"artisans" poems
Blasting out of the fog and mud
Past the forests in the sunrise
Farms and high ways
Trotting through suburbia
Through the tunnel
Defacing and refusing to allow themselves to be part of an unjust ******
Believe in the intermingling of colors
Waiting for the planets to fall into place
To stop for a moment and inhale the abundant harmony that surrounds them and emote and create a inspiring response in the form of self expressive freedom that matches the beauty that had compelled them
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC
Climb aboard the Paper Airplane Express
Let’s fly to far away destinations
Where we land is random, it can’t be guessed
We have no preconceived expectations
Wings hand crafted by tiny artisans
Powered by adolescent dreams that ignite
Bright eyed smiles, marking the serene occasion
Of each and every planes inaugural flight
Hop aboard the Paper Airplane Express
No two planes are alike, each is unique
And not every flight is a success
But we can re-launch after a simple tweak
As our pilots aren’t allowed to play with matches
To date none of our planes have caught on fire
Though we have seen quite a few crashes
And apparently that little pyro bobby just made me a liar
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 3:52 PM UTC
*Smooth pale skin that glows
Features like innocent dolls
Silky ebony hair that shines
Waving shimmering stars
Eyebrows that perfectly frames
And enticing Obsidian eyes
Perfectly carved jaw and nose
Velvet lips like Grandifloras
Put on the Kanzashi flowers
Colorful and bright Kimonos
Obi hanging down to ankles
Walk, dance with elegance
Shamisen in her hands
Showers colorful melodies
Such beautiful skills
Purely fetching artisans*
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
311
It sifts from Leaden Sieves—
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road—
It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain—
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again—
It reaches to the Fence—
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces—
It deals Celestial Vail
To Stump, and Stack—and Stem—
A Summer’s empty Room—
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them—
It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen—
Then stills its Artisans—like Ghosts—
Denying they have been—
3.6k
Glory to craftsmanship
That endures the wrath of time
Artisans vanish one by one
As is Nature's custom
But their inner beauty
Remains in their labored art.
A masterful stroke of hand
Guided by divine volition
Engages thought's flight
To spheres unknown
Where true art gives birth
To creativity's genius.
Art imparts mystical light
Upon envisioned designs
Shaped by hand, heart and spirit
A poem, a painting, a silver cup
Is brought to life
For the pure joy of creation.
O' masters of the wind
Hearken the hopes of craftsmen
And steer their zing heavenward
They are the symbol of plastic arts
A manifestation of wizardry
Toiling in labyrinth of formation.
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 10:59 AM UTC
Shropshire the outback of hives and mires
A birthplace of industrial revolution
Built with ***** iron and bricks
submerged in the depths of the water beds
Shropshire the strength in the metal structure
A cast of firm shields and fields
The greenery of contrasting yellowy yields
A mirage of hills sat on pillar heights
The breeze so fresh as sun prints on the canal
The warmth so intense as the bird hums in the nests
Labour artisans and metalsmith at the heart of coalbrook dale
Bricks aisles of pathways along the river
Bordered by vintage delicacies of the magnificent nature
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 9:28 AM UTC
Take me to a place where I can be with you.
A place where the ocean meets the sky
And the sunset on the horizon is painted by God's best artisans.
Take me to a place where you'd hold my hand
In a deep evergreen forest,
Lush with thick foliage and dewy from rain.
Take me to a place where I can taste the sweetest fruits on your lips,
Where my senses are overjoyed by a multitude of flavours,
Each one reminding me of you.
Take me to a place,
A field,
The moon and stars shining
And a night as clear as mountain waters.
Take me to that field,
Where the grass grew tall
And hay bales were laid alongside us.
Where the ground was mostly dry
But still damp,
Where regardless, we laid down among the carrot lace
And you were beneath me,
My very definition of beauty.
The moon in your stormy-blue eyes
And a smile playing at your lips
When suddenly,
Your smile disappeared and you looked right at me,
Lips parted.
Instinct took me,
And although inexperienced,
We worked together like oiled machines
With all our gears functioning.
It was the first and the last time,
Coldest and hottest.
It was a raging inferno
And an arctic storm.
I felt like I was stolen of breath
But given new air.
