Embracing the idea that to "hear no beauty, see no beauty, be no beauty" is to overlook the true essence of a rose. A rose is not merely a flower or a collection of blooming buds; it embodies a profound inner calmness and purity. It serves as a striking representation of a seductive figure, with its ovary dispersing seeds that give rise to future generations of beauty.
This powerful imagery underscores the role of a rose in nurturing life and inspiration. Beauty is not just a superficial attribute; it is a divine promise, a gift from God destined for all women in the land. We must recognize and honor the vibrancy of beauty, as exemplified by the striking "red fluffy mustard rose," which captures the essence of resilience and allure in nature.
Hear no beauty, see no beauty be no beauty
who says man and nature
can never coexist in harmony
april brings us
its share of miracles
of life that sprouts
in shades of green
every year the cycle
like clockwork
rejuvenates yet
we are always in awe
spring give rise
to our sense of salvation
and of hope that
we have not been forsaken
Our lives have known such different ways
Such different ways have we
And yet despite such varied worlds
The same sun helps us see
The teachings of a higher source
So similar of grain
So why then must our names, our skins
Give rise to hate and pain
The meals we set to nourish babes
To blossom healthy lives
Though dished up from a different pan
A common fire thrives
And yes, the love that bears its fruit
To sow its yielding seed
The very same no matter where
In manner and in deed
Our lives have known such different ways
Such different ways have we
So why not share and learn and form
A larger family
blazing fusion
liquid water
tidal forces
three heavenly bodies
give rise to one
No seeds, spinach or carrots around;
no greens, or reds, or oranges found.
Only the smooth sliding elegance
of twosome as one in skating dance.
"Sequined Septuagenarians"
much smoother than fresh-ironed linens.
Golden, gliding glances so well-known,
minute, mellow movements, subtly shown.
A bittersweet moment hangs midair
as dazzling Old Smoothies sway with flair.
Both smoothies are good parcel and part,
but Old Smoothies give rise to the heart.
Blooming beauty like rose in October
That tries to give rise to my dying ember
Regret is like a hot coal in the right hand,
And shuffled quickly to the left, then back again
With fervored reproach giving harsh reprimand
In a heart broken world that no words can soften.
Thus stomach's cruel acids give rise to great pain,
While the brain's daily thoughts are construed in a blur.
Soon friendship is lost when regret makes its gain.
Kick far the hot coal. Let not regret reoccur.
Born to create, deceived to consume.
We think we are so royal and grand.
Brilliant and creative we do assume.
In truth a wasteland, at best secondhand.
We repeat what has already been had.
Or simply change what someone else has made.
Then stand proud as if an olympiad.
And continue this creative charade.
Remove for one day or even a week
the music and screens to which we are chained.
And you’ll crave distraction an empty soul seeks.
the stimulus that keeps us entertained.
You will loath after just three days alone
those worn out tapes still playing in your head.
That whistle you’ll bemoan as monotone.
And crave anything new that can be said.
Around day 4 you will soon realize
Your inability to just create.
A single original thought give rise,
With your mind so addicted to click bait.
In solitude I am humbled to see,
My peace rests on that which is external,
Rather than what’s been placed deep inside me.
Where a still small voice speaks the eternal.
Like a computer that needs a reboot
We have to unplug and turn off the noise.
Wake up your self ready to execute,
A masterpiece, which robot life destroys.
the decrease in blindness
brings an invisible angle of life
next to you
mix complacency for failure
and tenderness for one's own weakness
but my future blue ailment
operates building the transposition
between what was and what will be
inoculates caramels and anesthetics
inside feeling and forgetting
he stands alert smiling
sentinel that watches over an ancient world
dodge fast from the warheads that are you
it settles in this conquered space
a primordial contempt for your zero universe
the access route to comfort is there
in the soft volumes that travel in blocks
the shadow is the building itself
reflections are also what give rise to them
I didn't used to be this descriptive
but now any flight touches the parallels
I'm acquiring a tendency to offer resistance
the bats are leaving the cave
there are so many enemies that I didn't know
now they're all here smiling
happily telling me good morning, son
This injured head appears to pose
some simple questions.
Is this head what gave rise
to the fall to the floor?
Did the fall give rise
to the pills?
Did the pills give rise
to the cure that gave rise
to my thanks
to the fall to the floor
that sent me questioning?
A head asks questions of itself.
(Nov 2021)
Compelled as I am forever to follow
The unchartered path of my questing soul,
Absurd must I find all these clipped tec directives,
Turn here, bear left, drive right past the goal.
Slow down, feel the moonlight, let the side roads mistaken
Give rise to a yearning for all you have missed,
Drink in the starlight, let the cool air awaken
Within you the thoughts of the girl you once kissed
And left again. Left again, right at the crossroads,
Slow at the station, then on up the hill,
behind you the traffic builds up in the city,
Before you the dawn creeps over the sill.
A period of youthful vim ferments
as coruscating golden flecks in eyes
that mesmerise and tantalise, give rise
to secrets in my breast to stir, foment.
The xanthous tresses that cascade torment.
My eager and impressionable sighs
that echo every pirouette and pliés,
a fleeting intercession of lament.
A maverick when it comes to amour
and quintessentially a rakish cad.
Unrequited love longstanding rancour,
but finally become your paramour.
An enigmatic smile ever so sad;
your broken heart I gladly give succour.
We float for years - drift and disintegrate.
But we don’t give rise to flowers.
We pollute; as our morality incinerates,
We float and die - drift and disintegrate.
From ourselves we seek to liberate -
Clasp our hands on bent knees we cower.
We float only to fall - drift and disintegrate.
And we don’t give rise to flowers.
Morning, a dawn chorus rouses me from my slumber
bird song intensifies with the rising of the sun,
and with its ascension, a world awakens to a new day.
A day filled with promise, hope and newness,
how can I but smile and rise with optimism and dreams,
a world alive with sounds inviting me to enjoy this vision.
My steps light, that of a much younger me-inspired,
dew still lingers, birds still sing, and a sun shines in glory,
time, there is no time to waste, a day is but a day.
But, all too soon, descending notes give rise to dusk,
a moon awaits it's turn, all must end, all must close,
Yet, I am thankful for this day, for tomorrow and all my yesterdays.
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