"marvellous" poems
Don't water a dead flower,
you'll waste your time,
it won't grow, it won't fix.
it's already dead, it's already gone..
Don't try to collate a burnt photo,
you'll confuse yourself,
you won't ever find the missing pieces,
it's already burnt, it's already gone..
Don't mend a broken vase,
you'll hurt yourself,
it won't be perfect as used to be, it won't fix.
it's already broken, it's already gone..
because maybe, you only need another beautiful flower, or a new marvellous vase, or the new chapter of your life that you capture in a new photograph, to simply makes you happy.
last of all,
Don't try to fix a dead relationship,
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 7:37 AM UTC
Those happy Morris dancers make for a happy sight
They wear bright scarlet ribbons and their shirts and trousers white,
They clash their sticks whilst dancing and you hear the timbers ring
Though 'twould seem that Morris dancing is not a female thing.
I've never seen a female Morris dancer I stand corrected if I'm wrong
It has it's roots in England and to England it belong
And I hope that Morris dancing will not go the way of rhyme
That in a changing World it won't lose out to time.
They brought their culture with them from England far away
A culture perhaps fading like many of the old cultures are today
With the old dances of Europe I see a link somewhere
And sad to hear that Morris dancers are now becoming rare.
At the Dandenong Ranges festival east of Melbourne they perform every year
And after in the ***** tent they laugh as they drink their beer,
They brought a thing of beauty when they brought their dancing here
And to those marvellous Morris dancers let us raise our glass of cheer.
Morris dancing vary from English Village to Village or so I have been told
Though the times they are a changing and fading are the ways of old
But those marvellous Morris dancers may they dance forever more
In the sunshine of Australia far from England's rainy shore.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 6:17 PM UTC
You are a child of the universe.
And they say the universe works
In mysterious ways.
And about you,
My darling,
there is such a marvellous
Magical mysterious way.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
His Grandparents were Romany people from his maternal side
In Countries of Eastern Europe they travelled far and wide
But the most basic human right their right to life of them even denied
In Belzec Concentration camp where a million people died.
I never knew my maternal Grandparents with sadness he recall
Due to circumstance of birth and their way of life misfortune them did befall
My gift of music such a marvellous gift to them I feel I owe
In Belzec Concentration Camp they were murdered decades ago.
A tall and handsome man in his early thirties with wavy raven hair
With the marvellous gift of music a great accordion player
In silence we sat and drank our beer as we listened to him play
The beautiful old gipsy tunes from Countries far away.
That all things do come to an end in some cases a lie
In Belzec Concentration camp the gipsy music did not die
But that the gift of music does live on should not come as a surprise
Something that those who commit crimes against humanity seem to fail to realize.
He played at the pub on passing through him I never more may see
But the beauty of his music will live in my memory
His maternal Grandparents who died at Belzec their lives were not in vain
Their music in their Grandchild has come to life again.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 6:09 PM UTC
It's a still morning, quiet and cloudy
the kind of grey day I like best;
they'll be here soon, the little kids first,
creeping up to try and frighten me,
then the tall young men, the slim boy
with the marvellous smile, the dark girl
subtle and secret; and the others,
the parents, my children, my friends —
and I think: these truly are my weather
my grey mornings and my rain at night,
my sparkling afternoons and my birdcall at daylight;
they are my game of hide and seek, my song
that flies from a high window. They are
my dragonflies dancing on silver water.
Without them I cannot move forward, I am
a broken signpost, a train fetched up on
a small siding, a dry voice buzzing in the ears;
for they are also my blunders
and my forgiveness for blundering,
my road to the stars and my seagrass chair
in the sun. They fly where I cannot follow
and I — I am their branch, their tree.
My song is of the generations, it echoes
the old dialogue of the years; it is the tribal
chorus that no one may sing alone.
7.6k
What a beautiful thing it is !