You filled my lungs and intoxicated me,
But I could have never been more sober.
Take me to that place again.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 9:09 AM UTC
Is there a substance
that as a result of continually applied force
becomes so hardened
so as to become no longer malleable..?
immovable..?
Lately i am feeling
much like that substance
Becoming tired of being forced
for no good point
Becoming weary of being pushed
into a grotesque shape
not of my choosing
Toward directions
i care not to go in
And you can find this stuf anywhere
it's everywhere
Leftover human ****
over-hammered
beat down by the establishment
You might call it
white trash metal
Or inner city old grey steel
50 gallon drum fireplace
ghetto hubcap with no wheel
Left with worth
less than a tin cup
Used humanity
used up
Beware waste artisans
it's waste recycle time
it's become too late
the purged waste you've created
Returns and rises from the ashes
to make you suffocated ...
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 3:42 PM UTC
aromatic coffee awakens senses
midst the gestured warmth of radiant
smiles's 'tween morning brew,
reverently paused to catch
the awe inspiring poignancy
of sunrise's exhilaration,
whilst cozily wrapped in the delightful unfurl
of captivating poetry's skillful delectation
a rising ritual begun many blue moons afore,
tempting consciousness, feeding soulfulness
enlightening sensibilities as it
enriches the day's appreciation
'pon the keen awareness of poets,
tempests from all niches of the world
coming together amid upheavals and serenity,
ceremoniously dubbed fierce confirmations
of words expressly borne, communing the
artfully spirited of resourceful artisans,
procuring special collective bonds that
only poesy can wholly dictate,
they look upon us as enigmas
rather strange breed of puzzling characters,
as this inexplicable endeavor
escapes their stifled perceptions
of conduit's musing reasonable facsimile,
we're merely cognitive passages for
experiences on common ground
in realizations of all-too-human foibles
eccentricities, yearnings and fortitude,
released deliverance of potpourri
serving up inky joy beyond expression,
intention's distinction deciphering
reflections in meditative affirmations,
breadth of unrestrained beholden visions
conjured notions of paramount significance
wherein lies evidence of life's burnt offerings,
beginnings and endings of hearts' indulgences
wept in resolute celebrations of existence
as only a poet could discernibly translate
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 8:23 AM UTC
The Girl from Coronado
Dark brown eyes the brownest hair the most captivating was the faraway look in her eyes the painter
Searches for her in lost dreams she materializes on the sharp trumpet blast then she lingers as it turns
Softly as the street in front of the Saint Louis cathedral in New Orleans she was as wistful she was the
Bleeding torment held in battle field shadows her way had the razor sharp that cut through pretense to
The real the meaningful what was that certain something that held you in awe was it the southern sea
Breeze that was absorbed the enfolding touches that were exuded from her depths there are still
Waters then there is Gloria is it fondly promised like flowers floating on the tide the sweet smile that
Cuts and divides the waves like a surfer coming out of the Banji pipeline her brown hair blows softly it
Has enlightened on the breeze as fragrance unspoiled unidentifiable it enthralls as she walks the sandy
Sea swept beach in the distance she passes as a spirit cast improperly in a human role to disturbing to
Fetching she makes appearances in Celtic dreams of misfortune she brings trouble as a winged wonders
Those that are not for evil but hidden in them are clandestine secrets that open new corridors of
Simplicity that brim with honor they are the culminations of promises long deferred now they are at
The door to restore she possesses powers that are seemingly strange but they are beholding the
Glimpses she allows trigger eager disruptions the common falls before her gaze you find establishments
That seemed impossible could she be Isis presumably not but just bearer of her traits one who gives gifts
Of the natural world to artisans from normal items joy is in them as fluid emotions they suppress but
Only for the pure cause of making greater results occur the tiresome is abolished the clay is gold even
Though it be hidden from many to the few it is cherished sought and redeemed by love in a sea side
Town on the southern coast of California her alluring beauty you too can possess this just open yourself
seek the opportunity to give to others your name will be favorably spoken like the graceful girl from
Coronado
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
Immune to the depravity.
Enslaved to the creativity.
A weaken soul, to the artist brush.
A becon of burning coals, in the artisans stove.
Two sides of the same coin.
