Long Wabi sabi Poems
Long Wabi sabi Poems. Below are the most popular long Wabi sabi by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wabi sabi poems by poem length and keyword.
wabi-sabi stains, etched upon our soul
characterise struggles, that make us whole
vanishing ink cognised by inner eye
that with feet on ground, we reach for the sky
reuniting with source, our earth life goal
stepping lightly along the pathless path
each moment in time, a holy sabbath
we relinquish control through surrender
embracing life, like a child in wonder
fearing no longer, destiny spawned wrath
wheel of time displays, our footprints on sand
then, as now, we walk with God, hand in hand
30-April-2021
(syllabic rhyme)
"Footprints" Old or New for a Prize Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Carolyn Devonshire
right to left me read please
every poem must have a word
like a keystone centered in it
the word is
OR
then there must be a symbol-word
misplaced, out of place,
something unsettling must take place
a hapax legomena like
TUSK
now the bowl is cracked
wabi-sabi
on a white page
some ink has been spilled
even a random accident has great meaning
if it can be read
you see something invisibly big
or something too small to ignore
a coin falls onto the floor
OR
it hangs in the air spinning on and on
never reaching
ambit
a poem is like that
never arriving
always reaching
r m l t r -
it in is truth
You cry: "Oh No!", as your cherish beloved pot
lies shattered into pieces
at your feet, splattered in tears,
echoing your sobs and muttered moans.
"What to do?" you ask.
You could try to glue it back together,
but it's impossible to hide the cracks
and jagged ends of the mends.
Just before you are about to throw it away
"Ah Ha", a Eureka moment!
I think I will try Kintsugi,
Which exemplifies the beauty
within imperfection,
showcasing the breakage lines with
gold thread and paint along the cracks and repairs.
Then, the pattern made by the golden cracks
creates a beautiful natural scene
like the branches of a tree or
the pattern of a river drawn from nature.
The breakage is celebrated, not hidden away to deceive.
This is the spirit of 'wabi-sabi'
which is the acceptance and exoneration,
of transience and imperfection,
with the added simplicity of
incompleteness and fragility.
Not hiding the faults, failings and flaws within patched repairs,
but accepting their inevitability in time.
So the lesson is that "Broke ain't that bad really!",
"Not such a big, sad deal, after all".
In the real world transience is accepted as the norm.
Perfection is ultimately unattainable and cannot last,
as it quells the joys of simplicity and acceptance.
Perfection is extinct, never existed in nature!
"Things happen", don't they,
anytime, anywhere, randomly, with or without cause.
So don't let what's broken
become a lasting
consequential loss.
Fix it with Kintsugi!
We know not who we are and yet we spar,
frittering away thus, the gift of life
and looking back see we’ve drifted afar,
with nothing to show save struggle and strife.
Let us then contemplate on our true aim,
that we may stand erect, freed from erst shame,
aligning with truth, in our life’s end game.
Clear light dawns when we cease to weigh and size,
embracing with joy, each offered surprise,
whereupon our false identity dies.
Make beauteous each wabi-sabi scar,
that vibrant heart be aglow and bliss rife,
otherwise we will have ourselves to blame,
for blocking God’s light within us to rise.
02-February-2023
______________
Rhymezone
PS Grammar
HMS @10 syllables per line
Fragmented Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Notes:
Fragmented Rhyme, invented by Constance La France;
it has 14 lines with lots of indentation and a rhyme pattern to follow.
No stanzas.
Rhyme scheme, ABABCCCDDDABCD
Line 1- Indent 24 spaces- A
Line 2- Indent 12 spaces- B
Line 3- Left margin A
Line 4- Left margin B
Line 5- Indent 24 spaces- C
Line 6- Left margin C
Line 7- Left margin C
Line 8- Indent 6 spaces- D
Line 9- Indent 12 spaces- D
Line 10- Indent 24 spaces- D
Line 11- Left margin A
Line 12- Indent 12 spaces- B
Line 13- Indent 6 spaces- C
Line 14- Indent 12 D
In the ephemeral dance of time, where continuous changes endure,
Our love emerges, strong and sure,
Like whispers in the wind, it comes and goes,
Yet in its transient beauty, deep emotion flows.
Endless stories, tales forever told,
Our love, a story, both tender and bold,
In every chapter, a new beginning is found,
As we navigate life's ever-changing ground.
Visions of perfect love, a mirage in the mist,
Yet in our imperfections, love does persist.
For flaws and quirks, the essence of our grace,
Bring depth and meaning to this shared embrace.
Glance up in the stars, the constellations of fate,
Our love written in the cosmos, an eternal date.
Celestial bodies witness our journey's design,
A cosmic love, forever intertwined.
Feeling of hurt & pain
A poignant wabi-sabi stain
Adding to soul beauty
If we but look at it in serenity
As waves of sorrow rise
Each wave hides a surprise
Prompting us to internalise attention
Forgiving source of grief manifestation
The cause being both the other and us
Prior soul agreements in each pulse
Looking then at sorrow as experience
Inevitable in this world of transience
Making this grief then our meditation
Devoid of narrow thought precipitation
We shed off attachments-fears-desires
Consigning all contractions into the pyre
Rotating polarity thus a simple trick
Enabling us to resurrect like the Phoenix
In love with love nonjudgingly dispersing
The goodness of our heart all embracing
We are never lost for God resides within
Feel bliss in our heart in stillness sanguine
Entwining with and imbibing in permanence
Divine bliss pulsating as our innate innocence
Within
Things bloom more beautiful when breaking down.