A Canvas that speaks a lot
Wow ! an artist’s soul
That try to speak a lot
From the window of canvas
To the doors of sky
Till the depth of ocean
In the romancing moonlight
And spreading its vastness
As the fragrance
Of night blooms
Until the sunrise
Again from morning dews
To chirping birds
Snowy mountains
To windy breeze
A moving cloud
And even from rain to rainbow
All is possible
With the tip of a brush
Is a marvellous thing
That depicts an artist’s heart
An art is a creation
Of an artist
Which is made
In different colours
With different paints
And in different shades
But all in one canvas
Makes an effective painting
Which can never die
As an artist’s soul
That is lightning forever
As a magical lantern
Some paintings speaks a lot
Like stories to us
When it starts speaking
The whole image depicts
It’s originality
As an original photo
Of some place
And that really can lost us
Somewhere as in the canvas
Even eyes of a portrait
Speaks a lot
When we stare in that eyes
It seems as the person is gazing
As a living person is standing in front of us
Which feels like a real photo
And it really makes
An unbelievable painting
Which is like giving life
To the non living thing
Within the canvas
By an artist
Or like a flower bloomed
In the hands of an artist
Canvas that speaks a lot
Really shows true heart
Of an artist’s creation
A beautiful creation
By ones own hands
Mesmerise all of us
With no time
Like an original picture
Taken with a camera
Of high resolution
Is something to adore
With the hearts of love
Canvas that speaks a lot
Is a graceful creation
That makes us wonder
Which is a miracle
In hands of an artist
That remains its effect
For life time
And that make
An artist
Different from others
Canvas that speaks a lot
Is a creation of art
When an artist starts
To move his hand on canvas
It starts to speak a lot
From the sincerity of love
To the beauty of a nature
Sparkling eyes of a human
And the depth of a sea
All that beautiful creation
Of Godly things
Is once more painted
With the help of an artist’s brush
Is something that speaks
For a lifetime
With thousands of words
In one image
Is an exemplary
Creation of humane
In a canvas
Canvas that speaks a lot
With voice of heart
Beats in every hearts
And in all eras
An artist is like a lantern
That lightens other lights
And a canvas is a mirror
Of an artist’s soul
That reflects the lights
For lifetime
Which was once lit
By an artist
With a great deal
Who was owned
By an eloquent soul.
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 2:21 AM UTC
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This poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled "शिव लीला" published in pratilipi on (June. 2018) Can be read through the link ==>> https://bit.ly/2Z9Z57t
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His neck has entirely turned blue due to Kalkoot, This is just a Leela of Shiva
He has taken everyone's pain and sorrow for the betterment of the world
He is the keeper of all the three loka's and also called as Trilokinath
He hold the holy Ganga in his locks, but do not drinks a drop from it
He sits on the yellow Tiger skin mat and keeps meditating for years to come
He satiates hunger by Datura and Madaar and drinks Bhang to quench thirst
He has a marvellous third eye through which all the three lokas are visible
Sitting in the Mahayoga posture, He keeps on concentrating and meditating
Brahma and Vishnu also bows before him with respect and feels blessed
Such a beautiful holy Leela of Shiva. Nothing else but Shiva's holy Leela
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Kalkoot(Line 1): A poison generated due to Samudra Manthan ( The Churning of the Ocean by Devtas[Gods] and Asuras[Demons] )
Leela(Line 1): "Divine Play" (Just a pastime)
Shiva(Line 1): A God (The Destroyer) in Hindu Mythology
Loka(Line 3): Three three different worlds/realms. Swargaloka, the land of gods; Mrityuloka, the middle kingdom of men; and Pataloka, home of the Asuras, the fallen gods, and demons.
Trilokinath(Line 3): The Lord of the Three world/realms.
Ganga (Line 4): The Holy river whose flow and speed is controlled by the locks (Jatas - The thick hair strands) of Lord Shiiva
Datura and Madaar (Line 6): Poisonous plants (Datura stramonium and Calotropis gigantean)
Bhang (Line 6): Poisonous plants (Cannabis Plant)
Mahayoga (Line 8): Also called as Mahamudra – The Great Gesture (a posture for meditating)
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 12:15 PM UTC
The mahogany table-top you smashed
Had been the broad plank top
Of my mother's heirloom sideboard-
Mapped with the scars of my whole life.
That came under the hammer.
