A poet is A Poet

when A Will to Write

Another one is Mightier

then A real work to be Done.

Once there was a man who had only one friend.
Every day, just before the demise of a cyclamen orange burning ball on the horizon ~ he swam to the shore, waving with a magnificent tail, blowing bubbles and bundles of water and air into the wide open skies.

Under the darkening heavens, he sang the muffled song. Tempting his beloved. . .reaching magic, farther then any sonar's ability. Abnormal coldness froze Icelandic Beauty. But beneath the surface, life was warmer without wars. Dwarf seals were jumping into the laced ocean; trying to cry each time they were cut off the Earth's gravity.

This Mighty friend of an old man, was his only link to the global world. The man was old-fashioned; had no telecommunication facilities, his radio were gulls, stray cats, shepherd dogs and sheep on a green hill, behind his wooden hut.

Sometimes he looked over his shoulder, only to determine whether his elderly donkey is able to follow. . . or do they both need a little rest, just to postpone the books from the saddle for later and spread the beautifully ornamented Indian carpet under the great great grand olive tree ~ to take a reviving little nap in the shade.

When he woke up, the old man lit his wooden pipe, puffed few beautiful rings of indigo smoke, smirked to a buzzing bee and found that the air is still pure enough. The pressure was normal, the wind was playing with wave foams in the neighbouring bay.

Under the olives, hanging from the tree canopy, the quietness was fulfilling the old man's heart. Motionless peace was heard. Tranquility.
And the motion of a Humpback Whale. Leaving.

Italia! thou art fallen, though with sheen
Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride
From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide!
Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen
Because rich gold in every town is seen,
And on thy sapphire-lake in tossing pride
Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride
Beneath one flag of red and white and green.
O Fair and Strong!  O Strong and Fair in vain!
Look southward where Rome’s desecrated town
Lies mourning for her God-anointed King!
Look heaven-ward! shall God allow this thing?
Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down,
And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain.

Night  into  night  
carriyng  all your  secrets
In every  mineral  tear
that  slips  through her body
is  you

-2015/05/08

In this life I only saw emptiness

Such emptiness that swallowed



Me. Whole.


Even when I looked into a void

It resounded with the truth, behold!


Life cannot imitate the void,

For it is emptier as it unfolds.

The only way to discover
the world's true Knowledge
is to suffer and beg for it,
otherwise when it jolts your head
you will think it is only
rotten fruit dropping
from the branches
of the tree of good and evil.

   ~mce

Reality, truth, realization, of what?
Can anyone point out the fun of it all.
Inspiring it seems
from a distance though,
doesn't everything
we do not know?

Years, does it take to
reach that threshold.
Once there, what be it,
that we hold?
TRUTH, they say is what
one shall behold.
Unknown realities, or just
facts gone cold?

Albeit a beauty
it shall be,
expectations and beyond,
one would see,
but where again, would
he want to be?
Within true tales
or fantasy.

Before this, thus, the legend says :

"Unfathomable are its ways,
Its beauty and its tales,
to uncover thus, takes a sage,
not what a meer thinker might gauge."

Hence the truth glares at one's face,
a grin so frightful, hard to face,
then the legend one reads again,
for fright and delight,
are naught for the sage.