We are writers.
We are painters.
We are smelters.
We are dancers.
We are singers.
We are art.
We are, us.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
I think of you when I’m on the toilet.
Okay.
Maybe that wasn’t the best place to start
I think of you when I’m walking too
Wishing you were taking the same route
By coincidence
But hoping that it was by choice
I think of you when I make breakfast
Cause I would gladly make enough for two
When I have nothing better to do
I count the hair on my forearms
And I wish you were here to help me count
I was never really good at math
Or science
But I’m really good at thinking
I swear
And I’m pretty good at grammar
Because you
Are the person
About whom
I have been thinking much lately
I ponder you like politicians
In Astana
Ponder budgets
Like artisans in Rwanda ponder baskets
Like the UN ponders nations
Like farmers ponder precipitation
I roughly calculate
I could have solved around 200 Rubik’s Cubes
Give or take a few
In the time it took
to figure out you
So now I’ll chew my fingernails well past the white part
Even though you can’t stand it
Because I don’t want you thinking that I’m thinking about you
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
The Great Falls,
was a massive
clone of ice;
yet still
her waters
poured forth
in roaring waves
over the ebb
of the river.
Sliding into
a frozen crevasse,
down an icy bar,
I land wet,
chilled and numb
from the duration
of the decent
and the soul
piercing cold.
On the landing,
the carcasses
of industrial waste
were encased
in a frozen loam.
The giant
mill wheel
locked in place,
entombed
in a glacier
of ice.
It made
good sense
to found
this city
on an
industrious
bluff.
The Great Falls
spun the wheels
that powered
vast manufactures.
Shoots
and trams
shot flumes
of water
down
every
street.
Everyman
was a master
of his
cottage industry,
forging bullets
constructing
locomotives,
spinning
the finest silk
from the
most exotic
foreign worms.
But the machines
shut down.
The handiwork
of learned men,
entrepreneurs,
urban planners,
engineers
and artisans
now encased
in frozen rust.
Barely a tool
could be used
to produce
a product
or plumb
a line.
A simple
hand tool
could not
be lifted
without
betraying
its purpose.
A society
of useful
manufactures
frozen shut;
dissolving
into bankrupt
liquidation;
so I left
my home
on Chianci Street
and caught the first
Paterson Plank coach
to the Hoboken Ferry.
I would be in
Manhattoes
by nightfall.
The morning travels
consumed thoughts
of future prospects.
The
silk mill
forever
closed.
The industry
of my home
city,
dead.
This weaver
of fine silk
had lost
his loom.
For William Carlos Williams
From: Vesuvia, 1997
Music Selection:
Yo-Yo Ma & Silk Road Ensemble,
Arabian Waltz
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 10:10 PM UTC
When did the measure of your worth become a brand?
Banded sneakers, streaking vibrance,
vibrating mobile nuzzled in hand.
These do not make you.
Backward cap, for a new era,
sagged pants, swagger stance
for this hoodlum hoody wearer.
These do not make him.
Gucci bags and other tags,
designer purse, cursing contraband,
fake names make her gag.
But these do not make her.
They say don't judge a book by it's cover,
so why a person by their assets?
if it were asserted by another...
Belongings do not a person make.
Kindness, courage, compassion, heart,
personality, wisdom,
even a love of art.
These a person make.
Take some time to introspect,
inspect the way you see yourself,
You'll be happier for it I expect.
You make the person.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
a clairvoyant sketches a gravedigger
retrieving a dead child
it was midnight inside his heart
and in the drawings
a limo hints at a tale
murmurs in the crevices of night
trying to find a way out of
or onward beyond
the cul-de-sac
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 8:41 AM UTC
Silken Tongue Poets eschew the Pedantic
Masters of Imagination Create Fantastic
Poets of Masterly Craft and Imagery
Like Don Bouchard, Joe Cole and Me
Wolf spirit aka quinfinn also added in
These poets and More, will Proclaim
That Mastery of Imagination Can Reign
Tales will be told, of times of Old
Poets will take you to Magical Places
Among the treasures you will find Gold
Poetesses will spin tales of Love and Woe
And you might even meet a UFO
Poets will Stumble From Irish Pubs
For Deeds of Valantry Knights be Dubbed
Or Stars May Fall from the Universe
The Craft and Mastery will be diverse
So this is your invitation to our World of Creation
By Artisans of the Craft and the Masters of Imagination,
A Collection for the Masters of Imagination,
The True Craftsmen of the Arts.
