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  Sep 2020 Veritia Venandi
Dr Peter Lim
Time is telling
but the heart
will not yield-
the clinging
to what went before
transcends reasoning

in intransigence
the loving and the hating
the coming-together
and the parting

memory plays tricks
in its condoning or rejecting
love vacillates in doubting
hate revels in exaggerating

how is a life measured?
what makes for good living?
futile is philosophising
what life does is eluding.
  Sep 2020 Veritia Venandi
John Destalo
a soul
cries

like a
kitten

too small
to feed

left for
dead

in this
angry
world

will it
find a

helping
hand to

pick it up
and feed it
Getting on towards midnight,
my buddy signaled time for bed,
I let him outside and joined him there,

The stars were resplendent in their
clear heavenly glow, the moon
painted back lighted silhouettes upon
the lawn and shrubs, a gentle fresh
breeze chased the remaining 90+ heat
of the day away, musically rustling
leaves of the yard trees as it passed
through headed East.

The Orchestra of  tiny creatures in the
orchard and grass, were busily playing
their rhythmic nightly concerto, in perfect
harmony,  like the very heart beat of the
earth on which they abound in their vast
multitudes, echoing their celebration of life.

The garden fountain bubbled it's soothing
water sounds adding it's voice to the pleasant
cacophony of collective night music.

I was lulled into submission as the breeze
and the mood embraced me, and fell asleep
in the old comfy Mission chair from my den.,
now relegated to porch duty, My dog resting
in that chairs twin, beside me.

Around three AM the full moon rounded the
house and peeked under the porch, lighting
me up like an impertinent cop's flashlight.
Encouraging us to move on.

Tucker and I did then retire to our beds inside ,
blissfully at peace with the world outside.

"To sleep perchance to dream" ah, but there
is no "rub" here. . . Only peace and tranquility.
Another moment in time too
perfect not to pen and capture.
Maybe not for you, but surely for me.
(and Tucker too).
The creative mind
never truly sleeps;
it naps 45 minutes
at a time.
Even, that which
appears to be
sleep, is a fitful
state of poetic creativity.
The brain is like
a patchwork quilt
that uses the scraps of
the day's events,
trying to fit symbols
together, like a
jigsaw puzzle.
Here's another one
from the vast
analog of the brain.
My philosophy on why my brain won't let me rest.

Last of its remains, hung
The yellow leaf
precariously strung on the the tender yellowed stem
As the yellow copper pod flowers
Came down along with the rains
On the vibrant green leaves
And fell on the pavement clean



🍂🌿🌿🍂
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