#impermanence — Public Fediverse posts

Two Girls Blowing Bubbles (ca. 1880) by Jacob Maris, from Two Girls Blowing Bubbles.

Source: Rijksmuseum

https://pdimagearchive.org/images/2aee1abe-4239-435b-9a89-df7c52b77a0d

#bubbles #soap #tables #death #impermanence #children #play #vanitas #painting #drawing #art #publicdomain

Two Girls Blowing Bubbles (ca. 1880) by Jacob Maris, from Two Girls Blowing Bubbles.

Source: Rijksmuseum

https://pdimagearchive.org/images/2aee1abe-4239-435b-9a89-df7c52b77a0d

#bubbles #soap #tables #death #impermanence #children #play #vanitas #painting #drawing #art #publicdomain

Two Girls Blowing Bubbles (ca. 1880) by Jacob Maris, from Two Girls Blowing Bubbles.

Source: Rijksmuseum

https://pdimagearchive.org/images/2aee1abe-4239-435b-9a89-df7c52b77a0d

#bubbles #soap #tables #death #impermanence #children #play #vanitas #painting #drawing #art #publicdomain

Two Girls Blowing Bubbles (ca. 1880) by Jacob Maris, from Two Girls Blowing Bubbles.

Source: Rijksmuseum

https://pdimagearchive.org/images/2aee1abe-4239-435b-9a89-df7c52b77a0d

#bubbles #soap #tables #death #impermanence #children #play #vanitas #painting #drawing #art #publicdomain

Two Girls Blowing Bubbles (ca. 1880) by Jacob Maris, from Two Girls Blowing Bubbles.

Source: Rijksmuseum

https://pdimagearchive.org/images/2aee1abe-4239-435b-9a89-df7c52b77a0d

#bubbles #soap #tables #death #impermanence #children #play #vanitas #painting #drawing #art #publicdomain

Salvagnacois ?

https://vincentbreton.fr/salvagnacois/

Salvagnacois ?

https://vincentbreton.fr/salvagnacois/

once was ice
now a small puddle
of water

#haiku
#Impermanence
#dailyhaikuprompt

once was ice
now a small puddle
of water

#haiku
#Impermanence
#dailyhaikuprompt

once was ice
now a small puddle
of water

#haiku
#Impermanence
#dailyhaikuprompt

once was ice
now a small puddle
of water

#haiku
#Impermanence
#dailyhaikuprompt

once was ice
now a small puddle
of water

#haiku
#Impermanence
#dailyhaikuprompt

Skeleton house

Subliminal commentary?

http://rustyring.blogspot.com/2026/08/ww-skeleton-house.html

#anitya, #impermanence, #WordlessWednesday, #Zen

Skeleton house

Subliminal commentary?

http://rustyring.blogspot.com/2026/08/ww-skeleton-house.html

#anitya, #impermanence, #WordlessWednesday, #Zen

Skeleton house

Subliminal commentary?

http://rustyring.blogspot.com/2026/08/ww-skeleton-house.html

#anitya, #impermanence, #WordlessWednesday, #Zen

Skeleton house

Subliminal commentary?

http://rustyring.blogspot.com/2026/08/ww-skeleton-house.html

#anitya, #impermanence, #WordlessWednesday, #Zen

John Brehm, 1955-2026

The poet John Brehm passed away on Monday, in Portland, Oregon.

John and I were friends, close friends when he lived just down the block from me, on Berkeley Place, here in Brooklyn. We’d listen to Brad Mehldau and McCoy Tyner at his place, eat lentil soup at a now-defunct Middle Eastern joint on 6th Avenue, and tomcat around town.

His poems from that period are the ones I know best, many of which are collected in his 2004 book, Sea of Faith: “When My Car Broke Down,” “If Feeling Isn’t In It,” and the title poem, “Sea of Faith.” Reading its last lines again reminds me of the John I knew:

                                                                                  ...I wished 
it was true, wished there really was a Sea of Faith
that you could wade out into,
dive under its blue and magic waters,
hold your breath, swim like a fish
down to the bottom, and then emerge again
able to believe in everything, faithful
and unafraid to ask even the simplest of questions,
happy to have them simply answered.

In “The Poems I Have Not Written,” John calls himself “wildly unprolific,” but that is just so much Brehmian self-deprecation. Poetic accomplishment isn’t measured by the bushel anyway. In John’s case, the art is in the intense focus and scrutiny he brings to particular details of a single moment in time (like the twelve raindrops hanging from the window sash in “Morning, East Wallingford”); it’s in the mix of precise observation and dreamy wonder, or the ease with which his verses follow the path of his wandering mind, or the surprise he shares with readers at finding humor even in the darkest moments.

