In a new road,
Rain will fall,
Wind may blow,
Swifting our woe.
The road forever on and on,
Many paths to choose,
Many paths to take,
Through the shadows,
Through the night,
Clouds going by,
There we will lie,
Seeing shivered land,
Seeing the dead seas...
Through the edge,
Miles to go,
Rain may fall,
Through the nightfall,
Through the twilight,
Through the dusk,
Through the dawn,
Paths on and on,
'Till the road comes along...
Early one morning a group of rookie's and veteran's ballplayers emerge onto the prac-
tice field destine to began an grueling season of hardwork and a dedication to an common-
goal of Superiority. They come out of the locker room after the coach has given assign-
ment's and now everyone minds are on one accord, one agenda and together they all say to
themselve's. "The road to a Championship began when the priority to be the best", "is know
from one and all roads to success is gear towards teamwork and passionate loyalty to suc-
ceed at any means there is". Loyalty to push on through the inclimate weather, hardwork off
the field as well on the field is approachable only when a championship atmosphere surrounds
itself with ballplayer's and not attitude's disrespectful to the cause of the challenge's to be-
come the best at what you do, and do the best at what not to do. Teamwork is a do-able part
of the puzzle, but there's more to it then that. There is hunger, and then all the pieces falls
together when that hunger is fed an astronomical desire that fill-up the body and your minds
with offensive and defensive individual's that love's victory and enjoy's a desire to not finish
the race in last place. So out emerge's a champion in his relationship to his fellow ballplayers
and to his family as that of maturity and that of unlimited resources of the uncoachable en-
tangable fortitude that seperate the advantage's over the disadvantages that make his or her
teammate's reach the level of sportsmenship unseen and redeem as the fans come to see a
player that value's himself and value the diffucult task of Sunday to Sunday ability to be not
only a scholar athelete but also The road of a Champion is what make's him love to compete:
A DINNER INVESTMENT (for Eve)
My husband Chris Adams loves to wine and dine my needs
In the most expensive places, one can eat.
Arriving in LIMO style
A humble waiter greets
After I viewed the menu I replied,
"Hun I am ready to order."
A T-bone steak -- fully cook the meat.
At our table, walked a gorgeous snake-eyed women
She leaned over my husband's seat
Approaching Chris with a big wet kiss
I stomped on my husband's foot
I gave him the look, of all looks
She slithered with her tongue in Adams ear
"Go to that hotel and relax, I need some cash"
With one stare I yelled, "Chris how dare you cheat!"
"I had enough, I want a divorce MR. ADAMS!"
I reach over to slap him,
He replies, "She is my mistress Bath-Sheba my dear EVE!"
"I do not love her."
"I understand if you want a divorce!" Mr. Adams replied.
"But, remember, no more furs, luxury suite,
Winters in Barbados,
Summers in Tuscany."
"Infinity or Lexus, and first class plane seats."
"Forget about the Yacht Club."
"Party by the swimming pool, that land a hundred feet."
"It is up to you my Kitty Skat Eve to give it all up."
"You decide if these diamonds you want to keep."
Without thinking of taking a leap.
I saw Mr. Adams business partner Cain with a Jezebel in his arms.
I ask my husband Chris in a small peep.
"Do not tell me that Cain commits Adultery too?"
"Cain's blonde looks really cheap as if she works the street."
"Well, our mistress is prettier and looks real sweet."
"Honey, our mistress Bath-Sheba is worth the keep."
"Mr. Adams tonight you can call me Steve and not Eve,
Whatever it takes to satisfy your needs plus my gold lust!"
(The moral of the story is what some Eve's
will do to keep their investment, I mean Adam's.)
A joke and dedication to Chris D. Aechtner
For THE Eve in Eden* (Contest) *
Poems from old and yellowed
Chinese scrolls make me sad,
make me sad: stored in shiny,
lacquered boxes of perfumed teak,
they crumble when unrolled.
And the hands that must have written
Chinese thoughts upon the rolls:
little, leathern, patient hands,
painting poems -- stroke and stroke
and careful, delicate stroke --
stopping, meanwhile, to twirl
a waxed mustache --
for someone else, a foreigner,
who cannot understand, to read,
mull over, and be sad.
