It is cold and hard, When even the gushing water, Has come to a stop, Silence is all you can hear, As like the bud, You stay down under the cold water, Just hoping to make it up there,
Like the misery, And the unfathomable pain, Underneath the surface, You can't find clarity, Just mud and pain,
It's hard to be hopeful, When you're stuck in the dark, Where the only dream you have, Is to get out alive, From the struggles of these, Marshy lands,
You wish, that something, Could just take you away, Away from this darkness, And the cold underwater pain,
But there is no gushing, No new water, No new wishing, For like the lotus, You too are left in your own mud, Of fears, worries and agony, All together,
You wonder now, That what are you meant to be, Born in the mud, Will you ever set free?
There is no movement, And there is no hope, It's only because of the, Stubborn roots of values, You're still afloat,
Days and nights, Have passed away, Without a hope, Without a ray, It is when, you start feeling that, People like you don't really bloom, Thinking that one day, This marsh shall engulf you, For you're never getting out of here, And the darkness is here to stay,
But it's always before the dawn, The night is the darkest, As before you give up, You see yourself become something, You never thought you could be, From all the pain you suppress, As the flaws, fears and pain you had, Start turning into petals, Generating emotions, That you can't even express,
Now it's hard for everyone, To even believe, Of what you became, From what happened, And what you faced,
But like the lotus, You taught the world, That even the darkest of the places, Can give birth, To the universes most enthralling pieces.
- from the flower that bloomed from the darkest of places. . . . - renuka .d . . . #life#wod#lotus
It is with many tears and a grieving heart I share my thoughts today. Recently hearing the news of Jack's passing it has saddened me greatly. He was humble and undoubtedly kind of heart, of strong faith and with sound integrity. I miss him as though the dawn might her morning birdsong, an empty sky devoid of colour and music. Prayers and love across the ocean to his Mom and family and dear friends. Jack was an inspiration to so many here, supporting new writers and encouraging everyone he was fortunate enough to read.
This poem here was his very favourite of mine. He told me many times how it gave him peace and changed him in ways he couldn't explain and would go back to revisit and read it over again. Often he would direct other poets so they could enjoy it too. Countless conversations we had with much admiration and respect for each other and for the love and craft of poetry. He adored my style of free verse as I loved his way with words hence renowned as the much admired Haiku King.
My darling Jack these words are eternally yours and I dearly hope they continue to bring you peace in the hereafter. In God's arms and my love, always your dearest Dale
An apparition in the pink skies Wandering like a Greek Goddess, Wooed by the seven suns, Breathing gentle storms, She smiles of terracotta mornings, Her hazelnut eyes, A temple of tangerine dreams.
She walks in like a Royal, Bathed in golden showers And blonde afternoons, Leaves twirl like Russian ballerinas And fall to the ground When she's around, Sunlight warms up her toes And the earth blush in coral hues, Isn't she a wonder, The little muse of October fever Mysterious like midnight, Soft as a lavender kiss, She's a wildfire, A lament from the heavens, Falling, fading beneath The wrinkles of orange skin, Tranquil pages sigh under her spell, Romancing the skies Like a daydream, She looks like a mirage Dancing with the light in the leaves of time, The earth spreads sheets Of Auburn sunsets Shifting between joy and death, Giving birth to Maple Leaf poetry In memory of her scars and smiles.
' ---------------------------------- Wild winds whistle through Autumn's rustling leaves, Trees of gold like amber flames sway softly with the rising breeze, The cool crisp air of Autumn in the stillness of darkening skies, Tender leaves fall gently, reflecting the tears of Autumn's cry.
The warming glow from a summer sun fades in September skies, Sorrowful clouds of greyish blue, a display of Mother Nature's solemn goodbye, Whimsical leaves of dark red crimson, once vibrant with the richness of life, Delicate and circling from high above, a powerful performance of Autumnal delight.
A solitary bird soars high above, conquering winds in twilight clouds. The haunting howl of Autumn's wail, whistling her ghoulish bemoaning sound, As the darkness of night begins to fall, in the midst of a harvest moon, A remorseful ripening of rituals, as the tightening grip of Autumn looms.
In the season of change and maturity, falling leaves begin to decay, The cycle of nature within the circle of life, Mother Earth will usher the way, As the withering bare trees stand lonesome in the shadows of silent fears, The ravishing roars from a raucous wind extinguish the light from Autumn's lost tears. --------------------------------------------------------------------------
The start's much the same (or so, I've led myself to believe). But somewhere around the middle, it snakes its way to make a detour. The day, I mean. I'm yet to figure out the exact moment when the dice slithers away, because more often than not I'm much too consumed by the strange shifting paradigms of my identity, to take a look at what the day makes of itself.
But sometimes, a moment curls its toes and presses it against my ribs. And much to my dismay, the heaviness closes in on me; a violent stab of loneliness — too palpable, too searing an ache.
On the precipice of a self-proclaimed breakdown, I, sometimes, see all the months concatenate into full-blown termites that chip away at the edges of my former version. And on days, when I'm glutted with hope, I like to think that I'll someday bear witness to the seam coming undone; casting aside the frayed seams, I would, then, flutter my wings, perhaps like a butterfly. But who is to say when that'll actually happen?
I seldom know what to do with myself these days:
I speak too much or too little. My limbs dangle around, never in sync with each other. I lay still in my bed, and feel each minute fall over me, in a clockwork. Who is to say I'm not trapped in an hourglass?
The day arrives. And that's all about it. I do not fancy the start enough to learn more about how it trudges in. For all I know, I'm jolted awake, either by a shameless ringlet of light or by my hysteria.
The start's much the same: I pick up the tools and airbrush the remnants of a crippled yesterday. I might be a fool, but I don't like being toyed with. At least not twice. I lay my thoughts on the dining table, quite often in a hushed string of sighs, and on rare occasions, by bobbing my head. I weigh my sentences against each other and trade them instead for, 'Can you pass me the butter knife?'
The rest is a mosaic, the edges of which are blurred. The rest is a blurb, and I'm bringing myself to read it in between slabs of restlessness and mindless twiddling of thumbs. Nevertheless, it passes by.
It passes by me. It : a vehicle exposing its eyelids, blinking, flashing, and I, a frail deer that's stopped dead in its tracks.
The start's much the same, but somewhere around the middle, it slips out of my grasp.
And this. This is me trying to fill its frayed seams. This is me tugging the loose ends, tying them together and sewing.