Amid falling leaves, my thoughts wander far,
as, gracefully, they cascade through the air.
From long winter sleep, they awoke with spring;
unfolded their fullness at the summer peak.
Yes, what a journey their venture provides-
in very few months, each life is fulfilled.
For them, time is fathomed by seasons of days-
unlike my much longer, well-measured years.
Oh, falling leaves, like my autumn of life-
you slowly drift down on faded green lawns.
Red-orange-gold colors boast your last hurrah,
as they calmly, peacefully, twirl to the ground.
A calm ride from branches to blanket the earth;
yet, you weathered storms on long, windy nights.
You shielded the nests upon fine, sturdy limbs
and honored your seasons as best as you could.
My feelings unfold as each lone leaf descends-
reminiscing my own, long, well-seasoned years;
from green, tender bud to full burnished art-
my thoughts wander far, amid falling leaves-
yet, hang on the hope of the next new Spring;
with awakened birth, new life will begin.
. for public domain
I believed I could fathom her unseen depths
with my hands and fingers clutching books,
and my body hunched over much worn pages,
until with time passing
and being in her company less,
I fathomed her less,
The mystery of her being in this world,
mattered less and less,
until she, all in all, mattered less and less;
until I could no longer bear her absence.
I need the eggs more than the knowing,
ongoing Mystery more than a belly full,
Want and Need, more than satisfaction.
I need more the touch of her hand
than the understanding why.
I need more the joyful mystery
I need the touch of her hand.
THE VAN GONE MUSEUM
A gleaming, extravagant building.
Filled with jewels of art.
The brainless herd pile in at
their allotted time slot. No thoughts
Zombie tourists flock into the Van
Gogh museum. It doesn’t matter
how many nationalities are there.
Everyone does the same.
Observers drone from one gallery
to another.
Their eyes not even focusing on the
painstaking art.
The portraits and landscapes stare
back at the viewer in
disbelief and disgust.
Please comprehend what I am.
The constant shutter of a camera
can be heard but not the slightest
intellectual thought can be even
fathomed amongst them.
Those photos they taken cannot
even echo the detail of the brush stroke
or slight colour difference.
They are a false facsimile at best.
The painting now a lifeless corpse.
A digital copy is what remains on a
seldom used SD card.
Never to be looked upon again.
A gravity trudges the cattle toward
the famous sunflowers ; not for
artistic merit but for bragging
rights and social media selfies
Although Van Gogh is long dead, it
seems apparent his legacy, his art,
his life’s work is now
Van Gone….
"Pacific is the heart of the earth, beating in timeless rhythm- a silent witness to humanity's ebb and flow, holding the key of preservation and devastation"- ~~By Poet
Pacific stretches vast and wide,
the largest and deepest water expanse,
girdling continents, lying with a calm obtuse
but has tales of storms and mishaps to tell.
It twirls around its caverns, holding mysteries
that none has ever explored or fathomed.
Invisible to eyes, from all probing estranged,
she hides secrets like a woman abused.
The great Barrier Reef is home to an array
of live forms, housing oldest coral formations,
in shapes of varied quizzical patterns-
a great maestro’s fine masonry.
Marvel of marvels is this mass of churning white
where pulsing waves dash and crash on sea strands
with tiny droplets grown into trillions,
an infinite mass that wobbles and churns.
Safely cradling myriad live forms in her arms,
she sings a dulcet lullaby in timeless mirth-
the same heard by generations through years,
resonant till eternity.
I never think my thoughts deep thoughts --
although I'm no Peter Sellers, they are
but common trite reactions. l do not live
an examined philosophic life; nor have I
focused, full-fathomed understanding.
But -- there is, everywhere, wide-eyed blank confusion --
crowds who do not listen, do not hear, cannot ken,
and can not even choose NOT to grasp
what is said or shown, read or written.
While reveling in company that towers
oh! so high in intellectual singularity --
such myriad dazzling talents! -- alas! I
still am only another erstwhile
clumsy Chauncey Gardiner.
Where (perhaps in hiding?) are all
our popular current Feynmans -- Sagans --
Hawkings -- even Einsteins? Still, I will --
I must! -- ask: think YOU that ignorance
might NOT be bliss?
Mother Earth vibrates, communicates, and is referred to as Eden, Gaia, Heaven, The Fifth Dimension, The Great and powerful Atlantis, and Lemuria.
Vibrating at higher frequencies and connecting to higher levels creates an uncanny, but exciting euphoria.
The Secret Universe unveils hidden esoteric spenders that the ordinary mortal never imagined.
Take the red pill, plunge into the rabbit hole, and immerse yourself in a matrix of life never fathomed.
Find within yourself the excellence of love wrapped in the compassion of a uniquely brilliant, flawless pearl.
When awakening to a higher dimension, compassion flows, and all potential is vast where wonders unfurl.
Do not render your energy to anger or fear, which indicates false evidence appearing real, leading to doubt and the path to the dark side.
Fear festers on failure, which leads to anger, hate, and suffering, so avoid people with anger tendencies and do not confide.
That moment when your heart rejuvenates at the collision of the mind and soul
In cohesion to self empowerment
Setting goals bigger than success itself
Breaking forces unknown yet heavy
To carry
That moment
When your heart set's your spirit free
Babtised by freedom.
Feared by fear
Welcomed by emotional upliftment,
Left by the pit's spit,
Spirit purified,
glorified as an understatement.
