Born frail
Through my wonder I wander and become pained
and rover subtly these days
Time polishes my brain,
Wisdom lies in the grave
In the darkness of despair where shadows loom,
Evolves the diamond from the ashy gloom.
From fiery trials and pressured pain,
Emerges the diamond struggling - not in vain.
The cuts and chips make the light shine bright,
Revealing beauty hidden from sight.
The diamond in the ashes formed by the flame,
A witness of resilience, it does proclaim.
Each facet carved and every tear shed,
Polishes the diamond and the soul’s thread.
Through disdainful despair, hope still thrives
Like the diamond in the furnace, our spirit survives.
For in the deep dangerous dark and doomed night,
The diamond, the survivor – brilliantly beautiful, bold and bright.
Copyright © 2019 by Crystal David John
(I wrote this poem for my niece who went through such difficulty and yet shone through it all. She continues to face her challenges with God's grace and her own willpower.)
We drift along the town-side promenade
on damp paving stones,
at blue hour,
past caffé windows
and the resting Héracléa port
Earlier we were sun-struck
watching gulls flicking over the marina
worn thin by the heat and glare
now we’re moonstruck
the harbor bobbing with a thousand white hulls
tide-light, the skin of the night
silvers the masts at sway
and polishes the darkened curve of the sea
the sea is never still, as if breathing
further out at bay, yachts cork and glitter like crystal
a warm breeze loosens cares
drifting honeyed with jasmine and salt
gentle waves wander in then out
returning as if by instinct
and splashing on the breakers like applause.
little bells in boat riggings chime
everyone's strolling tonight
being not just stimulated,
but biohacked - seduced by the scene
now and then a scooter mumbles past
its lights gleaming in puddles
as if for measured emphasis
.
.
A song for this:
Inesaurible Tu by St. Project
He doesn’t bleed where I see it.
His wounds live quieter than that~
in the way he paces long after
the day is done,
mind spinning like a ceiling fan
that never quite shuts off.
He carries his hurt in overthinking,
turning small moments into puzzles
he feels responsible for solving.
He carries it in irritability too~
that sharp edge that appears
not because he’s angry,
but because he’s tired
of holding himself together.
Some days he moves through the house
like he’s wrapped in winter—
emotional numbness settling over him
like frost spiders on a windowpane.
I gently tap the glass,
hoping warmth will seep through.
Perfectionism becomes his armor,
each task a shield he polishes
until it gleams just right.
Relaxing feels dangerous,
like setting the armor down
might invite the world
to strike again.
But then in the softest moments~
I see the boy he once was,
the one who learned too early
to be careful with himself.
And I realize
he’s just trying to survive
in the only ways he knows.
And loving him
means noticing the wounds
that never maKE a sound.
Some swords regret that fatal stroke
but that remorse is a sweetness
that fattens the maggot,
only the raging survive.
Rumi said:
“You must dance in your own blood."
That kind of killer instinct
leads you out of the fire, into an oblivion
that polishes eyes.
If you have a ghost in your heart,
make love to it
for it rages for release.
The raging dead
have slaughtered themselves
upon a dark stage far from the light.
Don’t pity them,
they are mad with love now,
they are free to be beyond themselves.
Those who have come through
are set apart as scarecrows
in a field of sleeping dogs.
In the light of day, they light candles
until a dark smoke gutters into absence.
Don’t pray for those dead to themselves
pray for those who think they live.
Beneath the weight of silent years,
In darkness where no praise appears,
A fragile stone endures the strain,
Through crushing force and hidden pain.
No spotlight shines beneath the ground,
No cheering voices gather round,
Yet deep within the earth’s embrace,
A transformation finds its place.
The heat, the burden, time severe,
Forge beauty out of doubt and fear.
What seemed a curse, a heavy load,
Becomes the jewel the world is owed.
So when life presses hard and long,
Remember pressure makes us strong;
For every trial you survive,
Polishes the light inside.
And one day, from the dark you’ll climb—
A living proof:
Pressure makes a diamond shine.
A good writer
can write outside of themselves—
crawl out of their own skin
and wear another man’s shoes
until the soles burn through.
They sit at a bar
with a drunk they hate,
and still write his story straight.
They listen to a woman
they’ll never touch
and feel her loneliness anyway.
A bad writer
only polishes their own mirror,
keeps kissing their reflection,
keeps mistaking confession for courage.
But a good one
gets punched in the mouth by life
and writes from the floor,
from the gutter,
from the hospital hallway
where the lights never sleep.
They write the whore’s prayers,
the janitor’s philosophy,
the gambler’s last promise,
the child hiding under the table
when the shouting starts.
They don’t ask
if it’s pretty.
