Posted in Poetry

OLD DAYS

The wind blows, the sound is nostalgic,

Of the old days when rains, used to be plenty

And children played outside, and herded cattle in the fields

The trees whistle in the forest

In a reminiscence of the whistling of the herder in the green fields

When the herd was plenty and the rain dropped from the sky

The land was fertile and the plains were never dry

 

The rain drops, on the metal sheet

Very intense but for a short time

Unlike the old times when, we had more than plenty

When we had bumper harvests and our granaries were ever full

 

Now on the wind blows, and brushes past the dry trees

The trees whistle a mournful sound, like a funeral procession

the raindrops are scarce, and very feeble, like a candle fire in the wind

The children never play outside, they are never amused by the sun and the desolate land

And the fireplace has no fire, only ashes remain, because the corn has since dried in the farm land

 

Adopted words,

Anonymous.

Posted in Poetry

THE DATE

After three hours of sitting down looking at each other

Feasting on the sacred moment of pure honesty and truth

Paralyzed to have a sense of time

Him staring at her curved bowed lips

Her… well, what about her?

She was definitely mesmerized by the cool eyes

So curious, searching, looking…

He asked her then, to pour him a drink

 

Heard by the eavesdropping birds, the words were weightless

To her, they were whispered words wrapped in petals

That floated gently into her rib cage and settled at her centre

It was a simple request, but her heart took it as a plea

Something changed, in a second the environment changed

The trance was broken, and the locks snapped

 

A harsh fell and the silence shouted at the top of her lungs

Confusion was written on her face

Wondered if he knew that she was just a picture

With a broken frame

A voice commanded her out of the state

Be everything your ego is afraid to become

Your existence is tied together like shoelaces.

 

Her eyes held so many tears, unshed for so many years

He said, “Rain on me”

Chosen not to be wiped, chosen not to be held back

She tasted her very emotions, a mixture

Of anguish, pain, bitterness, frustration and happiness

And it was the best wine he had ever had.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized

A PSALM OF LIFE

Tell me not, in mournful number,

Life is but an empty dream!”

For the soul is dead that slumber;

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not it’s goal;

“Dust thou art, to dust returnest,”

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to- morrow

Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long and time is fleeting,

And thou our hearts, thou stout and brave;

Still, like muffled drums are beating

Funereal marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of life,

Be not dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act, act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God overhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time.

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing

Learn to labor and to wait.

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow