On reading Dante’s Inferno, I was looking forward to Dante’s Paradiso where the imagery of heaven prevails, I was led to believe. Inferno is a very complex poem and for literary enthusiasts of a higher level, it lacks something for the ordinary reader and the beginner poet, unless you are a genius and need no further training. I found Paradiso lacking in the spiritual imagery I desired, probably because the words and images put me at a distance. However, I still believe in paradise.
Agony in a maelstrom behind the storm a week of pain from the well rising up It’s life again Beyond the walls that I had built in vain there was a vision of a place so light and cool with healing that I succumbed to its allure It’s life again Love subsided the pain.
Time makes such amends
For what’s missing in time
Just when life seemed hopeless
Along came time to soften wandering through the pages
Maladjusted by my unravelling
Depth and meaning were the challenge to my soul, but
Time had a way of healing,
For relief from superficialness.
I found soothing in an echo from time
The breeze blew toward me,
A grace I was assigned
Misaligned, I was, but saved despite the swirl of agony
In a moment of time
The method of writing metered poetry may start quite from scratch. One forces the words to fit the meter as one drafts the poem. I have found another way that may work for me. Continue reading “How to transform free verse meter by meter”
Taking the sheen off the praise
When what was delivered was good,
I got to get away,
Get back to the place where I am understood.
Many years ago, an utterance of certainty,
Which I forsook,
Could they be so right,
When the praise is so good,
And delivers in ways that are wonderous.
I lift my soul and hand go up, the arms raise
No more the exercise of pain,
Inflicted by something unseen,
The shine comes back,
And I’m found again.
Born of a woman every day;
We are never alone in this world.
The family of humans
Reborn every day.
As crude as the priest put it,
The answer he gave made sense,
Although I questioned the expression,
The answer resounded in spirit
I knew he was right.
I knew its truth.
I, myself, did.
The woman he was talking to listened
Wondering if this is the answer to
The dilemma in her life
(Her fatal suffering)
Albeit God was with her and
God was in the solitary voice –
Even when it’s not the prevailing wisdom.
The water flowed tranquilly,
To rescue her on hearing.
If she took it.
Reading poetry is what I’ve been doing more of recently as a writer of poetry must read it to see how published poetry is done. One poem I read reminded me that poets choose subjects and write a poem on that subject. Choosing subjects is what poets do, but it is not the only basis for a poem. It is one of the ways to write a poem.
This poet obviously choose ‘freedom of expression’ as her subject and wrote an effective, even convincing argument for it. I was compelled by the subject because it was well done and made the point effectively. It even made me think about freedom of expression and asked how many of us are really good at it. I mean some people just dominate the argument…As you can see poems have power.
Kind of nice, but bitter
The taste of convenance
Over there, not.
Nowhere to find.
In the place I call home.
Kind of nice, but bitter,
Going cold, always sour.
You never complain,
I wouldn’t change a thing!
Except if it was mud cake in the face.
I am glad you are here
You will not go
For this is bitter to a hungry man,
And it tastes good.
When will thou arrive?
By Peter Veugelaers.
A straight line I go alone
Steps along the way
The spring is infectious
Buoying me every day
Veering not to the left or right and not by design,
The course I am is full and sublime.
Remember me? Shouted a boy by other means a man
Are you still who you are,
Or have you gone lame?
I was who I was, I said.
And that is all I said.
Wanting to probe some more,
I anticipated a shock,
A meeting of no mere reunion,
A rude interruption.
I kept on going
Not fearing what lies ahead.
A bit maimed and bruised,
But I must cruise
Just get me to the other side.
Even if I die, alive.
A straight line I go alone
Steps along the way
The spring is infectious
Buoying me every day
Veering not to the left or right and not by design,
The course I am is full and sublime.
I better write this
While it is not compelling me, but
Impelling me to.
While not knowing why,
I have an idea,
What it’s about.
The day only comes once a year,
The smell of it, I know.
What it’s about I don’t.
So, what does today mean, to me?
A rather lonely sojourn?
While everyone’s in the know?
Why should I bother?
But I do. The day is another beautiful day
Isn’t this why we are free to celebrate,
Because it is another beautiful day?
Unleased with light.
