and I had no doubts now: the rain was coming.

….. The air smelled of sweet ocean, a special thing. As a little girl she’d identified a half dozen ways the sea could smell, briny or fishy or sandy or green. A few times each summer, for reasons she couldn’t explain, the breeze smelled of molasses, dark and sweet. ….

The transmission from the solar system ended. The deciphering computer now ran uselessly. The post was once again only hearing the noise of the universe. But the listener was certain that what he had just experienced was not a dream. He knew as well that the several thousand listening posts spread across Trisolaris had also received this message, which Trisolaran civilization had awaited for eons. Two hundred cycles of civilization had been crawling through a dark tunnel, and there was finally a glimmer of light before them. The listener read over the message from the Earth again. His thoughts drifted over the blue ocean that never froze and the green forests and fields, enjoying the warm sunlight and the caress of a cool breeze. What a beautiful world! The paradise we imagined really exists!

We run in silence, enjoying the sunrise over the ocean and I swear there are few things more beautiful than this. Pinks and purples and yellows fill the sky, bathing us in light. The salty breeze brushes my skin, sticking to my moistened flesh.

About dusk the land breeze came off, sweeping over the ship, laden with the fragrance of tropical fruits and flowers so heavy with perfume as to almost intoxicate the senses. This, mingled with the fresh earthy smell, to which we had so long been strangers, was inhaled in deep draughts.

The world falls away — the splash of the ocean at my feet, the warmth of the breeze against my skin, the sight of the stars over my head. All that’s left is him. His lips. My lips. This moment. This kiss. This kiss ruins me for all other kisses. In the space of a second, he obliterates every other man who’s ever put his mouth on mine. All the boys who came before are a pale imitation of this passion.

A dozen or so guests gathered in the conservatory for breakfast. The sweet scent of jasmine perfumed the air and an aviary of lemon yellow canaries sang for them. They drank fresh-squeezed juice that smelled like orange blossoms and spooned perfect bites of soft-boiled eggs from fragile shells. White sunlight poured through the glass dome above their heads like an affirmation from heaven, and a constant breeze blew over them as though fanned by invisible servants. Beyond the open doors stretched emerald lawn. Beyond the lawn, the ocean, blue as a robin's egg.

foam clung to something dark. Something long and still. I saw his face, lashes tangled over blue lids, his lips parted against the sand. The breeze rippled off his clothes, ocean peeling from his face and dripping onto my hands. I was steeled there, not sure if he was real, until I saw his eyes, a flash of his dark pupils. My hands trembled, afraid to move

He takes my hand in his and holds it to his chest so I can feel his heart beat, and then he steps even closer, so close he towers above me, just inches away, his body sheltering me from the breeze. But I can’t let it happen; I don’t want anything to happen to change things between us, although in a way I do. “Don’t,” I say too sharply, and Dan freezes. “Don’t,” I say again, unnecessarily, since neither of us has moved. And so we simply stand there, for I don’t know how long, completely still, with only the sound of the ocean and the beating of Dan’s heart against my hand.

I don't want mediocre experiences, safe love, average and steady employment. I want fireworks, an ocean breeze. I want color. I want TECHNICOLOR. I want passion and smoldering flames. Most importantly, I want to see a vision through.

Nature does not know of the challenges that face us. No matter what money difficulties we have, the sun will continue to shine. If it is health challenges we face, the grass will continue to grow. If a relationship is causing us grief, the ocean breeze will continue to blow. Taking a breathe away from our challenges, and recognizing the nature around us, can help open the door to our Divine nature and allow the healing to begin.

Nature does not know of the challenges that face us. No matter what money difficulties we have, the sun will continue to shine. If it is health challenges we face, the grass will continue to grow. If a relationship is causing us grief, the ocean breeze will continue to blow. Taking a breath away from our challenges, and recognizing the nature around us, can help open the door to our Divine nature and allow the healing to begin.

He chuckled

The back-and-forth ancient lull of the tide. The cry of seagulls passing overhead. The smell of salt and fish carried on the warm breeze. With each step along the old wooden planks of the pier, tiny grains of sand that hitchhiked from the beach below are pulverized under our heels. Sand that traveled millions of miles over billions of years across shifting continents and churning oceans, surviving plate tectonics, erosion, and sedimentary deposition is crushed by our new sandals. The cosmos can be cruel.

