Star Dust Molded
Upon the all-encompassing walls of my four cornered room, hang
six generations, three ghostly spirits of my forefathers and mothers,
three generations, living shadows reminding me of who I am, who I owe.
Star Dust, Genes, {{ not blue genes }} nature, nurtured , influenced
by all those one has interacted with throughout a life time in this plane.
One’s Family, mentors, peers, coworkers, bosses, Friends and Lovers.
How does one reconcile what and who, in this melting pot of predisposed
influences was the guiding light, the forces that molded an already formed,
perfect vessel, into the image who stands before the multitudes encountered.
B. J. “A ” 2
September 30th, 2026
on the bed of the clear lagoon of memories.
The years of my life are running out.
Sometimes, the picture of childhood lights up my soul—
my mother walking along the narrow, dreamy lane…
A treacherous illness alters the shape of my body.
My last desire flew away to another galaxy long ago.
And the sorrow is too great for my chest to bear.
It’s hard to live trapped in a web of never-ending pain.
Beyond the window, the radiant holly has withered.
The weary evening is losing its face;
I slice it into thin slivers like Mom’s cake—
so it might last a little longer.
When, as a boy in springtime, I pruned the vines
in silence alongside my father, a startled little owl flew out
through the skylight near the chimney.
A wistful ache still lingers in my heart.
The last drops of rain
trickle down the roof tiles.
The washed morning does not rush,
much like those high-spirited stragglers,
who now and then play their pranks.
The night still struggles in vain.
The first ray of light dips a finger into the puddles—
a signal for the thrushes to strike up their tunes.
A sleepy street sweeper emerges
from an old, shabby gate.
His shoes creak beautifully.
Love you my star shining above I feel you shine even when you are far, like the moon you shine bright making me feel happy inside.
You are my love you shine like all the stars, each one representing all the dreams we have traveled in time, like the moments in time each one has its own shine.
Love you are always near, yet far I can hear you in my ear, you are like the wind calm, then forceful making me feel chilly when you are lively.
Love you make each moment special, you make life feel happy and clever, you send energy like the sun, making me feel warm in your arms.
Love you like a kiss, sweet and natural making me blush.
Lifting prayer to God, today and always.
Scarcely had the snow melted
when the violet crocuses bloomed.
I gaze at your crimson scarf—
the one you left behind a year ago
as you vanished into the amethyst dusk.
Once again, I have watched through a hematite night;
a burgundy dawn slowly fades away,
and still, I wait for your iridescent return.
I’m certainly in no mood for laughter today;
the sky is pitch-black.
Even the clamorous newsboy has lost his voice.
Time tries in vain to defy Fate.
An old asphalt worker heads off for a beer,
while the young woman in the window opposite
casually slips off her blouse.
I hope she doesn't think I'm a voyeur.
Lady Li’s pure, gentle name means the white plum flower;
her slight, slender, moving form holds a quiet power.
When I watch her lost in thoughts at the crimson dawning,
she sits resting on a bench—like a swan in longing.
As she’s moving, her soft robe silently is rustling;
bracelets on her slender wrists from afar are sparkling.
All splendid jewels made of jade glisten in the moonlight;
I plead heaven to send help: stay for a while, mute night!
We talk about the faint moon, about silent gladness;
a sweet child is in Li’s smile, and a touch of sadness.
Syllables she slowly says, awaken my dreaming;
her amazing, pleasant voice is a balm, a gleaming.
A shadow falls, where sunlight used to dance,
Five years, a fleeting, joyful, vibrant chance.
A world of laughter, innocence, and glee,
Cut short beside the road, wild and free.
The school bell rings, a sound that jars the soul,
A simple message, taking its cruel toll.
Words spoken softly, yet they pierce like a knife,
Shattering dreams, stealing vibrant life.
The world transforms, a canvas turned to gray,
A brother's laughter now a memory's sway.
A heart that aches, a silent, endless plea,
For moments stolen, that can never be.
Though grief may linger, love will find its way,
To paint the darkness with a brighter day.
His spirit lives, in every gentle breeze,
A star that shines, bringing gentle ease.
A woman kneads dough for cakes.
She is sad and weary of life...
Into every piece, she mixes both a little anger
and joy – for herself, for the children, for her man.
She holds nothing back from life.
When the cakes are baked,
the anger fades away
and only the aroma of joy remains...
You still cherish
that rag doll from your childhood.
As if you never grew up.
When you change the water in the vase,
lightly stroking the lily stems,
I am moved…
You always bloom when surrounded by flowers.
And when we lie side by side
for eternity, half-immersed in sadness,
it seems to me that life is not to be taken
too seriously.
It’s Sunday –
a snow-dreamy morning…
The mad, embroidered Moon hangs
on the cloth of the sky.
Amidst a barren land I see
a speak-burning tree.
I am so dispirited.
By the roadside chapel, a small boy listens
to the deaf-mute woman…
through touch.
You are my Seine...
unchanging through winter and summer.
You are my wise Amu Darya, knowing
both the desert’s heat and the melting ice.
You are my faithful Ganges – a river of lotuses
and burning pyres.
You are my gleaming Yangtze from the land of ginseng.
You are my wild, swirling Ucayali…
You are my wistful Mississippi,
drawing me ever closer to the sea.
I am but a raft swaying on the waves of your dreams.
I drift downstream, past islands of solitude,
to cast anchor in the harbor of your
Passion…
A most distant sun
Blesses light on our union
As we feint through life.
Sometimes I feel
as if my soul hung by a slender thread
of my mother’s raven-black hair.
I remember…
her breasts beneath a floral blouse,
secretly reading the forbidden novel, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame,
with a flashlight under the blanket,
and the worn figurine of a Japanese geisha
father used to stroke from time to time.
Even in old age, I like to curl up in bed,
as I did in the womb before birth.
And wearing my mother’s stretched-out violet sweater,
I never feel lonely.
Star Categories
Read wonderful star poetry on the following sub-topics:
beautiful, christmas, crossed, death, easter, funeral, her, him, love, moon, romantic, shining, shooting, trek, twinkle, wars
and more.
Definition | What is Star in Poetry?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.
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