Since that day many years ago.
The rain is about to fall.
So, they told us.
But it didn’t come.
They all breathed a sigh of relief,
So, did I.
I enjoyed the sun, while it was there,
On a day,
Of heaven spent joys.
The rain might have fell,
But was kept back for more,
More of you, the sun,
Love of the rays flowed through
My heart rejoiced, for the sight,
And death did not gnaw.
The day long
A miracle at the end
She saw everything all white
And not a drop of negativity passed through her mind
As she saw the eternal light
And passed into eternity.
Weatherboards, straight across—
A roof, four walls.
Over there, I see you.
Close and near.
Not in that house they built.
You are to me,
Not etched in a wall
In the pew
The one who gave or did not
You are not a plaque.
But you are you
And I do
That’s all I see.
I looked up.
peace overcame the dreary sky.
the clouds left behind,
a ray of light broke through
Shining bright over the heads of us
as I looked from the window,
inside the room.
I was watching the change,
I was looking up.
I remembered God,
the Father’s light shines on the
righteous and unrighteous alike.
He remembered me,
He can send the rain,
For now, the light he sends.
The plan is this.
That it goes to plan.
What is the plan?
No pain in the game that’s lived in this life to get to where I need to be,
The need is great, no doubt I feel it strong,
Needy me, needy me,
Needing to get there,
Abide by the plan,
Focused and dry,
No doubt in my mind
Got to do it do it do it
There is no turning back
Going forward, on track
Cannot stop, got to go,
Get in that place,
Where I want to go,
All obstacles I will put asunder
Until my life has got to where it wants
Then will I be?
Will I be settled within?
Calm and collected?
There will always be room for the break –
Into something new,
Jump right in.
I’ll stop what I do.
And go that way, the way
For it’s as fresh as new.
You think you know it all. I got to help you, son.
The other guy is coming with a message you better here,
It will help you, I’m sure, son.
You are missing a few brains of that I have no doubt.
A bit dumb around the corners:
You sprouted wings like cauliflowers and cabbages on the sides of your brain.
But I am here, to help,
Unless some other together guy would get at you first:
The head guy. Amateur.
Bar the humble guy.
Who asked you,
Help me see.
For you see better than me.
God loves us more than we can love God
God gives more to us than we could give to God
God forgives us more than we can forgive
All God asks is, have a bit of faith in me.
God did his work
And I am proud of the work he made.
It was awesome that he rested after six long days
I for one will sing in praise
To the awesome God who is not behind cloud
Shown he has the world at hand the marks of his love
Who toiled at building this place we call home,
He gave it his all.
And bent down, humble, and said,
This is yours,
This is mine.
Deft defying acts, skills she said. Looking good. Cool. Beautiful. Got to, when getting the coffee. In front of you.
Whetting my appetite on a diet of malnutrition things I am supposed to not eat but eating them anyhow no one will see my diet of mental malnutrition but nevertheless I go ahead and hope for the best making sure no one sees me and I die a death, losing myself, my integrity, did I even regret the impulse that came over my brain in a haze of momentary lack of mindedness set on just one thing and forgetting I said it was mental malnutrition. The death of my soul, now a hole, and no one knows, but I die, alone. I jumped from thing to thing and the desire grew and blew and blew until it flew, and I’m left with the residual hue nothing like I wanted.
A palatable easy rock sound coupled with some interesting philosophical lyricism leading more to unbelief than belief, in the face of commercialism and the invisible barriers between people.
No, not laughable
Breezy, uplifting and touching
A hint of how much I love you
She’s rich but not annoyingly so
No self-indulgent phony
Sounds the most honest
Apt considering her title (she’s not channeling a future divorce)
How is she really feeling Mostly sentimental gut feeling
Don’t ask if I think this is better or an embarrassment Her appeal outstanding
Free verse is all porridge and poetry
Mixed and thrown together like a whirlwind of expressive rage
Hot in the pot and bubbling away
An orator who’s been told life is poetry and anger swirled all together,
Sounding like a dear old bird chirping,
Not so. Beaten into life by the wordsmith’s device
Heated words used in free verse candor
Sounding like he’s got a grip
Dying on the inside, the boy’s got lip
When a wind is getting closer
The poet dives for self-respect
The free verse expresses regret.