Akin to an ocean breeze guiding waves to the shore she lingered into his thoughts.

She imagines, without speaking, the Spirit of Annie moving like a fine piece of silk in a breeze above the top of the ocean. She imagines Annie turning into the wind & grazing her fingers across the waves & smiling as she feels the air lift her & carry her further out to sea. She imagines Annie singing softly as the cool night air moves across her skin & the sun dances eagerly on the other side of the world. She imagine Annie at peace & never wondering if she did the right thing as she flows into the next world on the wings of her own angels & under the power of her own beautiful energy.

am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says: “There, she is gone.” “Gone where?

We are but stones in the ocean. Wall construction begins, the tide rolls in. Stores close, the sea breeze blows. Rations diminish, the ocean floor is blemished. Challenges arise, the waves intensify. Tempers heighten, the current strengthens. Conditions turn dire, the swells become higher. Illnesses shake, the storm clouds break. Fighting for each day, an undertow tries to pull us away. Calm seas comfort us, making us feel whole. Rough seas polish us, smoothing out our soul.

Royal Hawaiian on the famed and romantic Waikiki Beach in Honolulu, Hawaii. I am looking into a garden filled with graceful palm trees, swaying in the balmy breeze. The air is laden with the aroma of exotic flowers. Hibiscus, of which on these islands there are two thousand varieties, fill the garden. Outside my windows are papaya trees laden with ripening fruit. The brilliant color of the royal poinciana, the flame of the forest trees, adds to the glamor of the scene; and the acacia trees are hung heavily with their exquisite white flowers. The incredible blue ocean surrounding these islands stretches away to the horizon. The white waves are surging in, and the Hawaiians and my fellow visitors are riding gracefully on surf-boards and outrigger canoes.

The tide surged, carving a crescent in the sand. Water collapsed against my knees, tearing the beach out from under my legs. But when the wave receded, the foam clung to something dark. Something long and still. I saw his face, lashes tangled over blue lids, his lips parted against the sand. The breeze rippled off his clothes, ocean peeling from his face and dripping onto my hands. I was steeled there, not sure if he was real, until I saw his eyes, a flash of his dark pupils. My

From my perch on the couch atop the truck I watched our wheels cross the town line, turn left on Highway 33, pick up some speed and head for the ocean breezes and new freedoms of the Shore. With the warm night whistling by me, I felt wonderfully and perilously adrift, giddy with excitement. This town, my town, would never leave me, and I could never completely leave it, but I would never live in Freehold again.

The trees harbored a clearing where a multitude of white daisies with centers as yellow as pirate’s doubloons rippled in the breeze. Looking at them, Emma forgot her troubles. “There must be one for every angel in heaven,” she breathed. Steven, who had been spreading the picnic blanket on the ground, came to stand behind her. His hands rested lightly on her shoulders, and he bent to plant the lightest of kisses on her nape. “Today they all belong to just one angel—you.” She turned to look up at him, and his arms slipped naturally around her waist. He’d tossed his hat onto the picnic blanket, but the imprint of the band showed in his glossy brown hair, and Emma couldn’t resist touching it with the fingers of one hand. “Why did you have to go and get yourself blown up in Whitneyville?” she asked softly. “Life was so simple before I met you—I knew what I thought about everything.” A trace of a smile touched his lips. “And now?” “I’m confused, Steven. I’ve spent all my time with one man over the last few months and now here I am, standing in an ocean of daisies with quite another.” He brushed her mouth with his own. “If it helps, Miss Emma, I’m as muddled up as you are. A few weeks ago I just wanted to keep on moving. Now it’s like I’ve got lead in my boots.” Emma

Of average height and build, with dark black hair, a perpetually unshaven face, a wide jaw, long, drawn-out cheekbones, and large black eyes with black circles under them, Merk always looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. And that was always how he felt. But now. Now, finally, he felt rested. Here, in Ur, in the northwest corner of Escalon, there came no snow. The temperate breezes off the ocean, but a day’s ride west, assured them of warmer weather and allowed leaves of every color to flourish. It also allowed Merk to sojourn wearing but a cloak, with no need to cower from the freezing winds, as they did in much of Escalon.

