The Unlikely Buddha

  In pews of pine, where harmonies ascend, Our youthful voices intertwined, transcend. Your eyes, twin sapphires, caught my whispered glance, A nurse's touch, a pilot's daring chance. We carved our dreams in summer's dappled light, Your bandaged dolls, my paper wings in flight. I'd soar the clouds, you'd mend the world's despair, Two fragile stars, a whispered, destined pair. Then life unwound, a twisting, tangled skein, My silver wings took me through sun and rain. Foreign skies, a blur of endless blue, While you, dear heart, in white, a vision true. One sterile day, beneath the doctor's sign, My pulse quickened, your name, a whispered chime. White coat and chart, a stethoscope's soft sigh, But patients filled the silence, dreams could not fly. Stolen glances, fleeting smiles between, A brush with fate, a bittersweet unseen. The doctor's call, a hurried, harried beat, Just time for one last smile, bittersweet. Now taxi lights pai...

  Gather, all ye souls, for we embark on a celestial journey through Handel's Messiah , a tapestry woven with threads of prophecy, redemption, and celestial light. First, a maestro of harmonies himself, George Frideric Handel. Picture him, quill hovering over parchment, not merely composing notes, but channeling a divine chorus. Driven by a vision beyond earthly concerns, he sought to capture the essence of faith, the very heartbeat of salvation. In 1741, amidst personal turmoil, a wellspring of inspiration erupted, birthing Messiah. Part I dawns with whispers of hope. "Comfort ye, my people," a tenor's voice soothes, like balm on souls burdened by darkness. Valleys rise, glory descends, and choruses erupt, praising the Lord's arrival. But doubt creeps in, a bass asks, "Who may abide the Day of his coming?" Fear not, for He shall purify, like fire refining gold. Then, a miracle unfolds. A hush descends as an alto whispers, "Behold, a Virgin shal...

  Ah, Vivaldi! An Italian titan who wove sunlight and shadows into music, conjuring landscapes that whispered both grandeur and intimacy. A composer who, it seems, found a muse not in gilded concert halls, but in the hearts of young girls. Legend whispers of his time as music instructor at a Venetian orphanage, where the budding Vivaldi poured his inspiration into concertos meant for the girls' nimble fingers. And among these gems, nestled like a bouquet of four seasons, shines his magnum opus: " The Four Seasons ." Spring (Springtime) arrives on tiptoe, the air still crisp with winter's kiss. Violins awaken like birdsong, a melody bright and playful, chasing away lingering frost. The cellos hum with the earth's gentle warmth, as tender winds rustle through budding leaves. A shepherd's pipe joins the chorus, a lonely, yearning call amidst the burgeoning life. And then, a storm! Violins whip into a frenzy, mimicking raindrops that dance on budding green. But ...

  The internet, once hailed as a democratization of information, has become a fertile breeding ground for misinformation and manipulation. In the ever-evolving landscape of online discourse, anti-vaccine narratives have found a particularly potent weapon: the insidious art of sock puppetry. The Puppeteer's Playground: From Twitter Eggs to Elaborate Webs On platforms like Twitter, creating multiple accounts is child's play. These "sock puppets," often masquerading as seemingly genuine individuals, weave a web of misinformation. Anti-vaccine proponents meticulously craft personalities, curate timelines, and engage in conversations, carefully injecting their harmful rhetoric into legitimate discussions about public health. Imagine a Twitterverse populated by Dr. ConcernedMD, NurseKnowsBest, and GrandmaGotDuped, all spouting the same debunked myths and anxieties about vaccines. This orchestrated chorus can easily mislead unsuspecting users, especially those already hes...

  With wings of dust and whispers in the breeze, A tale unfolds, spun of ancient trees. Of Psyche, fairest, with eyes like dawn, By jealous whispers, from her sisters drawn. A whispered oracle, a chilling vow, To wed a serpent, in a shadowed bow. With heavy heart, she climbed the rocky spire, Awaiting fate, bathed in twilight's fire. But slumber kissed her, soft and deep and kind, A touch of feathers, where the Zephyrs wind. Awakened dawn, and Eros by her side, His golden hair, in sunlit glory tied. In whispered vows, and stolen moonlit grace, They built a love, in that secret space. But mortal thirst for knowledge led astray, A single lamp, a promise swept away. The serpent's coils, a whisper of his form, And Psyche's cry, in love's cruel storm. Banished, forsaken, through trials she strode, To prove her love, on roads the gods bestowed. From Venus' wrath, and tasks that twisted fate, To Hades' jaws, and Styx's bitter gate. Each challenge met,...

The sun slanted through the hospital window, dappling the sheets where she lay. Five years, it had been. Five years since that lump, a cruel betrayal in the smooth landscape of her breast, announced its unwelcome arrival. We were young, she a lab coat scientist in the gleaming sterile world of the hospital, our son a toddling whirlwind barely past one. Hope, back then, bloomed like an impossible rose in the face of the storm. Chemo's icy grip, the radiation's harsh embrace, we weathered them together. Nausea clawed at her throat, but my hand was a constant anchor in the churning sea. A tiny dot, like a misplaced freckle, tattooed on her skin became a grim, yet precious, landmark. Victory seemed close, tangible. Work, life, parenthood - we resumed the dance, her laughter like sunlight breaking through the clouds. Our son, blissfully unaware of the battle fought and won, grew under her watchful gaze. Each month, a ritual dance with needles and vials, the tumor markers waltzing ...

In the heart of Wrocław, where shadows play,  Stands a streetlamp, aged and worn with day.  No ordinary post, this iron dame,  A witch's cloak, her leafy frame. Her tangled hair, a verdant crown,  Reaches high, where owls fly down.  Emerald eyes, the lamplight's glow,  Gaze upon the streets below. She whispers secrets to the breeze,  Of cobbled squares and ancient trees.  Of lovers' sighs and laughter's chime,  Woven in the tapestry of time. The children sing, with wide-eyed glee,  Of Wrocław's witch, and mystery.    She watches over, ever kind,  A guardian spirit, with gentle mind. So next time you pass, beneath her bough,  Remember well, the watchful vow.  The Witch of Wrocław, standing tall,  Sees all, remembers all. But fear not, friend, her ancient gaze,  Holds only wisdom, through the haze.  A protector's love, in every spark,  The Witch of Wrocław, lights the dark. Unlikely Buddha 2023