They ask if it’s true.
And if it hurts—
good.
That means it’s alive.
My song goes like this
time after time I read bedtime stories
back then there were no worries
simple kids go to the store
big momma did her floors
pops cut all the boys hair
at the barbershop
snowballs in the summer time
wind mills in the wind
Italian ices on 18th street
Chicago style hotdogs
jew town polishes
Greek town old town
new town uptown
oh Lincoln park zoo
dreams of being the first black
Supreme Court Justice
I sing my song only after
the blues stopped playing
on Maxwell street
Written by Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
Written by Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
May 14th 2004 right before my
sons graduation Fort Myers Florida
My Sons Graduation Day
FOND MEMORIES GROWING UP
HEARING THE BLUES
ON MAXWELL STREET
CHICAGO
Windows reflects the world outside
Inside, the soul remains concealed.
A ticking clock, a relentless reminder
Of moments passing, unreclaimed.
A diner, a stage for silent dramas
Obsoletion fades stains of trauma.
Each matron, an enigma, unnamed
In the quiet corner, an empty stool...
A cook, a keep, a bartender secretly weeps
polishes glasses, pushing the dregs away.
Waiting for a story untold but not forgotten.
In silence,
The soul cries,
In the tranquil of the night the soul searches,
It is saddled with a plethora of questions,
It desires to see through the veil.
What am I made for?
The soul asks,
What is this that walks with me?
The soul desires to know,
Who is this that shares my abode with me?
The soul inquires.
The soul fights its monsters,
It resists the creeping darkness,
It goes through the floodwaters,
It journeys through the shrivelled meadow,
It tunnels through the gloom,
The soul walks through the valley of shadows.
In the tempest,
The soul finds a resting place,
In every rub,
The soul polishes its mirror,
In the avalanche of thoughts,
The soul steers a middle course,
In the mysteries,
The soul sees its wonder.
Glorious are the blue-tipped ridges of snow drifts,
a see-though sun is a crystal teardrop in my eye.
Sunlight sparkles through a clear mirror sky,
glorious is the bright and luminous snow.
A mouse has scurried over a surface ridge,
its paws impressing tick mark tracks,
that glint and check a fleeting length of time.
Mind mesmerizes itself. A diamond
polishes a skin-deep prism.
The glory rises, my heart pounds out,
long hallelujah moments.
At the foot of an icicle-tressed oak
a Black-Capped Chickadee
chirps-out loud its song of life.
Glory sings along and hits its high notes,
again, and again.
we see it now
that no node within
will remain a bystander
energy transfer enlivening
organic forms magically
polishes the mirror
Well, something that inspires me,
To write this little poetry,
Someone who encourages me,
Listens to every word I speak,
Corrects my flaws and polishes my grooves,
Makes me of better use.
Through thin and thick and thick and thin,
Who would be so consistent?
She's my life,
My beat,
My strive,
My love and my light!
Even if the world breaks apart, She'd be the only one to keep my parts.
She hurts,
She struggles,
But never does she:
Show her pains on her lit glee,
Indeed, a hero, a beauty you are...
My one and only mom you are.
With trepidation the dentist I called
Gripped by agony a terrible ache
He took one look absolutely appalled
I was in blue funk and started to shake.
Blue latex gloves he snapped on with relish
My thoughts at that moment “I cannot win”
Fearful and ridged felt sure I would perish
Many decayed teeth, clearly 'tis a sin!
Big Lecture on benefits of flossing
While he polishes a bright smile for me
Toothpaste now swirling my mouth is frothing
He's pleased with results I don't disagree.
Perfect fillings and extraction later
I survived, thanks to defibrillator.
Happy Africa day ,
You are always welcome to Africa
Africa of millions of happiest people
Who understand better their lives conditions
And stop buy things
In credits.
Happy Africa day ,
Comparison is not reason
It is always good share with brothers and
Sisters of the World.
Allow me to tell you about Africa again
And again.
When some people
Sing daily ," Africa is Poor "
Investigating their lives,
You find out that they live with credits
Of so many things.
Imagine getting credit of
A car,
A house,
Some food parcels,
Eyelashes,
Shoes
Cloths
Shoes polishes ,
Even Underwears
And so on
But they still calling,
"Africa poor "
If it happens to lose jobs,
And finding themselves on the roads
Due to more loans.
Do they have a good lesson
To teach majority Africans?
Happy Africa day,
In many African countries majority people
Buy things in cash :
- Luxury cars
- Houses,
- Farms,
- Aeroplanes,
- Ships,
- Boats
- Cloths
- Foods
- So on
When they losing their jobs
They will still remain
In good comfort places.
May 26/2023
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