Come see where Imagination Shines...Shamus
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 4:58 AM UTC
He has given a luxurious twist to the dying art of weaving and popularised the use of Khadi. Award-winning textile designer Gaurang Shah is more than happy that the Indian fashion industry has welcomed handlooms. “As a textile designer, I would like to say the Indian fashion industry has embraced handlooms with lot of admiration and helped revive our ancient traditions of weaving art, like the jamdani weaves, that we use in creating our fashion pieces,” Shah told IANS.
“It also reinforced its unparalleled beauty around the world,” he added. The designer says that one must acknowledge the passion and intense amount of production hours every weaver at the looms puts to bring out timeless pieces of handlooms.
“The fashion industry did contribute to bring them back into vogue in recent years,” he said. Shah showcased his latest collection of 40 garments titled Muslin at Lakme’s Fashion Week Summer/Resort 2017. His anthology for the gala was inspired by romance of nature.
Giving details about his range, he said: “Our collection incorporates weaves and techniques from West Bengal, Andhra Pradesh, Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh and Rajasthan. The amazing all-in-whites collections integrate gorgeous Mughal motifs and geometric patterns on Khadi, chikankari embroidery and Parsi gara.”
The designer’s collection involved 50 weavers working relentlessly for over six months. Shah, whose handloom creation made its way to the 69th Cannes Film Festival when Deepshikha Deshmukh, producer of Aishwarya Rai Bachchan starrer “Sarbjit”, stepped out in an ensemble featuring Paithani and Kanjeevaram details, says that handlooms are a glorious heritage of India and it is important to preserve and help the artists’ community grow.
“I would like to add that a few years ago this beautiful art was fading away. Thanks to persistent effort and motivation from label like ours, followed by the efforts of our Prime Minister Narendra Modi, that pushed Indian handlooms to higher level of acceptance,” he said.
Shah began his journey in the textile world with just two weavers and today the label works with 700 weavers, and the number is still growing.
“The biggest contribution we as a designer can make is to keep our artisans motivated and also help them gain confidence that it is a highly profitable profession,” said the designer, who has styled the stars like Vidya Balan, Sonam Kapoor and Kirron Kher.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 10:00 PM UTC
Mughal Emperor, Shahjahan
For the memory of his wife Arjumand Banu Begum
Made, a royal tomb-
Everyone knows it, called the "Taj Mahal",
Which stands on the banks of the Jamuna
With the scope of its vastness.
Beginning in 1832
It ended in 1853,
Thousands of artisans, architects, workers in 21 years
They were dedicated to its construction.
Ustad Ahmed Lahuri was
The original designer,
The white marble dome-shaped tomb-
Being a complex integral, architectural wonder.
Every year, millions of people flock
To see this archetype of love,
Everyone is overwhelmed to see-
In everyone’s heart, it’s unique to cut the stain of love.
May 6, 2021
May 6, 2021 at 6:34 PM UTC
L'heure verte
The mountains. The heaps of their bountiful gravels, and earth, and soil, large oversized masses of half-frozen water teetering on the precipice of subzero masculine ******* Francophilic cleavage jetting out of this deserted white pastoral dressing. The inaugural bawl, wanton fixations of putting the imperialist foot on every spot of tree, each and every shrub, until the limbs' cast reaches each dimple that foliage braves, where that blue eagle of patriotism dredges its claws to form every river, rill, estuary, creek, channel, flume, littoral, and waterway where the iron-rich gullies once brimmed in the interamnian basins, rich crimsony waters riffling through fruitful and extravagant aquifers. Beyond that, where an inexplicably feral wind rips vines from their dendritic housings, where barely an eye can see, this place of exsanguination and abysmal phytocide.