The nave now ploughs through foams of flowering trees,
a frozen caravel. Kissed by the breeze,
the river surface suddenly seems to frown
exquisitely. The apse’s jaunty crown
of weeds above one (sightless) eye would please
romantic poets. What was once a friese
lies strewn about, a shaley shanty-town.
We love whatever withers, atrophies.
To see a calked construction founder, drown
beneath its own detritus, by degrees
slough off its shape and, sinking to its knees,
expire, is satisfying. Velvet gown?
We’d much prefer to see a soiled chemise.
A lake? A cloud? A mountain? Megan Fox?
If we acknowledge Beauty in these things,
what are we saying? As when Smokey sings,
or girls emerge in slinky summer frocks,
something’s taking place outside the box
of regularity, and sprouting wings.
How might we classify these happenings?
A rupture in the norm? The whole Baroque’s
built on this very point. If Beauty rocks,
what is the special quality it brings,
and why is it so pleasing? Beauty flings
a spanner in the works of Orthodox,
and laughs at Workaday. It mocks
our essence, lurks in quirks, and smirks at clocks.
“The Wordsworth ouevre is cretinous. Discuss.”
The Long, Laborious Quest, The Sparrow’s Nest,
The Noble Oak of Guernica, Addressed –
We can’t escape the feeling he’s a wuss.
His subjects are unconscionable, plus
the rhymes he uses are a facilefest.
If only he were even half in jest!
His humour’s unintentional, and thus
more entertaining than he could have guessed.
Yet something in his scribblings seems to wrest
significance from dross, analogous
to Newton’s differential calculus,
invented by the by, at whim’s behest.
When Wordsworth falls apart, he’s at his best.
Wabi-Sabi 12-21-23
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wabi-Sabi
Empty the mirage of perfection
Whose shadow wears scars
Of perpetual broken rainbows –
Cracked rose petals –
Gilded edges joined by hibernation and spring.
A pilgrimage into amnesia
Timeworn victories fade into badges lost to time
Moonlight swallows the waning heart of morning
Sunlight gobbles up unfinished faces of the moon
Storms inhale fragments of sunbows.
Out of exploding ephemeral stardust broken beauty
As galaxies toss and turn creating quasars
Like waves sculpt eroding sands
In the orbit of perpetual opening ceremonies -
A journey into morphing excellence of golden seams.
And love grows to bloom then scatter rosehips
Into time’s silken wrinkles
Star born magma bows with gratitude
For unexplored shapes crafted on new shores
Where only eternity lasts forever.
I like to paint myself. Should I be a face in the crowd?
Shouldn't I be the one fondly holding my head so high?
To be poised, I peep into my mirror, shedding her shroud.
My physique seems fit; why does my face show an unheard sigh?
Does this frown flicker around displeasure and depression?
Do these wrinkles on my face pose pessimistic feelings?
Does my grey hair signal wisdom? Or a stress expression?
Is my redness rake resilience reduction readings?
Rainbow colours I mix; why does yet peach predominate?
Unintended brown, grey, and black too immodestly spread
No place near master artists, my face does accommodate
Isn't self-portrait self's? It's, hence, I gladly go ahead.
I look imperfect, Wabi Sabi. This, in truth, am I.
Amn't I, yet, part of the perfect divine dwelling on high?
"Dead leaves lay still, even the last flower is withered: yet there is a beauty in decayed imperfection." Taken from a quote by _Constance La France
On an orbital rotation around our planet every day, nothing stays the same. We change our surroundings change, our thoughts change, constantly evolving into what we are and what we will be tomorrow.
Everything changes. Some things grow bigger or older, some are renewed, restored or replaced, some break or decay. Nothing stays exactly the same. Therefore we are never finished changing. As it was intended, or broken, still nothing is perfect forever. Regrettably Rolls Royce rust.
Aren’t you ashamed of me?”, said the pot with the crack.
“Every day you carry me, yet I only bring half the water back.”
The old woman replied. ”Didn’t you notice I carry you on the same side?
You do a great job and I always carry you with much pride.
You see every day, as I walk back you water each flower.
All these beautiful flowers are because of you."
Knowing a fault and making use of it, not alienating the item because of its fault but accentuating it, creates joy.
"When you were perfect, I loved you when you were not, I loved you more.”
The old woman kept the withered pressed bouquet, it’s in a box displayed on the shelf. From their wedding day, glorious red roses, now in decay. She smiles as she remembers its beauty and that of herself.
The flowers she kept, emphasizing their imperfections caused by age, give her joy.
She loved them when they were perfect, their beauty actually means more to her now that they are not perfect, as their remnants have lasted all these years.
All things must be looked upon as spiritually one and of use either aesthetically or practically, (or able to be recycled).