It is this way, so the illusionist said to the one he called the magician.
The illusionist saw it no other way in the vision of the magician he seen
There was no grey ground and no questioning He had it right
And woe and before him the magician came creeping back who he viewed in a suspicious light
There was only one way of looking at her, and this way was right:
The magician was a wicked old willy.
Who happened to be a loved one gone by,
Never seen the same again,
The love he had was broken,
As the magician was seen through the illusionist’s eyes,
Never to be blown.
Commercial intent, he said.
They said his nose was out of joint,
Because he smelt commercialization.
“You just hate anything commercial.”
But he grimaced at the candy smell in the foyer of a cinema
That was in the shop of a petrol station.
It was the smell that made him bark “Commercial intent”
And the manager was there to hear it.
The candy smell was smothering and moldy
No wonder he cried out
As life was choked out and inseminated with artificial popcorn, but
Could this be a matter of sour grapes?
As just the day before he had been given white bread for dinner.
Like the times he had been at the cinema he brought down curses on the place he was now standing.
In the shop of a petrol station.
There was such a mess.
How does one understand today’s poem “The Persian Rug”. Although it may sound like red carpet service for politicians despite their misdemeanors, it does not mean that at all. I can imagine a politician’s flaws being overlooked, though, and life goes on as normal, but this has nothing to do “The Persian Rug”. Quite simply the poem is spiritual. I am not using a strict religious metaphor from the Bible. I could have used another idea than the one I did, but I use “Persian rug” because it sounded like something exotic and transcendent which fitted in with my meaning. It is about how Jesus treats a person despite their flaws and sins. He died for sin but is not condemning someone for their sins. In a way he is treating the person in my poem like royalty even though he does not deserve it. This is God’s goodness to that person.
Persian rug for a sow,
Not fitting the soul,
Dark and dead,
With the sin that he did.
He said to himself, I am no good.
What will God say?
What will they think?
But they still laid out the Persian Rug.
Surprising as it seems.
More than deluxe
And a tip of the hat
There’s a love transcending love
That I got to have
But I have a mountain to climb.
To get beyond the top,
Is a love so divine
I could cry
For this love to be mine,
And I need this now,
So I will climb
The mountain of my dreams.
In moments, words were said,
Were they two divergent things expressed about the same thing?
One moment straight as an arrow that pierces the soul
Another moment as cheerful a schoolgirl chatting
Two divergent things expressed about the same thing? What’s the point, my friend?
She says one day coffee’s the killer
Next day asking if I’m getting a coffee — with a light touch of fun.
One day it’s one
One day it’s another
And the same
And the last day sinks the nail: you drink too much coffee.
Coffee is the cheerful killer she so wants to rid me of.
Dare I ask for more explanation, other than her innocent smile.
All conceived in love.
An oppressor they called him;
Two thousand years of oppression!
And women are down?
Blame it on the Apostle Paul (some would say)
Women got to be submissive in Paul’s day
So, what does this say
About the Lord?
A misreading others say, as
Jesus was good to women–
And they loved him back.
By the mere, more than mere, fact they responded to him,
Was their love for a man who revealed his pure heart
To their souls
Jesus included women,
He did not reject them,
Scold or deny them
He showed them respect.
Maybe a women felt she got no respect
But Jesus friended them as they were.
Guided them where he could;
With gentle loving wisdom,
Which was understood
And despite the wrongs that were done to them,
Jesus gave them the grace to rise above.
If they feared a ruler,
They get a true servant instead.
Who is respected back
For the love that he gives.
Upside means the sunny side up,
The bright side of life,
The brighter side.
But there’s the upside down,
The opposite of the sunny side up,
Where something is down,
Something is wrong.
But I believe the light side can be good
In getting us through the upside down.
For if there is an upside down in the places we meet,
There may be a sunny side up that makes it seem neat.
That’s because there is still an upside in ‘upside down’.