At the end of this lamentable torture, only a desert of human interest remains. There is no reason to laugh, or smile, or cheer, or put a leg up, to call on a friend, or to have ice cream. There will be no more ice cream. There is only the loathsome incredulousness and avarice in the semblances and familiarity of those with whom we thought we once knew. Little can ever be known, for there is much to gain in the absence of knowledge, and even greater that can be acquired in the alms of wisdom through patient examination and thorough silence. Here on the buttes and cornices, the thwacking gavels of evil power deities throw down their lust for more and soon become adjoined to these grand discrepancies greed mistakenly loses to a lack of awareness and to self-aggrandizement.
Power is the weapon of inexperienced wielders. Passion is the immortal frequency that is worn by artisans and artists, poets and painters, it is the business of quietness to learnedly evolve to protect our tomorrows from personal needs, but to instead preserve the integral parts of society. The words of languages, artifacts, and cultures, rather than the skeletons of ****** and the deeds of possession. Each who sleeps knows their bedfellows to equally be at peace. For no wealth can exceed that of comfortable pillows, soft quilts, and sheets. We are all the same while we sleep.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC
Of twinkling stars far away
Of crimson leaves that shed and lay
And of glimpses remembered, the demented one tells
And memories, old and frail he sells
Unlike his contour, in his sturdy utterance
He speaks his dirge, of his remembrance :
'A world there was, long before
Bounded by its thousand seas, a thousand shores
A surreal place, so magnificent
A divine aura in its ambience
And it spake of glorious battles fought
Of kingdoms conquered and riches bought
And innocuous inhabitants of pure hearts
Of valiant warriors, well-wrought
Of the birds that sang and the lions that roared
And artisans who toiled and diligently worked
The trees that grew on the dunes of sand
And the river that flowed on the parched lands
And a king there was, proud and fierce
Of a heart warm, a mind clear
And a lass there was, by him was treasured
Loved and adored in quantities unmeasured
Of beauty unworldly, unreal she possessed
And flowers sprung out, where her foot did rest
And ripples in sound minds she created
Pure flowed the water from which she bathed
The heavens showered flowers up on her head
And in her presence, the sun came up on wintry beds
Warmth grew out of her smile
And even time stopped to glance for a while
She, a ruler of his dreams, of his day
An inexplicable solution of his maze
And a paradise together they had seen
In love intertwined they had been
But then she had betrayed, fled away
To a man in whose love she had caved
A fragmented soul struck with torment and grief
And silence answered to his pleads
And then his rage had unraveled upon this earth
Terrorized by him, of his insane mirth
Then his sword had spoken, his rave unleashed
And skies had come down, before him they kneeled
Subjected to his anger, to his wrath
Feared by his vengeance, the fury he cast
And from the colors of gore, the landscape was painted
He, ruler of a satanic world, he had created
The shards of his wounds, of his heart
He plunged them into the earth, devastation he marked
And then, his madness had subdued
Aghast of himself, his soul lay ****
And years hence, this letter to her grave
He had kept it with his heart, with a rose he had laid.'
And the lunatic looks up, grey and old
Exhausted from his ordeal, the tale that he has told
And a tear rolls down his wrinkled cheek
His wounds remain, his heart lays weak
In the backdrop, a violin plays
And with a stride slow, into the distance he fades
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
I watched spiders make their webs
Four to five paces apart
North to south along the ficus hedge
Anchored nearest to the green wall
Each two knuckles wide
Street lamp orange undersides
Yellow tiny joints
Each moved quickly
Set to finish its trap before the night settled full
I discovered them while walking
Seeking familiar toxin
And found them
Masters of their craft
The first I saw caught that caught my sight
The furious movement of rear limbs
Catching the stream of silk
Guiding it on its way
Jagged plucking stemming a straight line
Then laying over a guiding wire
And moving on
From four o’clock to eight it went
Then back along the clock’s face
Its red underside patient but swiftly going and pulling along
Leading a tiny line of molten muted silver
Five to eight and back again
Pendulumous and measured geometry
Dancing back and forth
Then I saw the second
South I crept with knees bent low
Shrank a hand’s breadth
Swift and wonderstruck
And it too worked a masterful weave
So similar but when I looked back
I saw the difference
More than size of form between them
Slight as was their difference
Unique minutiae of brown fuzzy backs and brown fuzzy heads
Varying personalities and style
Artisans of the same renaissance
And soon I saw a third
South still and still different
Higher up to catch the light
Still giving light to its neighbor
Who lets the light reach her neighbor
A fourth’s stilled anchor
Taught and shining in the light
Beneath the indigo sky
Highest of them all
Largest of them all
If in the beginning of their dance
Drawing cracked windows in the sky
Nets or webs or sails
I might have seen them
Forming a rainbow arc
A fragment of such a thing
But I did not
My wonder and my mind
The first catch of the night
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 10:46 PM UTC
The splendid southern sun lights the land
breeding the greenest grass
exploding the fairest flowers
reflecting the widest seas
feeding the richest soil
and the kindest people
The vast open ocean soaks the skin
The soft white sand scalds the feet
The breezy air is humid
saturated with ecstasy
but damp with opportunity
But as I venture north
films of simple nostalgia conceal these memories
escapes to the southern sun now intermittent.