And this when Chinese thoughts
are gone, and tiny, trembling
Chinese hands are dust.
Trapped in the room
Her heart was travelling
To the utmost edge of the world
Following the stars
While she was painting
And writing poems
Genuine, shy, sweet poems
Truth and beauty
And she was a poem too
Summer scent is the smell of freedom
where we can escape the flavor of boredom
so we plan to have our vacation on the beach
where we can relax and fresh air is within our reach
The warm wind tenderly embraced my spirit
I felt excited on this first visit
on an island where refugees can find paradise
an island where spending time is wise
The dulcet breeze gently kisses lush green trees
and the mirthful sun smiles over the vast seas
Where surfers play with gigantic waves
and are not certain on what road it paves
The fluffy clouds are smoothly sailing
the birds are singing and harmoniously dancing
There are butterflies that are colorful in hue
like enchanted fairies changing colors from pink to blue
I need my sun block, it's time for swimming
the tables are full because later we're all eating
Ladies are smiling to many cool surfer dudes
Children are hungry seeing delicious exotic foods
I picked a shell that whispered peacefully in my ears
and we built castles that we fancied over the years
out of the small grains of white sands
and all you need is helping hands
God was really great in creating splendid wonders
that were loved by all especially the nature lovers
There are numerous oceans that are aquamarine
and abundant trees and grasses that are green
The brother sun was slowly hiding
because the sister moon was coming
I guess it was our time to pack
but there will come a time for us to go back
Go back to a place of leisure and freedom
where you'll not taste the flavor of boredom
It would be hard for us to say goodbye
because truly we will come back and say Hi!
Lying in the enclosed walls of my room
I used to think as I lay all night and day
everyone else around the world
But no! all I see is not all there is
Somewhere somehow, at the same time
lies other boys with great imaginations
that keep them awake
Somewhere somehow, its afternoon in
another nation, and within its boundaries
live other passionate savvies making
every moment count
While I make excuses for the time loss
some millennials with the same idea I had
and ignored months ago, are working
tirelessly to make theirs a reality
Somewhere somehow, while I lay wishing
and waiting, an army arises taking fearless
steps like they have nothing to lose
Somewhere somehow, an age mate is
earning so much just by using their talent
While I lay, legends with so much
achievements still lie awake because they
feel there is still so much to do
While I sleep,the clock doesn't.
Often a parent cannot know
What seeds of anguish they do sow
When a name on offspring they bestow
Teased by army pals whilst abroad
Oscar ,became Claude !
This soldier, painter ,who changed his name,
Later found world-wide fame;
So if you find an Oscar Monet, today
Keep it safe,don't throw it away !
Wonders of nature,
captured in time,
a blend so perfect,
as the rarest of wines.
A creation so beautiful,
a breathtaking view,
the inspiration of many artist,
as only they knew.
Each masterpiece different,
no two eyes see the same,
as the canvas comes to life,
and long live their names.
A world of torment was his stage
His paintings previewed a later age;
Neurosis,depression & death-
Escaping into a dream
Leaving the world with 'a scream'
Edvard Monck (1863-1944) The Scream
Listen, you see that ?
Listen harder, I know you see it now.
Look over there, quick.
Did you hear that ?
Tell me, if you can see the sound I see.
If you can taste what I feel.
Speak without talking, move without walking.
So many things, with not enough stuff.
Hot not cold, on but off.
Death brings life, to those who are open.
Closure is loneliness, knowledge is light.
Fear is confusing and power is sight.
To answer a problem, you didnt even know.
To speak about places, you didnt even go.
Reading is much, if you know what you read is more.
Jasmines are flowers of paradise...
an absolute work of God...
sense of the splendid inheritance...
omniscience of God to his servants...
nutrient for the pure of heart.
Nobody can be absolutely...
album, which sets no time...
The love for resemblance does warm the soul...
harmonic songs echo in the life of love audible noise...
actors are like living shadows...
nugget, voice and feelings of those who want to hear...
igneous flame that all travel...
exercise for the imagination of those who observe...
living is not for everyone - only the strong survive.
Birthdays are acts that comprise only a single contemplation...
equivalent to the jasmine garden of the Lord...
host for the coming...
real, for those who know how to love.