He turned his face my way, not having very far to lean in, and kissed me once, sweet and slow—a breeze off the ocean—almost like he was asking permission. He opened his eyes to look at me. Permission granted, Lieutenant. When we kissed again, it was totally different. He scooted closer, his warm hands on either side of my neck. The pressure of his fingers under my hair was solid and strong, yet always gentle. When his lips parted, I got dizzy, like he might positively absorb me. For a second I feared I might be swooning like those silly ladies in Jane Austen novels. “That was rude of me to interrupt,” he whispered, his lips on the corner of my mouth. “But I’m not about to make this decision easy for you.” How he managed to string together so many coherent words was beyond me; I couldn’t even remember what day it was. His fingers combed through my hair, and I caught a flash of his green eyes as they flickered open.

They set sail for the emerald green islands in seas Where the rocks and the trade winds are brothers. There are mountains nearby and they reach to the sky, Shearing clouds and warding off others. Warm mists o’er the blue bring a mermaid or two Up fathoms from the cold briny water. Sailors in the nest may spy the beautiful breasts And the tail of the Ocean God’s daughter. It happened one morning as daylight was dawning On a ship that was already a-stirrin’. A soft salty breeze put the crew to their knees With a song that sent their senses a-blurrin’. In the gray morning light, a young sailor caught sight Of a beautiful mermaid a-swimmin’. He then made a wish to be loved by a fish That was better by far than most women. —Brik

A flock of small birds took off from the wall of the fort. They moved like a length of dark silk caught by the breeze as they headed out to sea. Behind them, the sky was the colour of forget-me-nots. The sun blazed.

Jamie got back to her apartment in nineteen minutes and forty-nine seconds.  It wasn’t a personal best for a five-kilometre run, but it was still fast.  She showered and dressed, pulled on her boots, and was out the door in seventeen minutes flat. Which probably was close to a personal best.  She was wearing jeans she picked up from a supermarket. She liked them because they had a three percent lycra content woven into the denim, which stretched a little and meant that she could more easily crouch, walk, and kick someone in the side of the head if the situation called for it. It hadn’t yet, but she had a long career ahead of herself, she hoped.  She jumped into her car — a small and economical hybrid hatchback which squeezed around the city easily — and headed north towards the Lea.  It took nearly forty minutes to get there in rush hour traffic, and by the time she pulled up, Roper was leaning against the bonnet of his ten-year-old Volvo saloon, smoking a cigarette. He was tall with thinning, short hair, and a face that looked like he was always squinting into a stiff wind.  His long black coat was pinned to his right leg in the breeze and his shirt looked like it’d been pulled out of the laundry hamper rather than a clean drawer. He was perpetually single, and it showed. There was no one to hold him accountable when he decided it was okay to skip a morning shower for an extra ten minutes sleeping off his hangover. What she hated most about him, beyond the cigarette stink and the pissed-at-life attitude, was that she always had to look twice to make sure he wasn’t her father.  Her mother had dragged her away from him in Sweden, and now, she’d been thrown together with a guy who seemingly had inherited all his bad habits. Her mum said it was because all detectives were like it if they did the job long enough. They saw too much and didn’t talk about it enough. Which led inevitably to drink, and drugs, and other women. She’d spoken from experience of course. And Jamie knew she hadn’t exaggerated.  Though moving them both to Britain seemed like a bit of a dramatic reaction. But then again, her father had given her mother gonorrhoea and couldn’t say which woman he’d gotten it from. So Jamie figured it was reasonable.  He would have turned sixty-one this year. Roper pushed off the Volvo and ground out his cigarette under the heel of his battered Chelsea boot. Jamie looked at it, stopping short of his odour-radius. ‘You gonna just leave that there?’ He looked between his feet, rolling onto the outsides of them as he inspected the flattened butt. ‘It’ll wash away in the rain.’ ‘Into the ocean, yeah, where some poor fish is going to eat it,’ Jamie growled, coming to a stop in front of him.

