As we await His second coming
We know not who we look for
As we speak, He walks among us
But as yet closed is our heart’s door
From paintings, movies and dreams
We carry a mental image in mind
But is He a being so limited and bound
Who in narrow church pews we’ll find
Jesus visits the so called fallen atheist
And finds within his heart pure light
Made in God’s image, a child asleep
Who’s yet to awaken to spherical sight
So Jesus takes the hand of his brother
Wake up, He urges, life is but a dream
Love alone is real, light the flame of bliss
Rest where no fears and desires stream
Jesus becomes vast space, that holds all
It’s the first thing we see, right before us
Look not for forms and images, oh hermit
In childlike trust, get aboard Gods bliss bus
There is no judgment, sin is but ignorance
All of existence is entwined by God’s power
Know that we are living light, not this form
Surrender and let His benign grace empower
26-April-2023
My passion is writing poetry,
it challenges my muse and energizes my mind,
allowing me to pen my thoughts and feelings freely.
I use words like a carpenter might use wood;
molding and refining each verse
until it fits just right.
And as the essence of my existence
gets transcribed onto paper;
my imagination is given wings to fly above reality,
and flutter like a butterfly on the winds of time.
For me, there is no greater satisfaction,
than having stirred another soul through my words.
Between the lines: in every poem I write,
I offer a glimpse into my heart and a peek into my soul.
My poetry is not just about meter, syllables, or rhymes;
they are merely the tools I use to sculpt a mental image,
that I endeavor to share with my readers.
I strive to be both as clear
and distinctive as I can be;
when I transform my feelings into poetry.
This mind looks for a picture,
thinking of mental image
as well as the deep structure
of figurative language.
Note: This form is called Tanaga, a traditional short Filipino poem which is only a quatrain, having 7 syllables in each line. The rhyming schemes may be aaaa, aabb, abab or abba.
There is no design wall to entrap the spirit
Inventiveness is born to last
free of prosody or syllable count
coordinated refrains hide bareness, a virtue
purity string belt for blooming worshippers
sleeping quietly in squatters' glades
who swoons poetry pads?
Fans will be amazed
that lauds syncopations of dazzling pleas
metaphors were constantly shaped and sealed
It's a sparse universe
for those who can't fly inside their walls.
Outside praxis, quill grows from seeds
creating a mental image not visible in a set
It's a voyage without doctrines.
the vibrations within rejuvenate the page
separate thoughts seek an upswing.
1st Place contest winner
Written: March 16, 2022
A BRIAN STRAND 1090 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Senryu poem form
Sketches mental image
Selects human weak points
Someone's lone character
Short amount of words in
Sets of 5 7 5 per line, amount
Seventeen syllables
1/27/2022
Write About A Form Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Poetry soup syllable count
Senryu, a short verse
Structured with a set of
Seventeen sound speeches.
Sibling of haiku, deals
Story of satire which
Stamps mental image and
Sketches human nature
Syllable Count: PS
Write About a Form Poetry Contest
Pleiades poetry form only.
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Date: 23-01-2022.
PLACED: 1st
We stowed behind an enormous flint wall.
Men are battling for control of the appall.
Our covering bastion shuddered and shook.
Brief, yet oddly comfy, relief from the brook.
While grizzly bears wailed in the dimness.
We were inside, getting ready for food distress.
Blue blazes are licking the preparing tray.
Pops reacted with an alleviating sigh.
To warm us up, he prepared a delectable lunch.
In a tin camp cup, bangers we crunch.
We ate with the drapery to some degree closed.
A close by a nearby strike for harm caused.
They were in their gear when it struck.
Tempest thundered as rain pelted the track.
We spread out on our bed and took a nap.
The two fellows were excited by the trap.
That weekend, I was at the lake's edge.
But different lines summon a mental image.
During the tempest, they arose and froze.
Odyssey was being given to me by Hues.
eddy's leftovers from - life's sediment-alley-time currents
-----------------------------------------------------------------
musing a roadside can
send a mental image of...
a sediment-alley time-traveler
stilled yet echoing past times...
in memorium of some time-current beats miss't
that changed an eddy to a send-a-mental tune...
stan sand
"Poetic tools are a means to aid poetry, not an end in themselves'
*******************************************************************
I don't understand why poet use poetic tools so often making a poem so tough to understand
Hiding behind the garb of metaphor, simile, onomatopoeia, alliterations and other poetic tools the real thoughts of poet, the message he wants to convey never reaches the mind of readers
Ask any school going child reading english literature he will say "I don't understand this poem what is poet trying to say! Why can't they make it simple? Why use figures of speech?"
Why not call a spade a spade! Be simple straight and clear! Let your message reach others!
Write such that each reader interprets the poem in same manner.