Uncomfortable he yelled deep down inside subtler than a scream but more telling of his distress than a deep down scream would say, he fell into the day with a stumble, getting breakfast, but falling asleep, he worked his way back into day from a disadvantage of a sleepy head, tumbling onto the street with a leap frog trying to keep up with the momentum the day set, and keep abreast well, entering through the door and the lady swiped the card and in he went, a one-sided chat indeed, she was alright, he was the center of attention for a change, and the test was done in a fashion of a bruise and hit around the head, leaving him wondering is she really was a nurse, indeed she was, and again he was in influx from the morning step out of bed falling down the side and getti8ng back up with one leg and two heads, unbeknown to him the right one wasn’t shining outside, too early, too fine, too lost. He felt good after the meeting.
As the intersection of two souls meet,
One soul hopes for more than meet and greet.
She took a risk, Is needing him so.
The other oblivious to all this,
Is caught up in the appearances of the show,
A way to get to know you is all a design
For souls to intertwine.
But how else to get love to shine?
This man had no intentions,
And when truth comes out in the open,
And appearances are put to one side,
The efforts she put in to have him,
Will leave her feeling on the downside
One soul will be left to die.
He hopes the prayers she prays
Will make her all fine.
And once again her love will shine
To face another day.
I wish I could have been there
To be more than I was,
To help you through this,
Is what I should
But life did not turn out the way it should
And reality’s hard cold stare is what you are left with.
I remember you,
And my heart is laid bare,
I am at least sincere.
If things had been different
We could have had something better,
But where would your heart have been,
If I had said yes to seeing you
To only let you down again
And set your foot in the abyss.
We all must face the slings and arrows
All is fair in love and war
And for this we can be sure.
The calm sea comes to the busy street, merging into stillness,
The tide rises to the moment
And all is laid low.
Over the sea, I can see you.
You are over there, and I am here.
Alone in our bubbles.
I can hear through the padded walls.
But the sea cannot tell.
Nor can the walls.
The breeze carries me away
As I feel something strong within
Hope is still here,
That overcomes the unknowing
Of being still.
I am not hiding
In this shell.
In this shell
Is what I am really feeling.
I don’t need to break out
When I am within
The energy around me is panic
It affects me
But it is not me.
Deep down inside,
Calm and quiet,
I attend to my business
With a peace of mind.
Making sure that my inner sanctum
Is never disturbed,
I try to run away
From the crowds that clamour
And get back inside
To the things that matter
It’s deep down inside.
Not exactly magic this service of mine,
They got me throwing, flipping pancakes
At the Café Dime.
I wait around most of the time
I could wait on you with pleasantries
And a cool calm smile.
And wean you on my charm,
It’s not that I hate this,
But you can tell I take my time.
I must do things right,
Because the boss says, but
I’ve got a baby and a husband,
And a family, too.
We’re all in this together,
I try to play the thing cool.
Mortgage piling up, heavy going some of the time
Many other things I want,
I am terminally out of dime
It is my life,
I know it is,
I cannot feel it so well now.
In the middle of the day,
A line sinks me down in
The here and now.
I think about tomorrow as I come and go,
Then you’re the customer who comes through the door,
I pretend I am blind.
But I see you all the time.
I know you see me: Am I just an object to you?
To do this and that
Without a care. Do I even care about you?
I turn over another day at the office,
The Café Dime pays the bills. But I pray for solace,
I want to find the way through.
The media recently seems pretty up beat about the future with Joe Biden, the G 7, and overcoming Covid. That’s the inspiration for this poem.
Hope because of you,
Hope, I need you.
Hope, visiting me,
Hope encouraging me.
Love needing me.
Hope seeing the possibility.
Hope and love praying for me.
The world is running,
Hopes it will stay,
Getting better every day,
Around the corner, something bright,
News is upbeat about the plight,
Doom and gloom a thing long gone,
Just do not get caught up in that thing gone wrong,
Plenty time to stay in the Sun.
Remember the days when the sky was young,
Are coming back after not so long a time away,
They’d been waiting for today to come.
He started the weekend on Weds.
And ended on Monday midnight.
Wth a head full of air,
And seamlessness of days and free-flowing space.
Like going to space.
Like my birthday on fast forward another day that comes to lighten a sage’s face
Bent out of shape and not a care about who is around.
Just a heart for the DIY and downtown.
Almost sleeping, but aware.
Almost dreaming in the light, during the lamps of day.
