Getting there so near so sure was I but 'twas a mirage- no it was not in sight it was far still very far (how far then?)
getting there an obsession my steps I counted myself I deceive not (so I boldly thought no, a sure no) but still the darkness of the lonely night no moon nor a single star to light the way (how could I have gone astray? how could it be THAT far?)
the map I studied every detail I did jot down so faithfully 'my compass could do no wrong it wouldn't fail me as I travel along this route hopefully faithfully to the promised land (did my imagination go wild? At the next bend I should be patient there I'd find my coveted prize)
things didn't seem right. Every step seemed to lead me downhill. Why?
getting there? I was beside myself strange eyes seemed to stare at me from nowhere ( oh my, confidence displaced! What would it be--to be THERE?)
somewhere that I was sure came a voice in mockery and that was what it did say: ' you are your delusion your own perdition!'.
Give me the wasteland the remote, the undiscovered the unfamiliar, the forbidden I would regard it not as untoward-
there I'll set up camp dig my well, seek a spot suitable for crops- write in daily calm and unbridled thought
for what stares in my face is society's endless falsehood and rot that eats away life's every moral fibre and for wealth and power people are bought
how peaceful and tender is the night my every desire is brought to sleep the past dissolves into silent oblivion my redeemed self I will guard and keep.
A thousand times worse than that of the mouse human gnawing ( behind your back) bit by bit it seeks to bring you down
there's no truth in what they believe nor the slightest justification they are empty and rotten inside they can't contain their own frustration
how persuasive is their tongue how they smile when they meet you ( 'How I hate your success and happiness' you gave me the perpetual blue')--
those words unuttered and their feelings they repress their teeth with time they furtively sharpen they know not they destroy themselves the gnawing poisons them-- it festers and does deepen.
This is maturity if you've learnt to accept: many, many times you would be let down ( people are selfish and good doesn't abound) in myriad circumstances-- somewhere, somehow
Give me a poem read me a poem I'm sinking I'm dying come, come my way soon it'll be end of day bless me, oh bless me with the balm of poetry I'll close my eyes-gladly as I drift to the welcoming eternity.
GREAT JOYS IN SMALL THINGS Why would you prefer your joys to be loud as fire-crackers in the market-place and have spectators shout
'Watch and listen, here is someone who has joys to show!'? let your joys be silent temperate as a gentle noon- day happy is the heart which is content
Why should one display that which is best kept to oneself? to preserve and treasure that which is beauty-wrapped
to last till the end of time (how brief are those publicly-demonstrated one-day joys- grand pageantry, pomp and circumstance by the night to languish away as spoils)
Great joys follow those with hearts simple and pure drawn to the sweetness of flowers and fair nature's every lure
Don't you see the glitter of joy in the innocent child's eyes? don't you feel the wonder of a poem or a song that life beautifies
I am thankful for every small joy it's the greatest gift that has been bestowed on me in a silent and peaceful corner I dwell counting my blessings--happy in simplicity.
Meet me not in these grey winter years enough have we spoken words would lethally pierce
our hearts-- silence is never so dear- this is not the time for regretful tears love's last petals have fallen on the frozen snow sentiments that are dead no longer harbour fears.
We all ***** among shadows but whose—ours or others’? can we tell to whom such belong- angels’ or monsters’?
more real than self itself the unconscious wrestles with the ego we pride our knowledge but indeed so little of ourselves we really know
what makes us what we are? where is the fountain of our self-knowing? are we the real we in our waking or in our dreaming?
should we be afraid of our own shadows? how do we make them disappear? but how could I disassociate with my alter ego when it never goes away-even as I am writing it’s here!
It's not about outgrowing myself I would rather cultivate my in-growing within the garden of my heart. The dry part has to be watered the weeds have over-grown they have to be discarded leaves have browned and withered many decaying on the sod so long left neglected the fence has fallen (how dismal it looks in the autumn rain!) if I look away in indifference that which I once loved would die in the direst pain-
do I have the will and when should I start? the sun is at midpoint soon it would be evening and then follows the dark
the tools are waiting myself I am testing now I must embark this shall be my redeeming.
Dear child, you can happily read or look but you will not draw or scribble--listen to me know that this is not YOUR book but that which your mum has borrowed from the library.
How many faces does guise have? and I know you have mastered this art through numerous applications- you calibrate your part (before meeting your target) how you should look what clothes to wear and how to smile you can memorise all this straight from the book how many hearts have you stolen and broken? pity those who to your sweet voice did harken how many did suffer from your guise, you reckon?
but life is a pendulum it can't swing every time in your favour the day of doom would fall upon you you would fall on your own sword- you wicked philanderer!