the common river
but each sails alone
with none other
so many regard as the sorrowful river
it flows to the endless sea
to its past it returns never
isn't it an unknown river?
every life is ****** upon it
'why'? one does wonder.
blessed if you find it a river
of splendour---harness then all your resources-
thus self-assured---you would never fall over.
All sailing boats
will at the end arrive at shore
patience and endurance
is the guiding wind--the storms will buffet no more.
Many a sea I have sailed
and shed every lonely tear
but I am a man larger than the sea
in my aloneness I conquered every single fear.
* inspired by a phrase I read
Maples in red and deep yellow
It's end of Australian autumn
Birds fly to warmer skies
Nights are sombre and solemn.
I look through the window
Waiting for your quick return--all I hear
Is but the faint rustling of leaves
And the wailing of the wind--where are you, my sweetest dear?
* inspired by Maple, a fellow-writer in HP
I always stay safe within the law
Would really be worried if outside the law
But that which tyrannises* and irks me most is this 'law'-
* sorry, my spelling was wrong when I posted--so I have amended
Enough, it's enough
too much I've said
there's lacuna in words
which often little light does shed--
how sweet and soothing
when silence does descend
its stills the mind and heart
over everything else it does transcend.
Poetry is a mirror of our soul but also a window to the outside world---that which is external and tangible--neither is complete without the other
but it's only the inner side of us that understands the deeper meaning of life and all things. It's strange but true---the intangible is mysterious, profound and has power and resources latent within us--most of which we aren't even aware---until kindled and brought to light by the muse of poetry. Then a clear light dawns upon us and we begin to see and understand things better. The 'physical we' is, in my view, of lesser significance than the 'abstract we' or should I say the 'essential we'?---that which can be seen, handled or articulated is only the periphery of truth and things but not the core--we are larger than what we think but we don't grasp this as we are lost in the banality and humdrum of daily life--we are walking shadows rather than light and fall short of our real potential. Talking of language and music, Felix Mendelssohn wrote (my paraphrase):
words mean less to me than music and it's music that speaks clearer to me.
All said, man is a mystery as life is but they intersect--at every point.
* inspired by Mary Winslow
This is the tapestry of my soul
sewed in sweat, trials and tears
each stitch a reminder of the vanished past when every episode
stood as a testament of life's most tempestuous years
but I've resurrected from the ruins
of time and every scene I survey now with serenity
even in the darkest of night
the brightest of light illuminates from my treasured tapestry.
* inspired by the preamble of Jane Taylor Hardy, a fellow-writer in HP--
many thanks, Jane