That high stool you swung that day
Demented by my being
Twenty minutes late for baby-minding.
'Marvellous!' I shouted, 'Go on,
Smash it into kindling.
That's the stuff you're keeping out of your poems!'
And later, considered and calmer,
'Get that shoulder under your stanzas
And we'll be away.' Deep in the cave of your ear
The goblin snapped his fingers.
So what had I given him?
The ****** end of the skein
That unravelled your marriage,
Left your children echoing
Like tunnels in a labyrinth.
Left your mother a dead-end,
Brought you to the horned, bellowing
Grave of your risen father
And your own corpse in it.
6.3k
Perhaps the greatest tennis player the World has ever seen
She had won nine Grand Slam tournaments before she was nineteen
Till her marvellous tennis career was prematurely ended in such a tragic way
Thrown from her horse her foot was crushed that's life as some might say.
The marvellous Maureen Connolly the greatest tennis player of her time
Her great career had ended long before she had reached her prime
Nine grand slams as a teenager her record may never be beat
She won every grand slam tournament in which she did compete.
The greats of present day tennis we hear so much about
Though 'tis not on their greatness we ever cast a doubt
But of nine Grand Slams as a teenager none of them can boast
To the late Maureen Connolly we ought to drink a toast.
Great tennis players like the Seasons they come and then they go
But there was only one Maureen Connolly the legendary 'Little Mo'
Nine Grand Slams as a teenager believe it if you may
The champion amongst champions her record stands today.
Apr 25, 2010
Apr 25, 2010 at 5:41 PM UTC
Dear Ronald Bilius Weasley
No matter what others say
I will always be your fan
You are such a marvellous character
Not perhaps, a perfect one
But a character with flaws
So real, and so beautiful
That we can totally relate to it
In your first year at Hogwarts
You played a game of chess
In such a magnificent manner
That even the Russians of the Muggle world
Could not have done any better
In your second year at Hogwarts
You faced your greatest fears
With a courage and nerve
That Godric Gryffindor would have been proud of
For the sake of your best mates
In your third year at Hogwarts
You almost ruined a friendship
For the sake of a rat and a broomstick
But you made amends for it
By standing up to a notorious murderer
That too with a broken leg
Again, for the sake of your best mate
In your fourth year at Hogwarts
Again, there was a misunderstanding
That threatened to derail a strong friendship
But you were there for Harry
When it truly mattered
There was also some ugly ****** jealousy
As your teenage hormones took centrestage
But at least you got an inkling
That you and Hermione
Were made for each other
In your fifth year at Hogwarts
There was a lot you had to put up with
The constant bullying of the Slytherins
Especially during Quidditch matches
The temper tantrums of your best friend
And finally, the evil Dolores Jane Umbridge
Initially, due to your nerves and insecurities
Your Quidditch performances went from bad to worse
But then, you finally showed us
The stuff you were made of
Saving goals left, right and centre
And to cap it all
You bravely fought a dozen Death Eaters
Yet again, for the sake of your best friend
Finally, we come to the war
Due to your never-ending insecurities
And anxiety for your family
Worsened by a dreadful locket
That contained a part of Voldemort's soul
You briefly deserted your best mates
But returned when it mattered the most
Even saving Harry's life in the process
And then, as you destroyed that darned locket
You finally conquered your fears
And transitioned successfully to manhood
Finally, during the Battle of Hogwarts
You showed us your sensitive side
A side that we had never seen before
As you displayed your concern for the house-elves
Precipitating your first kiss with Hermione
Later on, you lost your dear brother
But continued to soldier on bravely
Even standing up to Voldemort himself
Hence, dear Ronald Bilius Weasley
No matter what others say
I will always be your fan
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 9:28 AM UTC
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers and tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
No rays from the holy Heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently—
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—
Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—
Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol’s diamond eye—
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass—
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea—
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave—there is a movement there!
As if the towers had ****** aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide—
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow—
The hours are breathing faint and low—
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
4.9k
As you set out for Ithaka
hope the journey is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - don't be afraid of them:
you'll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
wild Poseidon - you won't encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope the voyage is a long one.
may there be many a summer morning when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you come into harbours seen for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind -
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to gather stores of knowledge from their scholars.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you are destined for.
