Love is a beautiful seed growing in a field of weeds Love is a rose in a garden of thorns Its pickers endure ****** and scorns Love blossoms hope in all seasons Though sometimes fear give reasons Love is a plant that forever grows Even in pitch darkness it glows A rose crushed produces a sweet balm Love tested is like a well written psalm A plant flourishes in a fertile farm Our hearts is the soil where love work its charm poetry is far more beautiful than prose So let's our love endure forever unlike a rose
We lit a flame in an opaque world Not from wood but from a candle For woods sparkles bright But produce ashes that cause blight But candles melts to produces a stronger wax Such is our flame burning to only reproduce a greater love We lit a flame that first set our hearts on fire And the fire spreads and then put our whole soul a blaze Our flame is not shaken by violent winds But it sways side by side dancing even to its violent rhythms Hand in hand ,heart in heart we lit a flame A flame that does not burn down but builds up A flame that that light our own souls and other souls too For such is a candle it burns not for its own sake
mediocre and faded the average poem no longer strikes chords in the heart's harp use extravagant vocabulary weave your words tight until they seem uncomfortable the original meaning lost between the claustrophobic corners covered in lace and pretentious boasting try but don't try so hard that no one but the classic readers would be able to understand the words you've worked so hard to convey do not force a poem out or it will stick your fingers and it will create a mess similar to a teenage boy it will be long and uncomfortable with itself unknowing of how to adjust into this thing that is supposed to be mature now despite wanting to be simple do not rush poetry find quiet inspiration in silent observations of yourself, of nature rushing poetry makes it fast too many unfilled thoughts racing around in one space not meeting each other despite being so close together tell a story with imagery with delicate words of morality tell a story with flashbacks with soft lips and with stained shirts tell a story with love make your poems with care
Today the night sky shines bright As though to mock the moon That each eventide arises Taking the mantle from the sun All united in an assignment To light the way for earthly treaders The radiant stars endlessly move Age to age whispering its great adventures Tis music of the stars Singing of the past,present and future Singing of a long past left in traces of unwritten history Singing of the presence experienced by the audience Singing of a future concelead to mortal eyes Tis the music of the stars
The inaudible lyrics of the stars That need no lute nor lyre To sooth the listeners' heart The grace of the 'heavenly singers' Like a spell enchants the audience Its glory inspires the astronomer Its music moves the poets hand Tis the music of the stars Singing to the 'deaf' mortal Singing how like a porcelain his life is brittle Singing how his life is brief at its best Tis the music of the stars
The music of the stars : Tis a melody that wanes Like a script come to an end Tis a rhythm that diminishes The beats slowed by the dawning day Tis a harmony that disaccords Like a string broken from the harp Tis the music of the stars Singing comfort to the lonely seafarer Singing hope to the night pilgrim Singing praises to the night watcher The 'night singers' leave the stage The morning stars echoes the refrain Tis the music of the stars.
Inspiration gotten from being at night on a country side
On new year eve when the sun on the west hung low And the east wind on dead leaves blow I paced to the yellow woods And sat on my favourite wood Where not long after I fell into a trance Not of any divine trace But a dream from my person And I saw a vision backwards: 365 days ago, not long ago I was on the same spot For the familiar new year ritual That of writing my aspirations My fickle fingers wrote my dreams on the hard earth On the passing sands of time But no traces of them was left Perchance carried by the furious wind To the store house of wasted words I continued in the vision backwards When I heard a voice from me saying " Don't write your dreams on sand Write them on your heart " I woke from my short trance When the crimson moon was awake above And the night owl hooting echoed through the woods Left the woods without performing my ritual Because i heard a vision backwards " Don't write your dreams on sand Write them on your heart."
Hope flickers in gathering darkness. War, sickness, death, poverty, loss: we must suffer them all again. The dark heart of being wears the weary soul. The common world of pain, a place we all know best. Yet even as night falls, a new morning of light beckons. Hope flickers but does not falter.