Just This, his most recent book, brings together about twenty-five years of John Brehm’s writing, and it’s a pretty good place to get to know his work. The book opens with new poems, including a whole section of haiku. I vaguely remember telling John, indelicately and as if what I had to say on the subject mattered, that haiku didn’t do much for me. He had probably forgotten, or long ago forgiven, my arrogant and clumsy remarks when I wrote to him just a few weeks ago about this poem, which now rings, as it were, especially true for me:

just before dawn
my tinnitus takes over
where the crickets leave off

He plays all kinds of variations on the form.

           looking up
from looking something up -- 
                   the whole world still there.

Many of Brehm’s poems are about that interplay of self and world, the real and unrealized possibilities of a passing moment, the fleeting glimpse of some longed-for ecstasy or metamorphosis, a poet becoming fish, or becoming water, as in “Supplication at the River.”

And then I would turn away
and into something other,
as if the way the water moves,
confluence of sources, metaphor 
for everything, but essential and itself,
would be my way of moving.

This is the poetic situation, or at least the situation that shows up again and again in John Brehm’s poetry. Emotions may feel sticky, but everything’s ceaselessly in motion. The mind grasps at flickering images of what is and what could be, puts words to them, gives them form and definition; yet what’s done will easily come undone. The poems are record of the passing moment and some consolation for its passing. And things begin just at the moment when they seem to end.

John Brehm, 1955-2026

The poet John Brehm passed away on Monday, in Portland, Oregon.

John and I were friends, close friends when he lived just down the block from me, on Berkeley Place, here in Brooklyn. We’d listen to Brad Mehldau and McCoy Tyner at his place, eat lentil soup at a now-defunct Middle Eastern joint on 6th Avenue, and tomcat around town.

His poems from that period are the ones I know best, many of which are collected in his 2004 book, Sea of Faith: “When My Car Broke Down,” “If Feeling Isn’t In It,” and the title poem, “Sea of Faith.” Reading its last lines again reminds me of the John I knew:

                                                                                  ...I wished 
it was true, wished there really was a Sea of Faith
that you could wade out into,
dive under its blue and magic waters,
hold your breath, swim like a fish
down to the bottom, and then emerge again
able to believe in everything, faithful
and unafraid to ask even the simplest of questions,
happy to have them simply answered.

In “The Poems I Have Not Written,” John calls himself “wildly unprolific,” but that is just so much Brehmian self-deprecation. Poetic accomplishment isn’t measured by the bushel anyway. In John’s case, the art is in the intense focus and scrutiny he brings to particular details of a single moment in time (like the twelve raindrops hanging from the window sash in “Morning, East Wallingford”); it’s in the mix of precise observation and dreamy wonder, or the ease with which his verses follow the path of his wandering mind, or the surprise he shares with readers at finding humor even in the darkest moments.

Just This, his latest book, brings together about twenty-five years of John Brehm’s writing, and it’s a pretty good place to get to know his work. The book opens with new poems, including a whole section of haiku. I vaguely remember telling John, indelicately and as if what I had to say on the subject mattered, that haiku didn’t do much for me. He had probably forgotten, or long ago forgiven, my arrogant and oafish remarks when I wrote to him just a few weeks ago about this poem, which now rings, as it were, especially true for me:

just before dawn
my tinnitus takes over
where the crickets leave off

He plays all kinds of variations on the form.

           looking up
from looking something up -- 
                   the whole world still there.

Many of Brehm’s poems are about that interplay of self and world, the real and unrealized possibilities of a passing moment, the fleeting glimpse of some longed-for ecstasy or metamorphosis, a poet becoming fish, or becoming water, as in “Supplication at the River.”

And then I would turn away
and into something other,
as if the way the water moves,
confluence of sources, metaphor 
for everything, but essential and itself,
would be my way of moving.

This is the poetic situation, or at least the situation that shows up again and again in John Brehm’s poetry. Emotions may feel sticky, but everything’s ceaselessly in motion. The mind grasps at flickering images of what is and what could be, puts words to them, gives them form and definition; yet what’s done will easily come undone. The poems are record of the passing moment and some consolation for its passing. And things begin just at the moment when they seem to end.

John Brehm, 1955-2026

The poet John Brehm passed away on Monday, in Portland, Oregon.

John and I were friends, close friends when he lived just down the block from me, on Berkeley Place, here in Brooklyn. We’d listen to Brad Mehldau and McCoy Tyner at his place, eat lentil soup at a now-defunct Middle Eastern joint on 6th Avenue, and tomcat around town.