Bliss is overcome with solitude.
Reality refracts the northern lamps
replacing the herald of each new day with a sobering awakening.
Every day passes slowly
as the factory of life once again begins
as the iron cogs of monotony turn
in their recurrent spin.
The last bursts of escape are torn
ripped between the brutish artisans of monotony
like scraps thrown to the dogs
a loaf dropped amongst slaves.
This is the limit of our blessed lives
Endless toil and fleeting happiness.
If not, show me more
a rescue from these binding shackles.
But if so, may I dream
of the southern sun?
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC
Between the rocks beneath a mountain
the calmest dark upon her chest
where eyes don't stare or fingers grasp
the sleeping queen, she rests.
"Oh, to be found in the shadows
by a prince of unknown grace.
To be taken to his castle
with the sun upon my face.
"Perhaps a farmer or a youth
then cleaned by ***** hands
and brought as a gift of wonder and awe
to a love in humbler lands.
"Perhaps an artist, -a troubled one
whose craft is life and duty.
Whose heart is filled with heavy burdens
and art is filled with beauty".
Tectonic plates, they rumble
she gives a lazy yawn
as a glimpse of light now reaches in
to reveal the naked dawn.
And with the dawn an arm extends
to lift her from her bed.
The bony fingers carry gently
the queen that never wed.
"Perhaps an unlucky homeless man
whose clothes are rags and tatters.
Whose sole possession is me, a diamond,
and I'll be all that matter".
In a village in the deepest jungle
a travler finds a treasure
in the hand of a homeless man
beyond all Earthly meassure.
He says: "Do you know what that rock is worth?"
The homeless says: "I can't,
I lost my sight in the war, you see
but she feels good in my hand".
And he worshipped her all his days
untill he passed away
and in his humble will he asked
she be placed in his grave.
Still she dreams, that sleeping queen
of princes, farmers and artisans.
But she always shines her brightest
when she dreams of the homeless man.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
Let me invoke the Devine Muses
Who sits on Mount Helicon
Cherishing the arts of poets and artisans
Whom they immortalized
By guiding their pen;
I implore your aid
In completing this poem
And several yet to conceive,
Fill in me the empty;
The lack of words, metaphors, smilies
And tropes to cover emotions.
O holy! Devine
Inspire my mind who craves fame
Aspire this pen to write truths name,
Fill it with the ink of courage;
No compassion nor fear can divert
It from unraveling the hidden.
O! Symbol of purity and keeper of sacred thoughts
You shape a bud into a plant
And by your one breath comes the spring;
Leaves, flowers, and fruits all,
Same way breathe unto me
Give me life and aim
To make this time count
And unconsciously— like great poets,
Metaphysicians and alchemists,
Mark my name and work in this world.
Feb 20, 2022
Feb 20, 2022 at 3:16 PM UTC
A city brewed with History
*A simmered *** of diversity*
An empire extended in streams
The devolution of solid districts
Prided with craftsmen and artisans
A showcase of nature at its core
Forested and iced mountain tops
Valleys plentiful of sweet waters
A greenery of wealth and Industrialism
A Romania of open heart and miracles
Cities of social capital, tourist destinations
Initiates of a Western Europe Rebirth
A Transylvania of forts and Baroques
Cathedrals, and orthodox moments
Sibiu a reserve connected to haunted castles
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 6:20 PM UTC