Please don't judge me based on my religious preference, my hair, what I wear, or how I speak. I can promise you, I'm different than what you'd expect. I don't expect much, though that's still too much. I'm not sure if I like myself as of now, but I'm working on it. If I don't care, you shouldn't either. So you can keep knocking, but won’t knock me down, no love lost, no love found. When you so good, that you can’t say it cuz it isn’t even cool for you to sound cocky anymore,
I am myself nothing more, nothing less.
I wouldn't exactly classify myself as "normal". I can careless what you think of me. I don't like associating with drama queens, troublemakers and just stupid people.
I'm not perfect. To be factual, I'm very far from it. My point of view on things are different than most. I have values. I have a brain; some of you kids should certainly invest in one. I will treat everyone with respect, if they treat me the same in return.
Here is the reply
sometimes people only gain self gratification by making other people seem bad when all they are doing is verbalizing their own shortcomings and pointing them in someone else's direction, they think by redirecting there self image will make others not see who they really are. But if you have brains you can see it and they will not to play into it, then eventually it will all crash down on them :) leaving you shining.
Things seems to be very clear,
When actually felt it is unclear,
What really seems to be clear,
May never ever be clear for ever.
Your help for others,
May be to be appreciated,
Or taken as what is called,
to be uncounted.
My question is clear,
Why the help for others,
Is sometime never appreciated,
However it is always delivered.
In response to ethics,
lingers in my mind the answer,
To help others is not to be recognised,
But it is to be called someone,
Who can be respected.
To all, continue to help,
Not to to be appreciated by others,
But to be respected by yourself.
Oh well I got an angry email to begin my day
Because of my last post on the Jabidah thing yesterday
Galit sa akin but greeted me with Assalamu alaykum.
And kung personal Moro friends ko naman ito
They know I don't criticize Moro leaders
I always leave that to them to criticize their leaders
According to my friends baka nasa gubyerno or something
Next time I'll write na lang about the sea and the palm trees and the beaches
Pray and pray nalang para walang provocation
ako nga ang daming nag-message sa akin nagalit sa issue ng Sabah standoff
Ikaw pa kaya na wala namanng masama na sinabi dun
Alam mo ‘buti na lang you verbalized that kasi iniisip ko rin ‘yun
I know you have reasons and you know better kaya; I just read your posts
I don’t have to go against parties kasi both have rights
And the issue must be solved
Wala, kasi sa akin kundi independence lamang ang kailangan
May ganyan din kasing realities?
Minsan you are being asked or expected to take sides
Yes, my side is peace – with peace is independence
Yes, I heard that sa dating Jabidah Massacre celebration
Somebody said that, “Walang kapayapaan kasi walang kalayaan”
And that is very universal, kapatid.
Moro or non-Moro and writing should always geared towards humanity
That’s why for me it “anti-humanity” if you will not listen
Or suppress when somebody will talk about freedom.
That’s the problem with Filipinos, they don't listen.
Kasi the leaders may sarili ring interests.
How do you see being Filipino?
Ako, it's a cage, Filipino nationalism
Agenda ng mga oligarchs and landowners
Filipino nationalism is violence against Muslims and lumads
Kasi ‘pag ako ang tatanunginmo I will never say I am Filipino
Because Tausug it’s not a name but an identity...
I understand but kaunti na lang kayo
Ako sasabihin ko na I am a Filipino but I have reservations
When I was a teenager hindi ako tumatayo ‘pag Lupang Hinirang
ngayon tumatayo na kasi napapaaway ang mga kasama ko sa sinehan
Yes and identity should be critically assessed and examined.
Kaya if they say Filipino ang mga Tausug masakit sa aking loob
But not all, kapatid. try mo pumunta sa Manila
Yung mga Moro na malalapit sa mga institusyon ng Pilipinas
Bakit iba ang Moro at ibang ang Tausug
kaya sila naging Moro at masaya na tawaging Moro
May identity na naiiba sa Filipino
Pinag-aaralan ko rin yan and ino-observe ‘yung pag-yield sa 'Filipino'
‘Will give Filipinos a disservice
Because it is tantamount to be an accomplice to a corrupt system
And this system is the one that oppresses Muslims
At alam natin ang Tausug di lamang taga-Sulu
Pati Bisayan, Tausug din
As much as possible I am trying to make my writings 'away'
Away from Filipino nationalism
That's the right way for me and my writing
I will ask first, “How it is to be human?”