His poems from that period are the ones I know best, many of which are collected in his 2004 book, Sea of Faith: “When My Car Broke Down,” “If Feeling Isn’t In It,” and the title poem, “Sea of Faith.” Reading its last lines again reminds me of the John I knew:

                                                                                  ...I wished 
it was true, wished there really was a Sea of Faith
that you could wade out into,
dive under its blue and magic waters,
hold your breath, swim like a fish
down to the bottom, and then emerge again
able to believe in everything, faithful
and unafraid to ask even the simplest of questions,
happy to have them simply answered.

In “The Poems I Have Not Written,” John calls himself “wildly unprolific,” but that is just so much Brehmian self-deprecation. Poetic accomplishment isn’t measured by the bushel anyway. In John’s case, the art is in the intense focus and scrutiny he brings to particular details of a single moment in time (like the twelve raindrops hanging from the window sash in “Morning, East Wallingford”); it’s in the mix of precise observation and dreamy wonder, or the ease with which his verses follow the path of his wandering mind, or the surprise he shares with readers at finding humor even in the darkest moments.

Just This, his most recent book, brings together about twenty-five years of John Brehm’s writing, and it’s a pretty good place to get to know his work. The book opens with new poems, including a whole section of haiku. I vaguely remember telling John, indelicately and as if what I had to say on the subject mattered, that haiku didn’t do much for me. He had probably forgotten, or long ago forgiven, my arrogant and clumsy remarks when I wrote to him just a few weeks ago about this poem, which now rings, as it were, especially true for me:

just before dawn
my tinnitus takes over
where the crickets leave off

He plays all kinds of variations on the form.

           looking up
from looking something up -- 
                   the whole world still there.

Many of Brehm’s poems are about that interplay of self and world, the real and unrealized possibilities of a passing moment, the fleeting glimpse of some longed-for ecstasy or metamorphosis, a poet becoming fish, or becoming water, as in “Supplication at the River.”

And then I would turn away
and into something other,
as if the way the water moves,
confluence of sources, metaphor 
for everything, but essential and itself,
would be my way of moving.

This is the poetic situation, or at least the situation that shows up again and again in John Brehm’s poetry. Emotions may feel sticky, but everything’s ceaselessly in motion. The mind grasps at flickering images of what is and what could be, puts words to them, gives them form and definition; yet what’s done will easily come undone. The poems are record of the passing moment and some consolation for its passing. And things begin just at the moment when they seem to end.

John Brehm, 1955-2026

The poet John Brehm passed away on Monday, in Portland, Oregon.

John and I were friends, close friends when he lived just down the block from me, on Berkeley Place, here in Brooklyn. We’d listen to Brad Mehldau and McCoy Tyner at his place, eat lentil soup at a now-defunct Middle Eastern joint on 6th Avenue, and tomcat around town.

His poems from that period are the ones I know best, many of which are collected in his 2004 book, Sea of Faith: “When My Car Broke Down,” “If Feeling Isn’t In It,” and the title poem, “Sea of Faith.” Reading its last lines again reminds me of the John I knew:

                                                                                  ...I wished 
it was true, wished there really was a Sea of Faith
that you could wade out into,
dive under its blue and magic waters,
hold your breath, swim like a fish
down to the bottom, and then emerge again
able to believe in everything, faithful
and unafraid to ask even the simplest of questions,
happy to have them simply answered.

In “The Poems I Have Not Written,” John calls himself “wildly unprolific,” but that is just so much Brehmian self-deprecation. Poetic accomplishment isn’t measured by the bushel anyway. In John’s case, the art is in the intense focus and scrutiny he brings to particular details of a single moment in time (like the twelve raindrops hanging from the window sash in “Morning, East Wallingford”); it’s in the mix of precise observation and dreamy wonder, or the ease with which his verses follow the path of his wandering mind, or the surprise he shares with readers at finding humor even in the darkest moments.

Just This, his most recent book, brings together about twenty-five years of John Brehm’s writing, and it’s a pretty good place to get to know his work. The book opens with new poems, including a whole section of haiku. I vaguely remember telling John, indelicately and as if what I had to say on the subject mattered, that haiku didn’t do much for me. He had probably forgotten, or long ago forgiven, my arrogant and clumsy remarks when I wrote to him just a few weeks ago about this poem, which now rings, as it were, especially true for me:

just before dawn
my tinnitus takes over
where the crickets leave off

He plays all kinds of variations on the form.

           looking up
from looking something up -- 
                   the whole world still there.