But do not hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you are old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvellous journey.
without her you would not have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won't have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.
4.6k
The lift is a truly marvellous creation
It moves people via elevation.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
*Bare stage. A square neon sign on extreme right which reads: “This way to Heaven”.
Prolonged silence. Enter Snail, moving very slowly throughout the play.*
Snail:
I’m a dead snail.
I’m going to Heaven.
I’ve lived for 15 years.
That’s a ripe old age.
I’ve been blessed.
Had a marvellous *** life, you know.
Well, if you know snails
we attract a mate with our slime.
Oh, slime turns me on, baby.
(Snail moves slowly, and then stops.)
Well, maybe I should focus on holy thoughts.
Purity...refined thoughts...you know...
Snail God does not like ***
Copulation is not exactly what
Snail God meant when Snail God declared:
*"Go forth and slime the world;
be ye together..."*
Snail God demands purity
so let me be so...
after all, I’m going to Heaven...
a dead snail and moving on to Heaven...
(Snail moves slowly, and then stops.)
Had a precarious life,
you know,
all these 15 years...
A farmer saw me in the grass.
I heard him curse
and he raised his foot to crush me.
Well, unfortunately for him
he stepped on a snake
and the last I heard of the man
was an expletive
and the last I heard of the snake was a hiss.
Yes, I’ve had a long life
a risky life - but it’s all worth it
for an eternal life in Heaven
is my reward
(Snail moves slowly, and then stops.)
(Enter Frog, jumping. Snail looks at Frog in amazement. And Frog stops and looks at Snail in amazement.)
Frog: What are you doing?
Snail: That’s what I was about to ask of you.
Frog: I’m a dead Frog and I’m jumping on my way to Heaven.
Snail: I’m a dead Snail and I’m moving on to Heaven.
Frog: This is ridiculous.
Snail: Indeed. It is ridiculous.
A Frog going to Heaven?
No, for it is truly declared by Snail God:
"None but Snails shall enter Heaven."
Frog: And in the words of the Frog God:
*"I shall confound all other creatures.
Only Frogs shall enter Heaven."*
And so it has come to pass
Snails think they can go to Heaven.
Unless the Frog God
in Its Infinite Wisdom
has arranged for a Dish of Snails
when all Pure Frogs are at Its side in Paradise.
Well, Snail...you’re toast when I see you in Heaven.
(Frog jumps on to near stage right, screaming: “Heaven - here I come!” and then disappears.)
(Long silence.)
Snail (facing audience): Well, what next? - The snake to Heaven?
The Farmer to Heaven? His dog to Paradise?
Donkeys to Heaven?
(Snail moves on , in its slow way, to nothing but Heaven...)
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 11:21 PM UTC
I was a shape in my cosy little shell,
I stayed...
I nestled.
My cookie-cutter thoughts would
occasionally rebel...
And stray to the windows.
But still they were imprisoned by the
walls that surrounded.
I would steal bashful peeks
out a window.
I'd let my senses take unrestricted flights,
as I stared into the grandeur of the carnival
that seemed to have sprouted overnight...
Just beyond the confines of my home.
"What a marvellous circus!" I'd think...
I'd gawk with child-like adoration
and never blink.
The universe lay sprawled
in a celebration of systematic chaos.
It stretched far into the horizon...
A delight to the senses,
perceived through such young eyes.
The world had told me stories.
They were like fireworks
that speared up to the sky.
I wanted to be a part of the jubilee...
I longed for the validation of my existence.
I wished to claim the gift of life bestowed upon me.
I'd resent being held hostage by my indoctrinated ignorance.
I was a shape.
I knew I was a square.
I knew I had a home...
But not within those four walls.
Simply because...
My heart wasn't there.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 8:32 AM UTC
Celebrate our anniversary – can’t you see
tonight the snowy night of our first winter
comes back again in every road and tree -
that winter night of diamantine splendour.
Steam is pouring out of yellow stables,
the Moika river’s sinking under snow,
the moonlight’s misted as it is in fables,
and where we are heading – I don’t know.