At super last na ang, “How to be a Filipino”
And the Bangsamoro struggle is the greatest critique to the violence
And failures of Filipino nationalism
Ang problema kasi kaya di successful ang Bangsamoro struggle
Dahil nagdadala sila ng pangalan na di naman originally sa kanila
How come ang pangalan ko ay Abdul sa rights
Gagamitn ko ang Juan para sa aking bayan?
Kaya war of ideas ito and alam mo naman sa akin, ‘pag ideas
And perspectives walang kompromiso and peace talks
I do not compromise my language, my craft and myself, my writing
Filipino is an imagined nation, as well as Bangsamoro
Bakit di natin magamit ang orignal nation natin
Na based sa Sulu archipelago and Mindanao
Yes, actually diyan ako papunta - papunta
Bakit hindi i-Bangsamoro-ized ang buong Filipinas?
It doesn’t mean na i-convert ang Pilipinas
But the spirit, the struggle it should mean something to Filipinos
It should kasi ang dami na nagbuwis ng buhay
Kaya ko pa na tanggapin kung Maharlika
‘Yan ang gusto kong ma-achieve: Filipinos should listen to Moros
Siyempre marami pang madidiscover along the way
Indeed. Ikaw ba ‘pag sasabahin ko na ‘Tausug’ ano ang maiisip mo?
Tausug is Moro and Moro for me is something that predates 'Filipino'
But now, I would like to know the concept of “Lupah Sug”
I want to know it, I think there are more and beyond Moro on it
Before ‘Moro’ was named to Mindanao and Sulu people
It was first name to Aceh people, Melaka, Brunei and then Manila
Sulu and Mindanao were the last places to have been called the name ‘Moro’
Sulu archipelago was united under the name Sulu archipelago
The name of people is Tausug.
Tausug is composed of different ethnics:
Arab, Banjar, Dampuan, Buranun etcetera.
The concept of Sulu as part of dar al islam
Is already a nation and state
Where the government is the people and itself headed by sultan or raja
Yes, and I would like to feel this from the ordinary Tausugs when I get there
I would like to experience this from ordinary Tausug and on from place itself.
In the hinterland of Jolo, their laws still on the ground not of Philippine law
I believe in narratives
I want to hear and feel this from the place and from the people.
And then capture it; I have these thoughts
That Lupah Sug has something that the Moro concept does not have
And it’s a bit metaphysical but sige lang.
I know my craft can capture it.
I think there is a language that can capture it
And specific craft that can carry its soul
Not fictionalize but put it in a form like a novel or a narrative
Which have their own logic and truths as crafts.
This poem is made after the conversation and sharing with Filipino writer Rogelio Braga who also serves as the editor of the poem. He is currently in Mindanao, travelling and writing; he will then proceed to Sulu Archipelago soon. 2:28PM, 19 March 2013, Facebook Chat across Sulu Sea!
A new path is what we seek.
The surroundings are taking a peek,
Going through, very meek,
Seeing no bleaks,
While hearing creaks,
In the new paths that we seek...
The new path is what is found,
Going through forests bound,
Going through the path inbound,
With soothing and raging water sounds.
Passed through burial grounds...
Seeking for another way around,
The paths newfounded,
Our instincts compounded,
Followed by the hounds,
Echoes in ultrasounds,
Passed through mysterious breeding grounds...
Going to stamping grounds,
Trying to get off this ground,
With those burial mounds,
Death moving the wheels around,
Silhouettes running aground,
Trying to leave safe and sound,
Passing through some hunting grounds...
Seeking for common grounds,
The mistaken path redounded,
Regretful screams abound.
Though some are fouled,
Throughout the paths that were found...
However, most are lost and wounded,
Most tended to walk out,
Some minds and hearts full of doubts.
Hearing salvation shouts,
From all these new paths walked and found...
Once described as an intense artist
He now sits comfortably
Patiently being interviewed
By a reporter
Half his age
When I was a younger
I would come home from school
To an empty apartment
To keep myself occupied
Until my mother came home
I would spend hours
Drawing random sketches
And imaginary shapes in a notebook
That I kept hidden behind a couch
My mind was full of images
I was young
I was vulnerable
It wasn’t until
I got much older
That I decided to study art.