Reverie. I have been pondering in a mind of my making, escaping from D-Central.
Too far way.
Too far way.
Shall I say it again?
Pinching the air with the gasp of my breath in the room I was missing,
When the far off unreality was a step beyond,
Too far for my own good.
As I wake, from illusions of day light flickering across my mind,
I find ambience waiting for me, wondering if I should have seen worse.
But there I was, stationed, sanctified.
Me, seeing it, seeing you there,
My head above the undergrowth.
Just able to hear
Just can see ahead
To feel something I see
But not as you feel
I am deep in the undergrowth
I don’t grow anymore
I stopped growing in the undergrowth.
My head just above the undergrowth,
The rest of me below,
Waiting to come through the undergrowth.
I feel something
But not as you feel.
I want to feel more than I do,
But I am stuck in the undergrowth.
Without seeing you,
I would not feel anything at all.
You are hanging there,
I am sinking.
I see I can feel you.
Without seeing you,
I could not feel you.
My eyes sense your pain
My mind is above the undergrowth
My heart and soul in my head,
You keep on hanging there,
A reflection of my grief.
Experiencing grief for the sufferer is not the actual inner reality of the sufferer. He only sees in the sufferer a reflection of his grief.
Is your name a pretence?
By you, but who are you?
You are, aren’t you?
A distinctive scowl and careless attitude.
That is in you.
Why is your name so different?
Have you had enough of being yourself,
That you had to pretend?
Am I wrong?
Have I mistaken your character by appearances?
When I saw you as you are it was for the first time
Then I had enough already.
You call yourself 1980, but by many other names.
You are known as more and this we know well, so well, by your
Distinctive scowl and careless attitude
This blew me. 1980 is just a name, isn’t it?
You were more than
More than a scowl
More than careless
More than an attitude
You were saying,
“I come as a whist,
I was never the same again.
You give more than you can—
Every day you give a widow’s mite.
What more can you?
Why am I so afraid to give to someone who begs?
To support a busker, what a dredge
Her songs are no good, she likes her small pleasures.
Her pleasures come and go.
They’re free and gone forever.
Why should I pay for hers? She cannot live by songs!
They are fools.
She does what she wants
I have to work
Let God give to her!
I do not!
I don’t lend money or give free of charge
Whoever wants my help shall be charged!
I am not untrue
I do my work and so should you.
Why are you afraid to give to a beggar?
A beggar does not pretend
Why wouldn’t a rich man give a widow’s mite?
To someone who cares to sing?
And fill the air with prosperity.
Why would you begrudge two miserly dollars?
For a performance from the heart
What do you know about charity?
You wretched man of deceit
You don’t do as Jesus says
You like your small pleasures
You just can’t let go of two miserly dollars
One day you’ll do it
I bet you will
It will be for a bet on the races
I know it will.
Busker and beggar,
You are human beings I don’t know
I don’t have to let go.
Why are you afraid to give?
But I tried. In the cold, through the wind, and under grey clouds,
I waited for her
To give more than I would, with the feet and hands of Jesus I should, not knowing what may come
She says to me:
I do not need your money.
For when one sings from the heart,
Reward fills my soul.
A pocketbook then, one does not need.
So, the rich man sang with all his might
A widow passed by,
And threw him a coin —
Her left overs from the wages
What she spent on food and rent —
All that she had left to live on.
Money meant for the poorest —
The coin fell by the rich man’s feet.
So he sung even more.
Not to make some money,
But to make his soul
From sweetness and honey.
Every note a hymn, a
Prayer to soothe.
He’ll come to his senses,
I was alone when it happened.
But I felt a calm around me.
As if taking this pain without feeling a thing
I was in the East that day, in the middle of the world.
It was sunny, on a river, and I was standing in my paddle boat.
There I was chased by unknown bodies, vaguely resembling figures,
They had a shape,
But no form
The arrows they shot at me flew by and I laid low.
And paddled my boat to a bamboo dwelling, where I hid.
A thatched house.
Those accusers would not find me there, my thoughts.
I paused for a moment as the figures went away.
Around the corner, they vanished.
Some arrows got me.
I felt long arrow shafts moving down my chest,
At the same time, I saw arrowheads protruding.