There are icebergs on the Marsovo Pole.
The Lebyazh’ya’s crazed with crystal art.....
Whose soul can compare with my soul,
if joy and fear are in my heart? -
And if your voice, a marvellous bird’s,
quivers at my shoulder, in the night,
and the snow shines with a silver light,
warmed by a sudden ray, by your words?
3.1k
Valiant are you who fought and fell gloriously;
fearless of those who were everywhere victorious.
Blameless, even if Diaeos and Critolaos were at fault.
When the Greeks want to boast,
"Our nation turns out such men" they will say
of you. And thus marvellous will be your praise. --
Written in Alexandria by an Achaean;
in the seventh year of Ptolemy Lathyrus.
3k
They had not seen, for ages, such beautiful gifts in Delphi
as these that had been sent by the two brothers,
the rival Ptolemaic kings. After they had received them
however, the priests were uneasy about the oracle. They will need
all their experience to compose it with astuteness,
which of the two, which of such two will be displeased.
And they hold secret councils at night
and discuss the family affairs of the Lagidae.
But see, the envoys have returned. They are bidding farewell.
They are returning to Alexandria, they say. And they do not ask
for any oracle. And the priests hear this with joy
(of course they will keep the marvellous gifts),
but they also are utterly perplexed,
not understanding what this sudden indifference means.
For they are unaware that yesterday the envoys received grave news.
The oracle was given in Rome; the division took place there.
2.9k
She reads Neil Gaimen
by the light through the window,
a facing forward seat on the only train in Greater Anglia
without any heat,
yet still she peruses the pages with
a flick and a ****** and her eyes begin to wander
in marvellous repeating horizontal lines.
She is blonde and reading Neil Gaimen.
Another blonde another book,
this time Mr King under her palm,
spread like her great legs, wide
and easy to read, yet not easily led;
telephone-line straight eyes
on a north country face,
buttoned up below her is a white blouse,
lace-trimming hiding last night’s pudding-
cake baked by a daughter, I heard her conversation earlier:
there was laughter.
She is blonde and reading Stephen King.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
Contemplating the dark
With a life neither bright nor stark
Shrivelled and fragile inside
Aiming for wonders of the glorious mind
With the sun peeping out from ominous clouds
Undisguised, yet elusive, towards an onset of doubts
Shrouding any fallacy
Cultivating mere fantasy
And the phantom of a far-fetched imagination
To bring out an electric, yet marvellous sensation
Shut inside a mysterious cage
Grasping poetry like some sage
Aiming for aloofness
While mourning over the senseless
Forever the beauty of words is a myth
Forever superficiality is a filth
The sublime scenery of sunset swish
Warms the heart, treasuring one’s deepest wish
Via the shimmering dawn
The azure sky I so adorn
To sniff the sweet odour of nature
All alone, as solitary as ever, with a hazy future
Nobody can gauge the depth of the imaginary
And taste the splendour of the ordinary
All this simplicity unravels a cosy palace
Where art is sacred; where the aesthetic is a solace
To end up in sensuous poetry
In which there’s no calculated geometry
Where the comfort of spontaneity is soothing
And readiness is but a blessing
For in poetry, a loner like me finds her grace
For via poetry, the solitary is free to embrace
And through the line of a verse, the loner dwells a florid universe…
-07/04/07
Feb 8, 2010
Feb 8, 2010 at 2:11 AM UTC
'But that was nothing to what things came out
From the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.'
'What were they? Mermaids? dragons? ghosts?'
'Nothing at all of any things like that.'
'What were they, then?'
'All sorts of queer things,
Things never seen or heard or written about,
Very strange, un-Welsh, utterly peculiar
Things. Oh, solid enough they seemed to touch,
Had anyone dared it. Marvellous creation,
All various shapes and sizes, and no sizes,
All new, each perfectly unlike his neighbour,
Though all came moving slowly out together.'
'Describe just one of them.'
'I am unable.'
'What were their colours?'
'Mostly nameless colours,
Colours you'd like to see; but one was puce
Or perhaps more like crimson, but not purplish.
