Tag Archives: Poetry

Leaf

Like a new leaf to the tree we cling, then slowly grow and learn of life. Enduring woes soon grind us down and, grudging, we accept the hand we’re dealt.

The struggle now is over;

The futility is clear;

The tree of life abandons us;

Our grip is one of fear.

Cast off now, we succumb

And float upon the wind.

This is the freedom we strove for.

The truth we can’t rescind.

 

Illusions

Survival he should know,

Requires not any other,

Water, food and sleep;

Then add a little colour.

But the one eye’d man

Lives with himself

And suffers more than

Those he shelves.

Nurturing his ego in

Suffering’s deep shade.

Confusing more the self with

A life that is self-made.

Self-illusion cannot be grasped.

Reach beyond, he was once told.

There within lies the divine.

The Bhudda way can he then hold.

By meditation he may learn;

But if he does, may find too late,

His life so quickly passed him by

And left him standing at the gate.

And when he finds his last day is

The same as was his very first.

But four hours and twenty.

He may well ask – did I achieve what I did thirst?

Tomorrow is another world.

Now it is his journey starts.

There is no purpose to his space.

Then live each day as if his last.

About rebirth he may well ask

And transmigration of the soul.

Illusions like a wave are cast

Up and down, as though whole.

No waves move, no soul incarnate.

Life’s Illusions will he recall.

Process passing, only karma.

Does he know life at all?

The Great Divide

There is a love that does abide.

That’s greater than the great divide.

A love that’s buried deep within.

Much much deeper than our skin.

And love’s something we can’t explain,

Or why it brings us so much pain.

But we still crave it all the same.

Then look for someone else to blame.

The need that lies within us all,

Without which, we are not whole.

We let it come, we let it go.

Yet cannot save a mortal soul.

And love’s something we can’t explain,

Or why it brings us so much pain.

But we still crave it all the same.

Then look for someone else to blame.

When something touched me deep inside,

T’was  greater than the great divide.

A love that kept me very whole,

Still lies within my very soul.

Love is something I can’t explain

Or why it brings me so much pain.

But I still crave it all the same.

And know I am the one to blame.

Searching to be Free

High city walls are all about me.

Yet no walls can I see.

Storm clouds hang above my head

But no rain falls on me

Bright sun lights the horizon

A thousand miles away.

Fields of corn wave in the breeze.

Flowers bloom every day.

The walls they now close in

As storm clouds start to burst.

The corn is smashed flat,

The rain it feeds our thirst.

For I am one with nature,

At times I cannot see.

From this land I came and am

Still searching to be free.

What poetry is to me

In the opening lines of Twelfth Night Orsino asks for more and more music because he is frustrated in his courtship of Olivia. Too much music may cure his obsession with his love for Olivia. If he gets so much of it his desire will be satiated and he will lose his appetite for it. Then the desire will be gone.

 “If music be the food of love, play on,

Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken, and so die.”

I’m seldom happier than when I’m writing poetry. I get great pleasure out of writing other stuff too; novels, short stories and blog posts, mainly. In fact writing is my food of love and music is the accompaniment. But poetry is different in that it is always there somewhere in the ether playing gently alongside the other things I do. It never interferes. It floats in and out of my daily life totally at random and never feels like an intruder. And when it lands, as it always does sooner or later, I love the simplicity it brings with it. It has a mysterious way of expressing meaningful things in just a few words which are sometimes easily understood yet on other occasions require interpretation or deep scrutiny. And poems just appear from nowhere, calling me from round the corner or buzzing around in the cool morning air. Continue reading What poetry is to me

The Edge

You played on the edge

Lived life on the brink

Then one day too far

You fell in the drink.

An angel alone

In a lost paradise,

You made your own

‘gainst all good advice.

You chose your way

As all of us must.

Hear others speak.

In ourselves we should trust.

Nobody knows who you are.

Why try to explain.

They never will feel

Your pleasure or pain.

Rice painting

A gift from the earth
A gift from the earth

Two long dry seasons led to drought

And so one crop we went without.

Now the time is here once more

To pull the seedlings from the floor.

Then transplant them to grow tall

And give us food and sustenance for all.

Picking rice seedlings all alone

Picking rice seedlings all alone

When we were young

 

When we were young

Nothing seemed to matter much.

When we were young

Sparks flew in a single touch.

When we were young

We often knew not wrong or right.

When we were young

We flew into the blinding light.

As moths to a flame

Without thought for the consequence

Our wings on fire

We surrendered to decadence.

Then all too soon youth flew away;

Are we whole? Are we now one?

No looking back, no second chance,

As we walk into the setting sun.