And the arrows I saw were removed, almost supernaturally, as if the wind blew them away.
I felt no pain.
Regaining strength, I saw yet again my pursuers who were waiting for me, my thoughts.
And the river looked kind as I watched it appear before my eyes, thanking providence.
A man I recognized as he came beside me. He was my friend.
An older man, wearing a robe, and with beard.
Light in spirit,
Lighter than anyone I knew.
As if he could be carried,
But he carried me by his spirit,
As we travelled by boat to an unknown destination.
To get away from those thoughts,
Which brought me no pain,
But only worry.
My friend gave me great comfort in the days ahead.
I forgot about my attackers and neither did they come.
The days came and went, and I drifted away down the river, with my friend by my side.
I was glad. For we disappeared into the mist, and I was at rest from those thoughts.
The sky turned on me,
I looked, and saw
Arrows shooting down, piercing me one by one
My soul bent over, crippling me.
I screamed in the silence, but even I could not hear myself.
The deadly arrows had no archer.
Was the Devil to blame?
Did God do it?
Or was I dreaming?
The air screamed, was deceived with lies and evil,
Haunting me in my failure.
I was to blame for the arrows shot down.
I brought them on myself.
For I had failed
And the guilt almost killed me.
No, it was remorse.
I see the rugged hill
Where my saviour was
Blessed are the poor in spirit, Jesus said
On the Mount of Olives.
Now we live in poverty.
And now we are spiritually poor.
Our redeemer, rescuer has gone,
And he would be Messiah.
We are now poor
For Jesus has gone.
But we are rich
Yes we are rich
For having walked with him and talked
Yes we are rich.
And although I do not understand this crucifixion
Of an innocent man, I will understand this crucifixion.
And I saw the man next to Jesus at the Skull call
Jesus, asking forgiveness. Today you will be with me in
Paradise, Jesus replied. The other man insulted him.
And yes, a rich young man amidst the riches…
Of a slum? Amidst the riches of disease? Amidst the
Riches of not knowing God?
He rose again on the third day! Yes
And is coming back to take me to Paradise.
Jesus’ agony. Am I poor, am I rich? Do I know this God?
Do I know that he cares for me?
–Written in 1992
My first published poem was in a church newsletter and it should have been left for the back page as the matters of church life would be of more importance rather than a mere poem. This rather negative estimation in view of ecclesiastical concerns which would take up much weight in the minds and hearts of many older middle-class members.
As one of the youth I expected a rejection of the poem I submitted to the church newsletter (can’t recall precisely how I got around to submitting to a church newsletter, but I did have a affinity for the people) I expected a flat out rejection, but I was pleasantly surprised by the forward thinking pastor who gave my poem the whole of the front page! It was a poem about Jesus and especially the cross he died on and the mountain he was on…the poem came straight from my heart, out of my relationship with Christ. The words just flowed.
I wrote the poem and thought it was kind of a napkin type of thing. There was no real attempt to submit professionally to a real publisher—I guess I did not consider a church newsletter the real thing. But I was graced by the pastor who saw something good in it and decided against better ecclesial judgment to have put it on page two. Page one will do, though.
He held the card and read it,
“Not her again” and threw it in the neighbour’s garden patch.
She was Deborah.
Who loved him,
And sent him a Christmas card, hoping to be his girl.
They were young.
He was fine, she was lovely,
Yet his silence. Yes, his silence was ripping her apart.
And the hurt went deep down inside.
She had a choice, in how she would reply,
To react or respond.
The way she goes could shape her entire life.
Wondering how she would be later on.
And if the same thoughts would still be there.
And if she would be free?
But Deborah stopped by the pavement
And her eyes brightened up.
Singers were there.
A bit of beauty.
The crisp, fresh, silent night spoke to her senses,
The song on their lips filled her soul,
The people who listened with an ear for hope.
This she knew, would stay, with her, inside her heart.
And the rhymes and rhythms of the night would remind her:
Life goes on.
She clung tightly to the thought that everything is all right.
It was a long year.
All that thinking,
The ins and outs of precision,
Measured as it was.
All for what?
A tidy result at the end,
But somehow empty,
But lacking that sense of ACCOMLISHMENT.