Some had no colour.'
'Tell me, had they legs?'
'Not a leg or foot among them that I saw.'
'But did these things come out in any order?'
What o'clock was it? What was the day of the week?
Who else was present? How was the weather?'
'I was coming to that. It was half-past three
On Easter Tuesday last. The sun was shining.
The Harlech Silver Band played Marchog Jesu
On thrity-seven shimmering instruments
Collecting for Caernarvon's (Fever) Hospital Fund.
The populations of Pwllheli, Criccieth,
Portmadoc, Borth, Tremadoc, Penrhyndeudraeth,
Were all assembled. Criccieth's mayor addressed them
First in good Welsh and then in fluent English,
Twisting his fingers in his chain of office,
Welcoming the things. They came out on the sand,
Not keeping time to the band, moving seaward
Silently at a snail's pace. But at last
The most odd, indescribable thing of all
Which hardly one man there could see for wonder
Did something recognizably a something.'
'Well, what?'
'It made a noise.'
'A frightening noise?'
'No, no.'
'A musical noise? A noise of scuffling?'
'No, but a very loud, respectable noise ---
Like groaning to oneself on Sunday morning
In Chapel, close before the second psalm.'
'What did the mayor do?'
'I was coming to that.'
2.8k
When you look at yourself,
Your psychedelic bruises,
Your prosperous veins,
Your ever-increasing freckles,
The stretch marks on your hips,
Your ever-so-slight collarbones,
Your deep blue eyes,
And you say
"Why can't I be lovely?"
Understand that when I look at you,
I see the endless galaxies,
The roads yet to be travelled,
The marvellous constellations,
I see the lines of Jupiter,
The glorious mountains,
I see the wondrous ocean.
So when I say
"Darling you already are"
Know that when I look at you,
I see my world.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 3:10 AM UTC
Upon the shore, there lies a marvellous sight
of extravegent castles that cry out to the sky
Structures men have labored over for hours by hand
So delicate are these castles built of nothing but sand
As men stand beneath them, they can't help but feel proud
yet they forget to be thankful for what the sea has allowed
In time, the sea will take back everything she has given
to wash away crumbling castles and reveal treasures hidden
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
There is a woman,
With heaven underneath her feet.
When I take a glimpse of her eyes,
I forget about the stars.
For the twinkle of her eyes is better than that of stars.
When I gaze at her lips,
I forget about the crimson of roses.
For her lips are far rosier.
When I hear her laugh,
I forget about the nightingale.
For her voice is far too merry.
But do you know who this woman is?
She is Mama the Marvellous.
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 8:08 AM UTC
I am not a difficult child.
You are not a difficult mother.
But,
sometimes we have things to say
and
sometimes we say nothing at all.
This,
I suppose is where we are difficult.
Because being human is difficult.
I cannot imagine why so many years ago
you chose to have us. Not because I think
you do not love us, I know you do, but
because of the sorrow my sleep brings to you
on the Sunday mornings I sleep in. Love,
I imagine, is returning from church and
still bringing bread to those who wish not to
consume it in any meaningful sense at all,
or, if consumed, to satisfy hungers so basic
you marvel at what that converted energy
is used for. I have failed still to explain that
I pray in different and marvellous ways that
I don't think are invalid but will still hurt you
nonetheless. This is part of growing up.
There are many dances that you and my
grandmother have surely danced that I
do not have the rhythm for, but there
are many dances that you and her and I
have that are the same, just as in the Old
Testament there are so many prayers and
blessings and cursings and legacies passed on
from one child to another to another child.
During these passing-ons there are surely
missteps
where some son is bound to step on some mother's
left foot as the rhythms change on time's dancefloor.
There are many examples of this that exist
that don't need to be said. It is all the same.
It is all different. I have pointed these things out
before. Before I finish, let me point out
that when I point out these things
after laughing it is not because
I am making fun of you, but only because
I love you enough to point out the seriousness
of everything in this world with a smile on my face.
How else could I possibly repay that great push
you gave all those years ago
to allow this poem to breathe in this form?
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 8:37 AM UTC