"mozartian" poems
SEASHELLS
Seashells
Humble shells of the sea
Each seems to be still alive and staring at me
In its matchless symmetry-
Like the wondrous beauty of a painting
A tender poem written with poignancy
Not of life’s sorrows but joys
For celebration –each is like a happy Mozartian symphony
Such perfection in a tiny manifestation
Natura in minimis maxima-
The envy of Michelangelo or Da Vinci
Seashells—nature’s glorious gifts by far.
Seashells
Always remind me of happy childhood days
Lucky finds—spotted often in half -buried golden sand
Proudly displayed in a jar---I won every classmate’s praise.
Seashells
Tell of the sea’s unknown stories
Events that had stretched through millions of centuries
When you spot one on the shore, readily
Pick it up as a treasure----contemplate upon its profound mystery.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 7:35 PM UTC
I am a little bird born into this world
Naked.
Chirping lullabies to redwood treetops
and singing hymns to an almighty; getting back nothing.
I gathered up twigs and loose branches to build up
my nest––cropped out upbringing
for house fitting.
Waking up to noises––
of violent winds.
Pressing feathers to cover my ears,
and trusting my feet to hold me down.
Barricaded myself in worn bark,
from the impossibility of the threatening ecosystem.
Praying myself in place, hiding when morning shines and dressing in colours of damp green.
I’m something but I tell myself otherwise:
It’s too frightening to fly so I might as well cut off my wings.
No, that would be insensitive––don’t mind that, I’ll pluck them each time the feathers grow.
See I’m holding onto the something that makes me more than nothing.
Clipped wings seem more ideal than no wings.
For some reason I’m scared to let it all go;
silently hoping one day I’ll keep them, like them, love them and even spread them.
Noticed gathering leaves and flowers one day can add colour to a colourless lifestyle,
yet the wind wipes it clean the next––still pale brown and feels less like home than yesterday.
I may be afraid of everything,
but I know I’m more afraid of dying here alone;
whispering Mozartian melodies to dead butterflies.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 8:42 AM UTC