Many of Brehm’s poems are about that interplay of self and world, the real and unrealized possibilities of a passing moment, the fleeting glimpse of some longed-for ecstasy or metamorphosis, a poet becoming fish, or becoming water, as in “Supplication at the River.”

And then I would turn away
and into something other,
as if the way the water moves,
confluence of sources, metaphor 
for everything, but essential and itself,
would be my way of moving.

This is the poetic situation, or at least the situation that shows up again and again in John Brehm’s poetry. Emotions may feel sticky, but everything’s ceaselessly in motion. The mind grasps at flickering images of what is and what could be, puts words to them, gives them form and definition; yet what’s done will easily come undone. The poems are record of the passing moment and some consolation for its passing. And things begin just at the moment when they seem to end.

✮ Wick ✮

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✮ Wick ✮

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✮ Wick ✮

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dandelion seeds waiting

a dandelion seed head suggests the idea of impermanence.

#photography #photo #naturephotography #nature #autumn #fall #flowers #dendelion #dandelion #bnw #blackandwhite #monochrome #mood #zen #impermanence #noself #thichnhathanh #seeds #delicate #texture #fragility #design #cycles

dandelion seeds waiting

a dandelion seed head suggests the idea of impermanence.

#photography #photo #naturephotography #nature #autumn #fall #flowers #dendelion #dandelion #bnw #blackandwhite #monochrome #mood #zen #impermanence #noself #thichnhathanh #seeds #delicate #texture #fragility #design #cycles

dandelion seeds waiting

a dandelion seed head suggests the idea of impermanence.

#photography #photo #naturephotography #nature #autumn #fall #flowers #dendelion #dandelion #bnw #blackandwhite #monochrome #mood #zen #impermanence #noself #thichnhathanh #seeds #delicate #texture #fragility #design #cycles

dandelion seeds waiting

a dandelion seed head suggests the idea of impermanence.

#photography #photo #naturephotography #nature #autumn #fall #flowers #dendelion #dandelion #bnw #blackandwhite #monochrome #mood #zen #impermanence #noself #thichnhathanh #seeds #delicate #texture #fragility #design #cycles

dandelion seeds waiting

a dandelion seed head suggests the idea of impermanence.

#photography #photo #naturephotography #nature #autumn #fall #flowers #dendelion #dandelion #bnw #blackandwhite #monochrome #mood #zen #impermanence #noself #thichnhathanh #seeds #delicate #texture #fragility #design #cycles

✮ Razorblade Sundae ✮

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✮ Razorblade Sundae ✮

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✮ Razorblade Sundae ✮

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✮ Talking to a Stone ✮

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✮ Talking to a Stone ✮

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✮ Talking to a Stone ✮

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Expérience humaine

https://dandanjean.com/2026/08/19/experience-humaine/

Due to its impermanence, there is nothing in this world truly worth doing, except working to escape.

(According to Buddhism, neither salvation by a deity nor physical death/suicide is an escape from rebirth. Meditation is the only escape.)

#buddhism #impermanence #value #worth #meaning #purpose #substance #essence #salvation #liberation #deity #god #death #rebirth #reincarnation #meditation

Due to its impermanence, there is nothing in this world truly worth doing, except working to escape.

(According to Buddhism, neither salvation by a deity nor physical death/suicide is an escape from rebirth. Meditation is the only escape.)

#buddhism #impermanence #value #worth #meaning #purpose #substance #essence #salvation #liberation #deity #god #death #rebirth #reincarnation #meditation

Due to its impermanence, there is nothing in this world truly worth doing, except working to escape.

(According to Buddhism, neither salvation by a deity nor physical death/suicide is an escape from rebirth. Meditation is the only escape.)

#buddhism #impermanence #value #worth #meaning #purpose #substance #essence #salvation #liberation #deity #god #death #rebirth #reincarnation #meditation

Due to its impermanence, there is nothing in this world truly worth doing, except working to escape.

(According to Buddhism, neither salvation by a deity nor physical death/suicide is an escape from rebirth. Meditation is the only escape.)

#buddhism #impermanence #value #worth #meaning #purpose #substance #essence #salvation #liberation #deity #god #death #rebirth #reincarnation #meditation

Due to its impermanence, there is nothing in this world truly worth doing, except working to escape.

(According to Buddhism, neither salvation by a deity nor physical death/suicide is an escape from rebirth. Meditation is the only escape.)

