Long Spring up Poems
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Remember when that flash of insight
last self-ignited in your expectant thoughts
blasting away the fog of uncertainty, complexity and doubt.
A sudden aha Eureka answer, pure, simple, so succinct, beautiful.
To some this flash of aha is called duration, or a blink. insight, acumen, Eureka!
But, my friend, how, why, when, where, do these Aha moments arise?
Can we conger up more for ourselves, fill a treasure cheat with insights?
Or is this quest a waste of time, as no treasure map exits. But does it?
Can we ever know with what, and how, and when to cast the magic wand?
Does our search for meaning, inquiries lay the foundation?
Can we prepare the way ahead in some way or other?
Think back, my friend, did these gems
always spring up unexpectedly, and what occurred beforehand?
These aha Euekas cannot be scheduled or delayed,
cannot be snuck-up on, snared nor detected,
cannot be forced out nor guaranteed to appear.
Euekas are not rewards for hard work, perhaps the opposite is true.
How often does lazy and shallow wader get the creative rewards.
Chance is never fair in its rewards for hard work.
Often, an Aha taps us on the shoulder, we are least expecting it,
out of the blue, saying: "Look at Me. Look at Me".
When gobbled up with glee, it washes over and transforms us.
We are never be the same. It makes our day.
Does begging the question, ignoring the answers laid out
make it pop up from the soup into an inquiring mind?
Or does it appear when we raise questions to that have already been answered well?
Does it appear when we thin-slice the book to separate the leaves?
Often mistakes and errors have led to great breakthroughs
like penicillin, radioactivity, the color mauve and plastics.
What does this mean to you and your Aha Eureka pot of gold?
Should we be less careful, more observant for the unusual?
The Aha Eureka is a fleeting feeling, easily lost in the blink of an eye,
rampant, capricious, imperceptible, unbounded, elusive
like seeing something in the corner of the eye at dusk,
if you look straight at it, it's gone, look back again, it's there again.
For me it can be a matter of serendipity.
The more I see, the more I do, the more I explore, the more hits are triggered.
Many total restarts from scratch, often helps.
But, for me the one simple things
that works is lay me down to rest,
and to sleep on it!
Reporters swarmed, the rabid jackals,
around my house they made a big crowd,
even harassed my poor old mother
to the point she could barely go out.
I growled loud at more than a few,
got one locked up for trespassing,
thankfully they found other nonsense
and the frenzy wasn’t long-lasting.
But the damage had truly been done,
the internet will never forget,
I was practically a murderer,
commenters publicly wished me dead.
My love life soon faded to nothing,
barely went on two dates in three years,
more than one time, I'm ashamed to say,
I wondered why I remained here?
With people just judging by the group,
and my ‘group’ was my family ties,
condemned for things that I never did,
forever doomed to be despised.
Until one spring day this Christian girl
saw my profile and then swiped right.
I didn’t have high expectations,
but decided to go out that night.
Her name was Ester, when I saw her
I decided then on a new play,
told her about me, all right upfront,
then waited for what she would say.
She just smiled back, a knowing grin,
said,”I knew who you were from the start.
Had worries at first, then I recalled
the memories that plague my own heart.
“You see my father is a bad man,
used his fists and caused me to despair,
beat up my mother so very bad
she is forever bound to a chair.
“He is in jail now, for forty years,
but I am not to blame for his sins.
So who was I to disparage you?
I have no idea what lies within.
“No one should ever be held to blame
for something that's beyond their control.
I’m not my dad, and you’re no tyrant,
what you are I’d like to get to know.”
For the first time in so many months
I felt new hope spring up in my mind.
I’m Ester’s husband, seven years on,
no finer woman can you find.
We have two kids, a suburban house,
a big one with a three-car garage,
when media comes, I let her loose,
they go scurrying from the barrage.
I no longer worry all that much
about what other people say,
I am no killer, just a father,
so let the useless talking heads bray.
They all just see my evil grandpa,
and never truly will understand,
maybe I was born son of tyrants,
but I myself am a good man.
…and they will not take that from me.
Issues, like mushrooms, spring up when two or more humans meet,
Issues start from how you are and what size is monkey's feet;
And thus my friend and I, like nail and flesh - same age - once met,
Debated on existence - theme fitting an intellect...!
Socrates, the thinking giant's thoughts on society!
Transcendence and idea-world of Plato’s gaiety!
Substance and categories of Aristotle - complex!
Theophrastus Botanical world - looked like an apex...!