Speaking softly, he continues
People respect art and imagination
But recognition for an artist has a life of its own
An artist must push himself to do
What he hasn’t done before
But art is complicated
What often comes with it
Is all extraneous stuff
Which you try to control
Before it consumes you.
And the questions ended hours ago
The artist gazes out his bedroom window
The Greek Orthodox
Dome of St. George
Maintains a stoic vigil
Over the East Village
Toward the dusky sky
Light from an open window
Highlights his forehead
Drifting down to his lips
Near his open collar
Only to resurface
In the middle of his shirt
Hands, calloused and strong,
Are down by his side
The left touching his thigh
The right hand dangling in freedom
Deep lines furrow his face
Shadows under his eyes
Mark a life spent
Perfecting his craft.
In the silence
He takes a deep breathe
That the Roman in his heart
Prideful and defiant
A day of his life.
I live in your body with wishes i never existed
You killed my vibe when you felt i had no feelings for your feelings
I’m a prisoner in your conscious
How can i not be when your eyes constantly pee less tears
Stop waking me in dark streets
For i know it’s another girl’s peace
I care not of your power cravings
Please stop barking my silence with your anger symptoms
I care less of your less fortunate fortunes
I was named emotional reaction for real reasons
Stop confusing me with obligated connections
I feel what you choose to feel
I approve not of your violent nickname skills
Serial thigh breaker sins
Occasional house breaker stinks
You accept none of my guilty conscious messages
Your heart server always fall short
I demand parole to this invisible jail sentence
My patience is turning pale
Heavier than what’s between your legs in a scale
You break bones of a silent soft thinker
I break chains of well painted pictures
My heart glows in the dark
For you kidnapped me in your conscious
I am just feelings connected to your heart
Let me loose please
There is a painting at the art gallery
I have a strong affection for
It is a man that calls me from the past
In the year 1670 lived this nobleman
Long dark hair falls to his shoulders
A strong face with fathomless eyes
Eyes full a passion and desire
He does not smile, yet I adore him
I want to reach out to him
He seems to see me, beckon to me
Come to me he whispers
Aristocratic is his demeanor, dignified
O, but could I step within the frame
Be in his world, in his time
We would hold hands in silence
For he would know without question
My heart and soul are his forever
Written by Constance La France
November 11, 2012
Miles distant worlds apart
I, when I intoned my song in your reality
Lives, approached in paradise
Excitation of neurons led me to your world.
Yes, now we share the same course, the same system.
Circus, this is what the people need.
Yes, to flow through the foolishness of the message to wake up the world.
Rhyme for me does not exist in the word but in the sense
Unarmed in an insane world
Sacrifice to decode the message that comes from afar.
Your hands dart and weave
In, out, up.. then hover
Swoop right… then left
As simply as sight
Of a birds dreamy flight
Floating to perch proud on rocky cleft
Subtle magic’s paint
Concept, thought to Action
Life wrought from death
As eloquently as the Master
Reaches out from the hereafter
And grants the unborn gift of breath
Chaos now cornered
Seeks out surge, hands direct
And collar by will
And just as Angels acting
So precise, measured, and exacting
Leave scarce a ripple on waters still
Trumpet Grande Crescendo
Labors love ushered in
A diamond from primal smolder
A new winged gift to grace us
Snatched still in pristine stasis
To soar in the eye of the beholder
I wrote this poem after peeping through the doorway of my wife Nancy’s workspace as she
crafted her beautiful bird sculptures. I was utterly amazed at the delicate movements she so
gracefully employed to wring creations that seemed to capture a split second of nature so
completely as to cause the beholder the illusion that she had somehow stopped time.