Same meaning, same mental image gets created in reader's mind and poets and readers mind become one such should be poetry!
I have read poems which no one one has understood, each reader giving his own interpretation.
I don't understand what is the fun in that?
Especially when you want to convey a message, use straight clear language as against poetry tools.
Words surround me
Blossoming from the page into my mind
A vivid mental image of the scenes contained so perfectly in paper.
Ink on paper
Nothing so transcending has been invented since
Wide worlds await your presence, begging you to consume their contents wholeheartedly.
Follow this wholeheartedly
Crack open the pages of solidified knowledge
A call to you from the void of human understanding, desolate destruction
Gift or destruction
Our days and lives are numbered, short
Will you hurt, harm, maim, or will your words reflect Truth, Light?
The pictures on the wall are kind of crooked.
The mem’ries in my head, starting to fade.
That guy there in the frame was better looking.
The mirror shows what passing time has made.
Each moment going by is lost forever.
Each day that passes brings with it more gray.
Every “someday” morphs into a “never.”
Every youthful dream given away.
Those pictures, well, they’re all kind of misleading:
A moment frozen, nothing more or less.
The hairline, like the mem’ry is receding.
Makes my mental image quite a mess.
But every moment we have should be treasured.
And each day is much more precious than gold.
The true worth of a life cannot be measured
And a spirit young-at-heart will not grow old.
Those pictures on the wall will not get clearer.
Just one more in the trove of memories.
So I’ll just quit my gazing in the mirror
And try to ponder greater mysteries.
For though I’m growing thicker in the middle
And thinner on the top as days pass by,
I’ll one day find the answer to the riddle
That plagues us as we slowly age: why?
6/3/19
A contest on aging Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
Far in the distance in the light of day
I viewed crows, swiftly passing by
No doubt they had sounds from propelling wings
I imagined those sounds so far up in the sky.
Captured by that sight, but too far to hear
What would life be with just a vision?
To associate sounds and sights, to formulate an impression
Without justification, it alleviates that decision.
If one can assimilate sounds from such activity
Does a mental image appear and develop sounds within?
Do those sounds substantiate what is seen?
Is there a relation between and do they blend?
Clouds saunter by without sounds
Although you can easily perceive
Do sight and sounds always need a suitable match?
An image can be separate, do you believe
Fifty shades of broken
shrewn across the floor
multicolored plumage
riddled to the core
Twist and turn to picture
what's inside this man
create a mental image
and guide him with a hand
The corners they will tell you
what's around the bend
straight off to the edges
with finesse you'll reach the end
Tiny specks of sunshine
filter through the grey
whipped against the backdrop
please tell me that you'll stay
Misshapen moments linger
where inner solace cried
half way to the finish well,
at least you say you tried
"Did Farage really skinny dip?"
Well that's an image I'd rather skip!
Instead, I'll marvel at his craftsmanship
And try to write a playful quip…
For, somehow, again, he's in the news
He might as well, he's nothing to lose
So, as some poor sod tries to fill his shoes
He'll remind us of his own virtues
He says he's leaving now to restore his health
After creaming his wage from Europe's wealth
He got his way. He's pleased with himself
And will I miss that smug-faced elf?
No! - Off he goes, and I won't cry
There'll be no teardrops in my eye
No solemn words, no heavy sigh
Just a finger or two for my goodbye
So, away he goes, towards the sunset
He won't go far - on that I'll bet
If you're a fan - don't be upset
I doubt we've seen the last of him yet
I'm not bitter, I've no time for hate
But I won't miss his method of debate
Will he sit and listen? Quietly spectate?
No, but he's sort-of gone... so let's celebrate
So, did Farage really skinny dip?
Again, a mental image we'd do well to skip
Let's marvel, instead, at the statesmanship
Of the modest ex-leader of the mighty UKIP
How does it feel? I feel so great I am at ease
To be pulled back to the sanctuaries of love
How do you feel toward the pulling lover?
I feel less than loving him, embracing him
I feel like to follow him, explain to me please
Let’s go to the love scene please skip the credits
Stand in love not fall, go in, not out, what?
You have a mental image of being lovable
Thankfully to Him, following HIM, say love
Do you know what it’s called? Really in love
Tell me, more about emotional or feeling of love
Let’s cross the river, the next commercial break
Can you spot the difference between them, could you?
Emotional feeling of love is emotion, about you
Attention, presence, satisfaction, inflammation
Sentimental love is absence, tension and exploration
Communication, wow, I never heard about this
Let’s watch the next scene, the next steamy episode
Thank you, I want to learn more, you are welcome
Really, learn to practice the languages of love
The languages of sentimental agony of love, living
This I will practice, but questions are challenging
It requires a clear mind, since I am not a sharp one
Let’s go to that next day, the next secret chamber
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