#buddhism #impermanence #value #worth #meaning #purpose #substance #essence #salvation #liberation #deity #god #death #rebirth #reincarnation #meditation

The whole 'room' of awareness is an impermanent mental fabrication -- both your perceived self and your perceived environment. Like a dream, it's a packaged self-world which either all appears together or all disappears together.

#buddhism #mind #awareness #consciousness #impermanence #fabrication #construction #hallucination #perception #duality #dream #dreaming

The whole 'room' of awareness is an impermanent mental fabrication -- both your perceived self and your perceived environment. Like a dream, it's a packaged self-world which either all appears together or all disappears together.

#buddhism #mind #awareness #consciousness #impermanence #fabrication #construction #hallucination #perception #duality #dream #dreaming

The whole 'room' of awareness is an impermanent mental fabrication -- both your perceived self and your perceived environment. Like a dream, it's a packaged self-world which either all appears together or all disappears together.

#buddhism #mind #awareness #consciousness #impermanence #fabrication #construction #hallucination #perception #duality #dream #dreaming

The whole 'room' of awareness is an impermanent mental fabrication -- both your perceived self and your perceived environment. Like a dream, it's a packaged self-world which either all appears together or all disappears together.

#buddhism #mind #awareness #consciousness #impermanence #fabrication #construction #hallucination #perception #duality #dream #dreaming

The whole 'room' of awareness is an impermanent mental fabrication -- both your perceived self and your perceived environment. Like a dream, it's a packaged self-world which either all appears together or all disappears together.

#buddhism #mind #awareness #consciousness #impermanence #fabrication #construction #hallucination #perception #duality #dream #dreaming

Où est le problème?

https://dandanjean.com/2026/08/13/ou-est-le-probleme-2/

A Letter to the Karmapa, Ogyen Trinley Dorje

https://kronikaduszy.wordpress.com/2026/08/05/a-letter-to-the-karmapa-ogyen-trinley-dorje/

Yesterday, or: One last exhale

A Sijo

a heavy mourning cloak hangs
in your familiar closet;
no gatekeeper keeps this gate
that was not there yesterday;
mere rice paper divides two worlds
one last exhale and it gives way

d’Verse poetics: But no, a butterfly

At d’Verse, we are encouraged to write a poem in any form using at least three complete butterfly names from the provided list, though the poem itself does not need to be about butterflies.

List of butterfly names

Appalachian azure, Autumn leaf, Clipper, Clouded yellow, Crimson Patch, Duke of Burgundy, Fatal Metalmark, Fiery skipper, Gatekeeper, Golden birdwing, Golden Hairstreak, Green marble, Large Tortoiseshell, Lustrous copper, Miami Blue, Monarch, Mourning Cloak, Orange Sulphur, Painted Lady, Peacock, Pine Satyr, Rice paper, Rusty-tipped page, Silver Emperor, Silver-banded Hairstreak, Small Wood nymph, Sonoran Blue, Speckled wood, Spring white, Velvet rose, Wandering skipper.

Sijo?

A Korean verse form related to haiku and tanka and comprised of three lines of 14-16 syllables each, for a total of 44-46 syllables. Each line contains a pause near the middle, similar to a caesura, though the break need not be metrical. The first half of the line contains six to nine syllables; the second half should contain no fewer than five. Originally intended as songs, sijo can treat romantic, metaphysical, or spiritual themes. Whatever the subject, the first line introduces an idea or story, the second supplies a “turn,” and the third provides closure. Modern sijo are sometimes printed in six lines.

Let’s write poetry together!

When it comes to partnership, some humans can make their lives alone – it’s possible. But creatively, it’s more like painting: you can’t just use the same colours in every painting. It’s just not an option. You can’t take the same photograph every time and live with art forms with no differences.

–Ben Harper (b. 1969)

Would you like to create poetry with me and have a completed poem of yours featured here at the Skeptic’s Kaddish? I am very excited to have launched the ‘Poetry Partners’ initiative and am looking forward to meeting and creating with you… Check it out!

After developing the ability to watch thoughts and feelings from a mental distance, an even greater freedom is to detach from the subjective feeling of a watcher (which is also impermanent). The result is ungrounded experience, where there is knowing but no knower.

#buddhism #earlybuddhism #detachment #thoughts #feelings #freedom #mind #mental #subjectivity #duality #dualism #impermanence #awareness #meditation

After developing the ability to watch thoughts and feelings from a mental distance, an even greater freedom is to detach from the subjective feeling of a watcher (which is also impermanent). The result is ungrounded experience, where there is knowing but no knower.

#buddhism #earlybuddhism #detachment #thoughts #feelings #freedom #mind #mental #subjectivity #duality #dualism #impermanence #awareness #meditation