Literally, a hummingbird caught between the beats of its wing for one to marvel at. Of all
Nancy’s creative endeavors I still rank her “Buildin’ Birds” as her paramount artistic
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch some pails of water
Jack climbed some trees while Jill was picking some pretty flowers
After some hours Jack realized that he was wasting time
So he called Jill to hurry up before ‘tis half past nine
So off they went to continue their very long journey
‘Till they passed by an old beggar and gave him some money
When they both reached the well Jack and Jill filled up their buckets
Near the well were some berries which they put in their pockets
When they reached home their momma and papa were so happy
For dinner they had meatballs and soup and chicken curry
And five bags of bananas which a rich neighbor gave them
The good that you do to others will always be returned
My breath is short for you Milly
As my eyes exude for you Yannick
I will not flee Molly
In order to achieve the desires of Irene
For loads in your face time Retha
Brilliantly as Robert
So that the color does not come out of thee Orabel
And I see their faces in the morning Raelyn
And take what is really important Idony
Calm of nature as Serena
And marvel at its beauty Yolanda
Go beyond thrilled with the universe Oda
Power conferred on it by Ula
I admire Maybelle,
And the essence I glorify Yieshah.
Place purity of soul thou Linnet
The LORD be with you Ora
In the fortress of Valarie
And make life as Eda.
That answer to that is painfully simple: I’m a disabled, thirty-something individual with compromised mobility…and I’m a lazy S.O.B...
But, oh, how I fantasize! And loath am I to torture myself by looking at all the exquisite, fabulous fashion creations by Versace, Comme Des Garcons, Missoni and Vivienne Westwood; elegant creations I will never be able to wear, let alone afford. Though I enjoy being a man and would have it no other way, I envy women and sometimes wish I was one, just so I could wear a Versace gown, even if it were just to take out the trash.
I worship fashion and models; they are my demigods. They embody all that is outwardly beautiful. I don’t mind the shallowness of it. I wish I was Coco Rocha, Naomi Campbell, Janice Dickinson, Linda Evangelista, Tyra Banks, Milla Jovovich, all rolled into one. I wish I could strut and stomp the catwalk; to pound the runway in some outrageous creation by Rei Kawakubo. To jet-set to Paris, Milan, Tokyo, London…! I would die and go to fashion heaven, and see Gianni, and I would be his Muse. Poor, Gianni; why did that bastard kill you? Genius was lost that day and fashion has since suffered in your absence.
I wish I was as skillful with sewing as I am with words; since I’ll never be a model, I’d at least like to design clothes that would echo my influences. A mesh of the sex of Versace, the elegance of Missoni, the insane artistic destruction and anti-fashion of Comme des Garcons and the hipness of Vivienne Westwood; yes, that would be my style, as my poetry echoes Poe, Shelley, Keats and Dickinson.
But, alas and alas again! For these are all but mere dreams and fantasies that shall never be fulfilled! But a gay boy can dream, can’t he?
The art gallery was deserted as I wandered the rooms
Contemplating quietly alone and peacefulness was mine
Stopping at a painting of a lone woman, I gazed at her face
Eyes that looked sad, much like mine and as I looked, I wished
She looked so heavenly but she wore her deep sadness
I could feel her pain, O, if I could but step within the frame
And in a blink, I was transported and was within the painting
I looked out at myself, a girl with sad and fathomless seeking eyes
My gown within the frame was quite lovely, soft and rich
A forest green velvet creation with white lace peaking out
I sat on a gilded chair and on my lap lay a white mink fur coat
My hand stroked the fur in my sadness, it seems I was going outside
Behind me was a window view of a frozen lake and stark trees
Storm clouds gathering in the sky, I shivered, the year was 1817
I felt elegant, my hair falling in waves, cascading down to my waist
But the deep sadness within my soul was overwhelming, tears flowing
I was a girl, so vintage in her style with sleek long hair
Standing in the gallery, in front of the painting of the lone woman
Slowly, I walked away but the sadness within my soul still remained
And I knew forever and ever that this painting would haunt my days
Written by Constance La France
October 28, 2012
Inspired by the painting Henriette Le Moine (1817)
Painted by Theophile Hamel
National Gallery of Canada
You must go,yes!
Go against slumber,
When even early birds ignore worms,
But the falling thorns purnish gurus
As the roaming anti-mother blanket kills faint gurulings.
Here we march marshals,
Along grumbling swift paces,we shall!
Walking-yarn appetises expectations,
Since many paths leads to the road.
Diverging to coverge,we must!
As swarming of the apocalyptic plague of the book,
Brushing along all along that belongs,
Into the shipping tower,we all plunge.
Now blinking sea-eyes of a naked mind,
All beholding spoons for a bloodless war.
Its too late to retrieve and hot to hold.