That moment
When your smile brightens even your self confidence.
Shoulders pecked,
Vision
Set afar only the soul could comprehend
the chronicles
fathomed by the mind's rooted routes
That moment
When no obstacle's carry a weight not greater
Than that of a match stick
That moment
How can you say that your dreams,
Weaved into an atrocious scarf,
Is not the one you fathomed,
But at least keeps you warm?
Why do you feel so lonely,
Never could feel that emotion before,
When dusk falls, streetlights shimmer,
And music starts to play?
Where do you go to hide,
From glares and unsolicited advices,
That keep hitting you like missiles,
But never take your heartbeat away?
Why does sobbing and gasping,
Awaken a quiescent part of your mind,
Stirring up a turmoil
That shakes you up from every other slumber?
Why do you feel crushed,
When people make excuses, valid or otherwise,
To realise, you only have yourself at the end of the day?
Leave me alone. Leave me to doom.
Blame the stars. Blame the skies and the moon.
And she is always THE ONE,
Until you meet the next one.
May you meet her soon.
When the others say to you
In their blissfull ignorance
Anything what you should do
But it doesn’t stand a chance
Cause you know the subject well
Better than they could’ve fathomed
Do you send them all to hell,
Or you’re lenient to others?
You consider what they are
Taking care of their concern
You don’t want them be too far
And it’s easy to discern
Others and myself, because
I’m afar, and they are here
Very different from those
From another side of sphere.
Somewhere, long ago, I found myself in this world.
Since then, I've been here and there, or in corners, curled.
I feel that I'm an intruder. I don't belong.
Nothing can be fathomed. It's confusing, strange and wrong.
I long for the day when I'll be coming home.
I've never been ready for this place. It's too big.
On this long, rolling road, I drive a lonely rig.
Everywhere I've been, I feel so alone and lost.
Everything is transient in this land I've crossed,
but there's a place for me, and I'll be coming home.
Amongst the fake, I've always heard your voice that's true -
sometimes gentle, sometimes strong, I've not forgotten you.
Your intonations find me, in you there is no harm.
Pull me to your bosom and hold me in your arms.
Mother Earth, I'm returning to your fertile loam.
I won't leave you again, your baby's coming home.
In the solitude of my mind,
Something deep I find,
In the tranquil of my soul,
There’s a gentle flow.
A door opens to me,
I’m buoyed across the turbulent sea,
I’m embraced by silence,
I’m held by its hand.
As I walk through the meadow,
In the twilight shadow,
I’m alone with my thoughts,
I fetch from the fountain of silence.
It cannot be fathomed, the power of silence,
It can’t be said in a single sentence,
I find solace in its room,
A path out of gloomy ambience.
May 8, 2024.
“Give them back! Give my tears back, right now—with interest!!”
—Natsuki Takaya
She wrote her marine a letter, hopeful, bright
loved with her kisses and perfume. In sight,
the postman circles ‘round. Expectantly, she
hurries to the wooden box, near the Pear tree.
Spring is in the air with robins mating, daffodils
in potent bloom and the sudden goosebump’ chills.
Sarah shuts her bedroom door, pounces on bed,
allows steam to open the envelope, read what’s said.
“Dear Sarah, soon I go into the fight, I will write more
later, after the attack. Kiss kiss, x x, hug hug score.”
Later he continues with blood, sweat and tears.
Incoherently, blots - black and blue, slide down. Fears
march up and down her spine. Vietnam’s magic trick
was to steal her joy and love. America’s turning quick -
long ere, a neighbor, fathomed regress from her guy,
which would rip the torrential tearful cloud of her eye.
I have never seen children who cannot listen as hard as these students
They could if their mouths ever shut, but they are perpetually open.
Words coming hard and fast, for they may have never been listened to.
At home, or anyplace else. And now here they are, babbling away.
Thinking their opinions are more important than the teacher’s.
I feel like I have fallen upside down into the Twilight Zone.
It is a world that I as a child could have never imagined or fathomed.
If it wasn’t for poetry, where would I be today?
I would not have developed nearly as many friendships
as I have in the last 24 years since starting out as a poet.
In making friends with lovely fellow poets,
I have gained insights into their lives,
have been moved by them, and have learned from them.
Thanks to many of my dear poet friends,
I have improved my skills in the writing of forms
which never could I have fathomed
having written in my youth!
Also, I would never have felt the sweet thrill of success
from mentoring others after being mentored myself,
from being published and having created poems
which were appreciated by others.
In addition, I enjoy exercising my mind
and feeling confident in my writing skills today.
Though there is little money in it, and though
I will never make a name for myself like Poe or Frost did,
It’s fun and fulfilling to express feelings and ideas creatively.
My life has been enriched by my becoming a poet.
Looking into the yawning chasm
trying to find the gem long lost
The shattered shambles of the sky
in the backscatters of the running river
The surreal sight:
throttles the medieval poet;
brings back unwelcomed nostalgia,
a forsaken evocation.
In an attempt to fathom the waters
has she fathomed out a truth unwritten?
In her hand is the pen,
but do the words listen to her?
Did she ask to be born,
nor the river did ask to flow
How would she end the trifling fiction
the strings in the hands of the unknown?
The surreal sight:
its voice echoes in her headspace;
How would you end the trifling fiction
the strings in the hands of the unknown?
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