The year ended down a notch,
But with two more DVDs to go,
To even things up a bit.
Knowing it wouldn’t be enough,
Even with everything on my lap,
And the likes of the world to own.
Nothing else is what I need,
What will I do when I don’t find it?
I’m left with you,
Designated to me.
And how I should pray for you.
To come up to the standard.
For I want you a certain way, and
My vision is not complete yet.
But for the balance I didn’t want,
I would rule for you.
But would I rule for me?
Thankfully, my friend, balance is a slip of my destiny,
A straightening of what should have been,
Overseen by the watchful, good Lord.
Putting the much loved poem on the back burner was the logical next step. This after desperately searching for a suitable publisher for it, but realizing there isn’t one, yet. Beforehand, he was going to place it on his blog. He had, at least, decided he would work on finding a publisher for it, and would continue that search at a later date.
How can they offer the world hope if their houses are filled with lonely people?
I lift my heart to skies and give it to God and see what was meant to be.
Caring to see rightly, tenderness holding tightly.
But just another club sandwich at the café.
The walk of life grinds on stuff, somehow, it affirms the very life in me.
I’ve been watching you, the way you’re so fine
It’s not that I want you or need you at all
But I have this heart that without me you’ll fall
It’s not that I cannot live without you,
It’s not that you’re ready for me
You’re stronger than that,
But with me, You’ll be stronger still
When I take you on,
If you’re heart is beating for me
When you invite me in,
If pure love is what you need,
I’ll be here waiting
State of the world
Without you to say so would make a better world
What lies behind those words of yours?
Describing the effects of the fall in today’s world
Can you say it more honestly?
Until I know you mean it
And the hints of sincerity become
Maybe I should listen to a soul album instead.
Life is wide, within our reach, inside of it, our lot.
We are not without grasp, inside this realm,
Someone searches, with love below and high
Reading some of the romantic poems and literature that comes out of India, I saw a lot of heart brokenness in the stories, when one’s sweetheart leaves. It then occurred to me that these stories reveal much tender feeling towards love and romance. They way that the love wasn’t tossed into the dirt to be trampled over or thrown into the ocean with a million fishes eager to eat it up. I found the sensibility, the sense that love is treated tenderly, better than many romances that get produced in the English language.
Empty: a state of being without.
Empty: a state of being without because of lack.
Empty: a state of being without because of not knowing.
Empty: a state of being without because of rebelling against what can fill.
Being compared to an animal who is better off: empty.
An ox knows better: empty.
Where does one go when
The light goes dim
And the ones who
Matter won’t listen to
The ones who can reclaim
I need you,
But I can live without you.
I remember you,
As I watch you go by…
Affection in my soul, I hope all goes well
With you on your journey through earth, As you live,
May God be with you
And protect you forever
As for me, I remember you.
The quality I see before me
Is a quality I cherish most
That non-violence is the virtue
That liquidizes the soul
Into the soothing pool
Of my inner-most desire
In the maelstrom of bustling street-life, I am unperturbed,
Content in my way and yours
But we are all going the same direction.
Going and going on, never-ending,
Journey, stops and starts
Every day the same.
This is the life I have come to see, and love.
What about the ever-increasing void?
Seen in the stress in my voice? As I lay out my plan before you.
I saw an opening in the cracks through the skies
Of a shine that was coming through,
Promising me something more,
I wanted to catch and embrace it,
But it slowly drifted upward more
Until I couldn’t see it.
And again, we took to the streets,
To meaningfully engage the existence that we brought.
The opportunity to begin again,
Lately more than a puff of smoke from that old engine of mine.
Street sight is long,
Run by the forlorn.
A cloud settling across,
Street mastered by a turn, as ghosts come and go.
Darkness one thinks she sees.
Ghosts flashing across trees, deafening cries of the lost souls from purgatory,
Lingering in her mind the fraternity,
Their callings exciting the moon
And along comes the white and spot of lunar light and valleys of doom,
There she finds rambling, the day languishing, but not in the heart of someone lying down.
Curious she bent Surprised to find one who rose to meet her, with a crown.
The light brighter than before. Enlightened, wonder-awed, by the face,
She fell into the calm, the breeze behind.
And saw the street unlike before.