Waterfall by Maisie Aletha Smikle Soothing water gushing from the rocks Hastens to meet the rivers and streams That meet in the ocean deep Never to reach a mountain peak Soft mist rises from the lunging gush As crystal water plunges down in a rush Carried by the gentle breeze Like a balm it calms the soul with ease It dims the heat and cools the air Trickles on the grassy meadow And on the sand beneath Cooling pebbles for your feet As you walk the sandy shore Inhaling cool mist as you tour And watch the little birds soar Chirping and singing like never before Beautiful waterfall So splendid and so tall Climb to the top And view the backdrop Mountains elegantly towering Over hills and plains beneath Casting shadows On lush green meadows Crystal clear water drops Naturally pure to the very last drop Nature is kind nature is fine Nature is undoubtedly divine

Once you stand up against all odds to lift up your society, with pure, uncorrupt, unconditional love, even the mountains will bow before your determination, the oceans will come rushing to wash the dusts and thorns of your feet, and the wind will create torrents of breeze to soothe you.

At last they came to a hill and abandoned their bikes at the bottom. As they crested the knoll, Helen felt as though they were creeping upon some great secret and on the other side they’d find a giant sleeping or a black X with three shovels beside it. What they found was magic by a different name. Planes buzzed on runways like bees in a jar, and when one took off, a roar filled the air. As it lifted away from the earth, a breeze swept over their hilltop, and it left Helen wondering if they had been touched by the magic or if it was truly only a breeze.

I stood upon the sandy shore As evening shadows fell; The sun was sinking in the west Across the ocean swell. O’er the sea the sun was casting Each brightly tinted ray As the waves came sweeping onwards To the shore at Martins Bay. The moon was rising o’er the hills As the sun sank in the west, And her silvery light was gleaming On the ocean’s heaving breast. And those ever moving waters Sparkling brightly as they roar Are dashed in foaming billows On that wild and lonely shore. All around are wooded hills No matter where your eyes are turning; You see no human habitation Except where one lone light is burning. Here solitude doth reign supreme, All scenes are lonely and drear, But there’s music in the lonlineness Which solitude will make us hear. A whispering sound among the trees, There is music in the ocean’s roar, There’s a voice in the wandering breeze Which is sighing along the shore. And the voice of nature speaks to us In every flower that grows, And the voice of God is calling us In every breeze that blows.

Elements I am contrary, like the weather. I change my mind, from moment to moment. Something I once believed in, I no longer do. But when I did, I felt it with all my sincerity. I am made of the elements, ever changing. A forest fire to a candle flame. A breeze to a hurricane. A handful of dirt to a mountaintop. An ocean to a raindrop.

As the breeze grew in strength they didn’t go inside, but in silence watched the surface of the water grow more and more choppy. The only quiet was between them. The sound of the ocean and gale were roaring, the coldness of the air making each inch of their skin alert. Helen’s arms around the girl tightened, and the little one in turn only sank more into Helen’s chest. Despite the thinness of her dress, Helen couldn’t pick herself up to go indoors. Perhaps it was because the wind blew from her mind the fog that had been with her for days. Maybe, Helen realized, it was because the child was curled into her and Helen simply didn’t have the strength right now to pry her away. But most of all, she knew it was because the ocean seemed a fitting place to go to say farewell.

If there's an opposite of seasick, I think that's what the bay does to me. Everything stills the moment the scents of salt hits me. Ocean breeze wrapped around my exposed waist, wind exacerbating the knots in my hair. It ain't that I feel free, but I feel home. Probably more home than I do anywhere else.

I think I dreamed of you once. You were the sunset glinting off the calm ocean waves and the moon reflecting in double, like silver eyes within the mirrored heart of a star-dusted sky. You were the warm salted breeze whispering sweet words between each kiss landed beneath my ear and each caress of the surf upon my skin. I woke from the dream to find you’d followed me into my waking world.

They reined in before an ancient beech tree. Its trunk and branches leaned inland, bent by many years of ocean breezes. Half-buried beneath a root that arched out of the ground was a rectangular slab of stone that didn't seem to fit the landscape. Annis pointed to it. "What is that stone doing there?" "It's a menhir," the marquess said. At Annis's puzzled expression, he explained. "One of the standing stones---well, this one has fallen over, but there are several stone circles in Dorset. If there was once a circle here---a henge, it's called---it's gone now. The stones have probably been pressed into other uses, fences or walls. I expect this one was too large to move." "I don't know what a henge is," Annis said. Intrigued, she swung down from her saddle and bent to put her hand on the cool, rough surface of the stone. "Have you touched it? It feels alive!" He laughed and slid down to join her beside the stone. He laid his own hand on it, right beside hers, then shook his head. "It doesn't feel alive to me, I'm afraid. It just feels cold and rough and old. A henge is a stone circle, you know, from ancient times. A ceremonial circle, we think. No one knows exactly what it was for.