Descartes –cogito ergo sum; Spinoza - sole substance,
John Lock - life, liberty, and property as confidence;
Discussions went endless like the flow of a stream fluent,
We had put a break and dwelt on matters very current...
Existentialism, like a thrilling tale, so exited us,
Concepts such as - God's no more - man is in confusing fuss;
Absurdity, null, void - A world filled with hell-like chaos,
If death puts everything at a standstill, what's not pathos?
Yet, there's no absolute end to creaturely life, I said,
Amidst death, there's the great resurrection and transcendence;
This theory, like a scorpion-sting, he soon reacted,
As though I'm an Orangutan, he got much protracted...
If so, will I rise, like Jesus, with my body and soul?
Or take rebirth into a dog or donkey or an owl?
Or from my ashes arise an orchid and multiply?
Or in soil or molecules of the cosmos will I sigh?
When I felt the arguments get heated like a quarrel,
And could bring in our heart cracks like drought dismally cruel;
I thought friendly relation is greater than life after,
And tried to replace the debate with some jokes and laughter!
Well, whatever way we exist after death, is life too,
Existence unblemished in heart, I said, is always true!
This too did not cut the cake, and he stood firm on his view,
I thought, within: if he holds to his view, why should I woo?
The world's vast; life's great; could I close growth in a cool cocoon?
Thoughts, like seas, are wavy and endless; is life a small boon?
My cat may have three legs; can't another have four or more?
Hence, in a world of views, should arguments have any shore?
08 October 2021
Difference in opinion Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Shreya LN
Water / Water
New Hamburg, Ontario Rubkuai village, South Sudan
locals rise locals starve
with the river, heed warnings where once there was a river,
to keep from its banks travel along arid banks
thirty thousand gallons a tanker arrives with a few gallons
of unwanted rain rain is worth all limbs
burdens how burdened the village —
storm drains the drought drains life from fields
this summer, filled sport bottles this summer
will be abandoned near will crust tongues
splash pads, as the dying
where saturated children riot tend to the dead
in mist & spray, soak in inconsolable mothers silently
the never-ending fount riot [eyes too dry to mist
until fingers prune, can still spray bullets
until thirst or thirst for just one more look
sends them skipping as irises prune in the sun]
cars gleam and grass grass is a memory
springs underfoot; & graves spring up underfoot
the bridge is power- like emaciated bridges
washed, as though the downpour nothing stops the downpour
hadn’t flooded of diarrhea — the filth binds
spider’s webs cholera’s web
people shower, run half-filled people kneel for droplets
dishwashers & laundry machines, the desert launders
a kettle screams the jawbone
for someone, of the newest ghost who still
anyone to listen listens, waits, for anyone
Walking along a maze of muddy walls stepping over rotting young men their boots gone,
Taking the scenes for granted as this is all I know and cannot even remember my home,
The trenched walkways are like the streets I dream about when my eyes close so tight,
Not long ago I dreamed about a house it was warm and there such lovely rich smells.
My new garden is muddy, wet the earth turned is fresh and mellow but has many dug outs,
Look closely at my garden and there is beauty in it's blackness but not in the smell,
In tiny enclosed spaces my flowers spring up so very delicate and shimmer in sunlight,
I am looking at a snowdrop it has lifted it's graceful head it is scared and lonely on its own.
In my new world my home is mud, my chair and my bed is made of mud and it's very noisy,
People cry in the dead of night such gut wrenching long bitter sobs I wonder where they are,
Do they think of their mums and dads, or could it be a sweetheart going out having a great time,
Maybe it's an older man who is married with children if he ever returns will they know him.
Back in a small corner of my confused mind I see Almond-tree blossom on leafless trees,
There catkins from plants and trees I don't know their names one might have been willow,
In that same corner there are woods with warm banks and green things starting a new life,
One name I remember is the star of Bethlehem in moist meadows but the rest are forgotten.
I am lucky I have always been here my mind knows no home no loved ones nobody nothing,
This is my home these people I live with are family and friends they do not last very long'
They disappear for ever then new people move in every day most stay away from me at first,
Once they have been here for a few months they talk to me then they are my new friends.
Every day we have to run across the thick muddy fields and we get shot at I just walk across,
Men around me fall down all that is left, all that remains are bones, uniforms and tin hats,
Hands reach out for help and plead to their god to help them in this their last few minutes,
Another whistle blows and it is time to walk back and sadly leave my sleeping friends forever.
