The sky is austere
No glinting embroidery
Guess she became all jaded
Wearing that pearl-beaded shawl
A sight he took for granted.
A tanka poem for the times we took the breathtaking night sky's availability for granted. Just some thoughts for the times we feel chagrined towards the undecorated dark canopy without thinking what the night sky could be going through in times they are gloomy and dreary. Hope you'll have a good read! :)
Oh sweet Clementine!
Come out behind those two glens
Sky is your runway
Show us your golden ball gown
Luster, radiant and dazzling
Beauty has no rest
Darkness knows no lacklustre
Heavens change its robe
A black silk with silver beads
Which glimmers breathtakingly.
A couple of tanka poems about day & night. :)
I once wondered why the clouds
Chose to hold out and not weep
Chose to be a martyr and enshroud
The earth till the little buds leap
As I ponder, the cold wind blows
and like a reminder, I remembered
I must get my umbrella and trench coat
Before I hopped onto that riverboat
And like an idiot, I realize
Why the clouds chose to keep his cries.
Again, I looked out the window
and asked the thoughtful clouds to promise me
That when his burdens reached its crescendo
I'll be fine and he must not hesitate to let go.
Poems aren't written,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,
First poem I've written, to anybody who reads this is hope you enjoyed it and it made you day a little better
You are there, you are in front of me
I reached my hand towards your face
I do not want to wake up from this reverie
I do not want another moving on phase
But as I open my eyes I see agony
For you are not there in the first place
Though the sky
Gets dark and sad
Becomes more resplendent,
Luster, an optimistic satellite
Though its alone in the dim firmament
Its sheen does not waver
Gives a wider,
As one night I traversed between
Familiar ponds and waterholes.
The mirth and pep of cobblestone catacombs
And lingering languid with the interminable vapours of combustion.
I approached a woman,
But radiating a genre of beauty obsolete.
Our trajectories to cross,
I half-stepped, swung, and made to speak,
‘Madame, if you may fancy but a drink?’
To which she did not so much as glance,
But brushed me off
And kept steady on her path.