People wait to go by the shore and wait for the sun to shine and the sky to be clear and the ocean breeze to be playing with their hair and the salty smell of the ocean to fill up their noses and their loved ones to be around them so they can feel absolute joy and happiness summer time ,,,, in my case I don’t need all of these to be happy I have you in my heart and you are joyful dreams , I love my Life cause it Has You

People wait to go by the shore and wait for the sun to shine and the sky to be clear and the ocean breeze to be playing with their hair and the salty smile of the ocean to fill up their noses and their loved ones to be around them so the can feel absolute joy and happiness summer time ,,,, in my case I don’t need all of this to be happy I have you in my heart and you are joyful dreams

Oranges, yellows, and pinks paint the sky in between clouds that look like brush strokes on a canvas. The waves of the ocean crash onto the shore below, and palm trees sticking up into the sky flow freely in the soft breeze.

A Piece of Heaven Just For You by Maisie Aletha Smikle Just for you I will climb To the mountain peak Just for you I will dive in the ocean deep For you My love The valley is never too wide I will tread plateaus and plains And ride camels on their reins Just for you My beloved Just for you I will swim and thread rivers and seas Paddle through the frosty snow and icy breeze Just for you My darling I will do triathlons around the circumference of the globe Trek rocky grounds And slippery slopes Just for you My darling I will zipline from the north pole to the south pole I will swing from the treetops And parachute from the backdrop Just for you My darling Just for you I will sing And cook a pot of stew Just for you my love I will climb the stairs of heaven To reach the clouds And bring back a piece of heaven Just for you my beloved

beautiful one. Emily was

Are you suggesting it’s time to grow up?”  “Never,” Marilyn returned. “In fact, I think we’ll only grow backward. Appreciate this world the way children do. Relish in the sunset and the sunrise and the ocean and the breeze and the trees and the flowers. I never want to dismiss any of it.

The air fresheners she’d attached to the air conditioner vents gave the car a smell that combined a nursing home, a pine forest, ocean breezes and a flower shop.

Outside, Frank and Joe mounted their motorcycles and rode through the downtown traffic to the Bayport waterfront. Leaving the big commercial piers behind, they took the Shore Road, past a section of private docks to where the brothers kept their trim speedboat, the Sleuth. Driving on, the Hardys followed the road along the curve of the left bank of the bay to the mouth of the harbor. Here they turned north and continued parallel with the ocean. Soon they saw a jumble of board shanties on the wide beach ahead. Some were nothing more than open lean-tos, but others had glass windows and stovepipes. Pieces of ragged clothing fluttered from ropes in the breeze. Smoke curled up lazily from a small fire around which three men lay, watching the steam from a black pot which hung on a tripod above the flames.

I follow the road south in darkness, the slight ocean breeze cool and refreshing, the moon on my left, the muted roar of the Benguela Current to my right; dead ahead, the Southern Cross hangs lopsided in a sky the colour of Indian ink. The stars tonight are extraordinarily clear; the Bushman call the Milky Way 'The Backbone of the Night'. An aeroplane in the night sky floats past, a lonely firefly exiled to outer space because of its abnormal size.

Gone was the stifling humidity of the coast, replaced by a warm, pliant breeze. The ocean rolled and foamed beneath them, a layer of confection spread as far as the eye could see. The only thing ruining the flight was the company.

I could feel my face heating up, especially when I got a good look at this random guy sitting on my couch. He had a very chisled jaw, bright blue eyes and his brown hair flopped in a way as if there was always an ocean breeze around him as he moved. He was gorgeous. And his hands, they were big as it wrapped around my suddenly tiny hands shaking it.

Nature does not know of the challenges that face us. No matter what money difficulties we have, the sun will continue to shine. If it is a health challenge we face, the grass will continue to grow. If a relationship is causing us grief, the ocean breeze will continue to blow. Taking a step away from our challenges, and recognizing the nature around us, can help open the door to the Divine within us all and allow the healing to begin.

A Kiss Away (1986) A Prince Among Men (1986) All for Love (1986) Two's Company (1987)