There's some urge in me that makes me want to dance. Dance the dizzying spin
of childhood again until I fall still, mimicking the lifeless on the grass and laugh
with the scent of dirt and air and life. No fear
of the unclean. Or the co-mingling scent of alcohol-laden
sweat or the lingering eyes of intoxicated men.
No music but the wind. This simple want is simple enough
to mend. So the un-doing must be my vice. But it's unwanted
and I'm thinking twice. What the heart wants is wild. Primal.
Behavior is not a spontaneous thing,
but a learned reaction. Like the fear of being seen
for too far gone and past the customary
stretch. I've been afraid. But nobody wins
without starting the race for the long-haul
even if it turns out to be a short spin. Nobody knows
and that's the thing
and the irony about what we know. If you want to taste the fruit
you might have to risk falling from the tree. It's the anecdote
of craving for the wild. And we all do.
So there's that cliche "passion for adventure".
I want to feed it what it craves and watch it spring up forbidden fruit
undeterred. Uncontrollable. Bloom into a raging obsession
that's dangerous. But it's a dangerous game,
and it's all about the novelty of a thing. That's how I know the game
is still wild. Right alongside our securities and self-inflicted
responsibilities that take front seat to the natural methods
we make to survive.
And there's suburban housewives,
and seven o'clock dinners
in the bigger houses for the biggest winners.
But we're never really cultured because culture's a lie.
We're just reprimanded too many times and the sameness
is weeded out through the television lines telling us stories
about the difference that coordinates the violence.
But people have to have their vices.
A way to let out the wild hoping for ways that appear tame,
if we give them a proper name just like our actions in the dark.
Or the things we want to do when nobody's watching,
and so we learn pretend games instead
until the feeling is dead.
Or expressed or repressed. And sometimes we joke about
the urges.
But it only gives the wild a different name.
My beloved up down by the valley's low floor! Rise Up! My love rise up! My sweetheart come away take a look toward the door the winter has passed and gone your lips are like a thread of glazed clear strings that flow sunshine from soul to soul and you speak so well. Your temples are like a piece of a pomegranate flowing in your hair. Your neck with every slow-moving a rewarding hour after hour my strong Tower. Your two breasts are like a roe of my feeding zone soul, which feeds every hour to hour of living water. The spring of life peaks out of the dust the birds fill the air with gliding motions in gray skies or blue-to-dark dust as the eagle stirs her nest its springtime again not yet summertime heat that beats upon the brow! Love is blowing in the wind the smells are amorous your lips and your eyes see the flowers bloom in May it is said April showers bring May flowers the dance of the soul mate inside begins and never ends Let us plant pleasant fruit and incense myrrh aloe vera saffron calamus spikenard lemon and cinnamon And water our garden lets have a Fountain in the garden a well of living water spring up and streams flow into our soul for when we drink out of our belly shall flow rivers of living waters!
Wake Up Northwinds come now it's springtime for you to blow upon a soul-mating garden long birthing Songs. Yes! Southwinds blow upon our Garden now and the lawn!! For winter is now gone Yes for now! Eastwinds blow now upon our Garden blow softly now blow long till dawn the degree is committed to the season of time and what spring brings up to the earth is done!
Westwinds blow upon our Garden so we can receive the sword of Love the womb of spirituality our children's be birth on earth as spirit beings or real one flesh around the cornerstone seven-element realms to celebrate our Kingdom come God will be done on earth as it is in heaven of love earth-water Fire-wind- Air-Void! Blow upon our garden this will be our first creation!
So the seed of love will grow our new jubilee seed spices flow grow out of true intentions mystery,s motions galore! What God has joined together
let no man put us under the ground! Amen!
On a silent and mellow snowy evening,
When stillness embraced the world,
The sky appeared ethereal and endearing,
When Winter’s last flakes of snow swirled.
The last piece of ember remained red,
Yet warm and cozy around the hearth,
Reminding me of the spring days ahead,
That brings fragrance and color to the earth.
Looking outside the fancy window-pane,
Where the ground faded under a snowy quilt,
There stood a fluffy single achene,
Surviving the Winter’s last snow without any wilt.
Swaying with the breeze and dancing a little,
The achene still held tight to the puff,
Singing a melody while unveiling its giggle,
Narrating its journey amidst the tough.
Waiting for frosty winter to fade away soon,
It longed for a warm and bright spring day,
With renewed enthusiasm coming in tune,
Hoping for a new journey of life on its way.