An often dreaded monster you face,
Must in "Government call" retire.
Yes! warm to hum,
like a soldier into war,
triumphant but not victorious.
When asked why? we say,
this is the ROAD TO FSLT.
“Where is it?” I asked the art dealer with no preamble whatsoever. The tears were about to spill down my cheeks, and I found it hard to get the words past the lump in my throat. He sensed it.
He looked down at me from his studio balcony. “I sold it.”
I turned away and ran towards my car, the grief eating away at my soul as the tears now gushed down needing release. Why had I waited? It was too late. Too late.
At home, I flung myself on the living room couch and through sobs, told my husband what had happened. He looked at me dumbfounded, unable to comprehend what that painting meant to me.
He had been away on one of his many trips when I had passed by the art studio and seen the painting. Perhaps anyone else would have found it plain, not outstanding, not heart stopping, but for the first time, a painting actually spoke to my heart. I was enthralled by the image of a wooden door of a typical Cypriot village home- just a door but cascading down around it was a spray of fuchsia bougainvillea, my favorite flower. The contrast of the colors of the door, the wall, and that spray of heavenly flowers was simply overwhelming. I loved everything quaint…the lovely villages of Cyprus, the cobblestone streets, the picturesque homes. My heart mourned. It would not be comforted.
Why hadn't I just written a check? Why had I waited to ask for permission when I knew how badly I wanted that painting to be hung on my wall, feeding my soul every day with beauty? Why had I been naive enough to tell the art dealer that every time I passed by the window, my heart would beat in a frenzy, for after that, he had placed it in the very front of the display window. Now it was gone. FOREVER.
Time passed. Every time I remembered my painting, my heart bled. I moved to Lebanon. You can never know how overwhelmed I was when I first saw the backyard of my new home, for there were TWO fuchsia bougainvillea trees, the branches of one reaching down to almost touch my dining room window.
My heart sings everyday, for these flowers are not captured on canvas, they live. The flowers dance and sway with the breeze, contrasting with the green of the grass, the blue of the sky, and the brown of the pine tree trunks. I look at the spray of glorious flowers, and my soul is fed by my loving God.
Persian Proverb by Saadi:
“If of thy mortal goods, thou art bereft
And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left
Sell one and from the dole
Buy Hyacinths to feed the soul”
The singer looks at the now empty stage
His voice guarded deep in his warm throat
Shielded by a high neck shirt he wore
Singing with passion from down within
Rehearsing day and night until it’s right
Blended rhythms and notes run the scales
Clinging in smoky night clubs like a shadow
Getting your pay with crumbled dollar bills
Go from gig to gig if it makes you whole
Your songs will make them dance and spin
Like a magic spell being cast far and wide
Allow your words to heal wounds and scars
And when you have earned your keep
Collect the spoils from your conquest sweet
Gobbled champagne and fancy caviars
And your heart beats crashed musical chart
Find the singer who was once loved
The brilliant heart that once lived in joy
Consider yourself a singer without a heart
Who has traded his soul from the start
As it ends the conquest will lose its spark
Come to your senses and stop this slide
You may be witted and sharp as a tack
Don’t get eluded and slip—stay on track
Comments: This is a narrative dialogue poem. It sets the stage one may
probably find in a conflicting situation. It develops into a complication, reaches a
crisis then falls into a resolution. It displays connections, alienation,
disconnections, and a turning point where a change takes place between a
protagonist and antagonist. The ending brings about a resolution after a
dramatic point has been reached. Give it a try one day, and I will give it a review
for you. It must be very interesting and relates to real life.
I am silent
I am trembling
I am singing
I am dreaming
Under blue sky`s veil
To see some poem`s trail
One sunny morning in a class of thirty-one
They were asked to draw an image one by one
Each student stood up, with pastels at hand
Being enthusiastic to draw something grand
The first group was decided to start the task
Talents in drawing they've started to unmask
The paper came to life with colors, curves and lines
Will it end up like a garden or fields of mines?
Time passed by and the paper was almost full
Of drawings and colors made by their tools
There were animals with mustache on their faces
Each and everyone belonging to their places
Now the artwork was finished and the students sighed
Looking at the masterpiece they've done with pride
They didn't care what the paper looked like
For in their hearts it was a true work of art