When the achene, blown by the breeze,
Envisions seeing the hills and greens,
Amidst the bright flowers and trees,
Etching an elegant image in its life’s dreams.
Yearning to be nestled in a lively milieu,
After its tenacious and delightful flight,
It dreams to bloom into a rosette anew,
Enriched by the soft and radiant light.
The rosette of leaves would spring up a bud,
That hides luminous yellow petals inside,
When the sun shines brighter upon the mud,
The blossom unfurls its petals with pride.
The vibrant yellow blossom sparking some delight,
Swinging along with the movement of the sun,
More cheerful and lively moments in the light,
Opening and closing, while enjoying the fun.
On a pleasant and sunny spring morning,
The blossom yearns to open again,
This time with a soft hairy bunch dawning,
Reborn as a fully fresh cluster of achene.
The new white dandelion ready to be blown,
Desires to find a new place once more,
For all the might and strength, it has shown,
To continue its journey to another shore.
Now the sky, more blue and clear,
Marking the end of frosty winter,
The achene cherishes its dreams all dear,
Waiting to be blown for a new adventure.
Walking along a maze of muddy walls stepping over rotting young men their boots gone,
Taking the scenes for granted as this is all I know and cannot even remember my home,
The trenched walkways are like the streets I dream about when my eyes close so tight,
Not long ago I dreamed about a house it was warm and there such lovely rich smells.
My garden is muddy, wet the earth turned is fresh and mellow but has many dug outs,
Look closely at my garden and there is beauty in it's blackness but not in the smell,
In tiny enclosed spaces my flowers spring up so very delicate and shimmer in sunlight,
I am looking at a snowdrop it has lifted it's graceful head it is lonely on its own.
In my new world my home is mud, my chair and my bed is made of wet mud it's noisy,
People cry in the dead of night such gut wrenching long sobs I wonder where they are,
Do they think of their mums and dads, or could it be a sweetheart having a great time,
Maybe it's an older man married with children if he ever returns will they know him.
Back in a small corner of my confused mind I see Almond-tree blossom on leafless trees,
There catkins from plants and trees I don't know their names one might have been willow,
In that same corner there are woods with warm banks and green things starting a new life,
One name I remember is the star of Bethlehem in moist meadows but the rest are forgotten.
I am lucky I have always been here my mind knows no home no loved ones nobody nothing,
This is home these people I live with are family and friends they do not last very long'
They disappear for ever new people move in every day most stay away from me at first,
Once they have been here for a few months they talk to me then they are my new friends.
Every day we have to run across the muddy fields and we get shot at I just walk across,
Men around me fall down and are left, all that remains are bones, uniforms and tin hats,
Hands reach for help and plead to their god to help them in this their last few minutes,
Another whistle blows and it is time to walk back and leave my friends sleeping forever.
Oh sweet fig of the night
The master has cursed your day light
You stand on the desert sand
Searching the whole night for me
While courage climb up your slender tree
I have met you somewhere in thin air
As your voice floats through the atmosphere
I can hear the mummers and whispers in the breeze
And the night shadows yearning after me
but the universe has carved out the center of the heavens
with a pick axe . a power saw and a garden fork
and the birds watch from afar in amazement
But the fig tree would not bend
it stood there planted firmly in the earth
Absorbing the energy of the whole wide world
And I watch the night vigil marched solemnly
Through the desert town and the chip monk gather
around singing an elated song in
solitude for a twisted fig crown
What does fig taste like?
Strawberry and date to wet my appetite
The taste is burnt out in the sun
And honey mixed with flowers and nuts
is appealing but only the taste is revealing
If fertility was the gift of life I would not
have made so much sacrifice
ploughing the dry thirsty ground
upon which gravity is found and
the night keeps running after me
as I searched desperately for my fig tree
Abundance and sweetness waits patiently for me
I can feel the energy floating over the Galilee sea
And the olive sprouting all around greet the fig trees
at the edge of the sea with love and dignity
Something good is going to happen to me
And heaven and earth will flourish again
When the lions are driven out of the den
The region will be fertile and everyone
will have a new found friend
and taste love, peace and joy again
despair will be blown into the sea
And courage will penetrate the fig tree
Fig will spring up everywhere
And you will have much to eat and much to share
The contention will be over, and everyone will cross over
The fig will provide nourishment for soul and it will
Teach you how to be bold
You stand there looking at me
What do I have to do with thee?
I am going to Egypt and turkey
To look for my fig tree.