Through a slim slit between light and darkness,
we walk on roads riddled with hurdles;
On tricky trails and wily wilderness;
On devious deserts and pasty puddles.
We are like trekkers on a misty mountain,
hanged by a cliff on a chilly evening,
trying to find our endless fountain
to quench our drought and end our longing.
On swirling plains and fiery waters,
we try to find the way to glory,
but our bodies grow weak and our feet falter;
Our hearts grow tired as our souls go weary.
But now, we're about to reach the end,
we must hold on to hopes and promises;
For, hopeful hearts could find a way to mend,
like fated birds that rose from the ashes.
We're here at last to the end of our journey,
so, we must give our greatest shot.
Though, life is harsh and the roads are thorny,
our will shall cut the Gordian Knot.
March 24, 2023
Now That We Are Here Poetry Contest (2nd place)
Sponsored By: Unseeking Seeker
What on day trekkers looms
Up, foggier
Should no less dispirit
Pal, what, fainter
Ahead, life-journeying
Descends into.
Your home, does it not lie
There, beyond, too?
Tree canopies offer soothing delight
Wafting breeze that refreshes heart and soul
Ushering trekkers to surmount hill’s height
With their nature-granted functional role
Midst exuding beautification goal…
Under protective shade against bright ray
Hikers find comfort as green leaves do sway
Toward grateful burst of fulfillment peak
Praising God* for His great creative way
Wondrously awesome as heaven they peek.
*Psalm 148:5 Let them praise the name of the LORD: for he commanded, and they were created.
November 4, 2022
4th place, "Dizain Poetry Contest" on Nature
Sponsored by Sotto Poet; judged on 11/5/2022.
anthill and insects
million lives living in ground
trekkers with boots walk
Interesting facts on anthills:
Average ant hill is home for colony of 250,000 ants
Mother queen roams around the nest laying 1,500 eggs in a day.
Nest sports temperature controlled rooms for these babies.
Throughout the day adult ants shift babies up and down chasing perfect temperature for them.
Every mother is a woman,
But not every woman is a mother.
Womanhood is by virtue of the sculptor's mould,
But Motherhood is a sweet-bitter Journey for special trekkers.
So I knew a man who was a mother,
And a woman whose door was shut forever, yet could boast of a generation..
Because though she lacked a fertile land, she could make fruits out of seeds...
I know a mother
In her dehydrated state, she quenches my thirst,
From winter's cage ,she hands over her pullover to me,
From that desert without Oasis, she rains tears each time drought bedevils me on that ground where imbibition could occur,
In her tattered self, she slumps down on both knees ,gazes at the sky till the star touches my life...
You know a mother
Let me lend you my ink....
Happy mother's day to every Mother out there... God bless you
Beyond opacity of clouds blanketing vast firmament
glowing solar rays expose their celestial commitment
valiantly warming the Earth with bright engagement…
…struggling to prevail in the Tropics over weather that’s inclement.
Reigning sun’s blissful iridescence
vanquishes typhoon-attacks against prediction license
while grace of God* abounds along blessings’ presence…
…wondrously revealing manifold harvests upon great toil’s incense.
Hovering over dense canopy of azure sky
sun power rejuvenates trekkers climbing high
likewise delights children in their kite-fly…
… and prompts me to bid good bye to slothfulness’ sigh.
*1Corinthians 1:4 I thank my God always … for the grace of God which is given … by Jesus Christ.
October 29, 2019
Edited on November 23, 2019
Honorable Mention, "STRAND SPECIAL 10..." Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 12/27/2019.
Lost hope
Lots of confusion around rode
Up wards like trekkers on mound
Destination was pleasure after reach
But exercise to win was challenging
Many more comments jumped
Shaking head left right
Clapping gave end to the speaker
Result whistled being shadow heavier
I have earned such lessons
Days nights and years worn out
Temple hairs turned grey
Hopes left me years away
Examples I have a lot, a lot
Muddy road remained old as it was
One day asked me gazing
O I remember you used to splash
Chin touched in throat seeking solution
Eyes bent down being shame
Legs got tired I don’t know why
May be head experienced shy
Though I could not swear for men
Blissful pleasure now on road
Glimpse of development still was flagging
On board hung in slushy road
So let me tell you piece of piece
Deteriorated story of my fellow beings
Many they bit water later
Losing all trust of peace(hope)
Then lots of confusion around
Remained like those trekkers’ destination
That gave, birth of peace in mind
Facing multiple difficulties guided by valour.
(09/08/2014)
ECHOES FROM THE LIFFEY.
I hear it loud and clear,
A clarion call for the Irish,
A call to awaken our inner strength and rediscover the true us,
Even the walls echo it.
Motherland beckons,
The lush green fields needs weeding,
The time for grazing is long overdue for our livestock,
Even Our thoughts needs nourishment.
What happened to the sweat and blood of our forefathers?
To build a home for prosterity,
An enclave with vast opportunities,
A home for all.
The flight started with trekkers of leisure,
Soon it became trekkers for pastures greener,
Leaving in its wake a near desolate land,
Where the old yearn for their successors.
No thanks to the men in suits,
Whose misadventures led us down this path.
An unwinding route of doom and gloom,
A nations nightmare.
Mother Ireland weeps,
Wishing for daybreak to be nigh,
To dry up the tracks of her tears,
And silence the echoes from the liffey.
J.D.C AHUMIBE.
NEWBRIDGE, COUNTY KILDARE.
REPUBLIC OF IRELAND.
They were named the Dolomites,
the Pale Mountains of Belluno,
for their limestone, jagged peaks
and shaped splintered spires;
and they're more breathtaking even without snow!
In this region, spring is so colorful and lovely
with its lilium parvum and misurina wildflowers
waving in those grassy meadows
so frequented by busy butterflies.
In the winter season, skiers,
bundle up in their warm sport's attire,
challenging their strength and curiosity;
while below, in wooden brown huts,
coffee is sipped in hot cups,
and steaming polenta is eaten with delight.
Alaska has bears and penguins;
in this region of Belluno,
the paradise of the Alps,
only cows are seen grazing,
and unbridled horses galloping
through grasslands looked above
by sleek Churches' steeples.
Climbers and trekkers follow their trials
and indulge in peace and solitude,
hoping to reach their highest peak and contemplate altitude;
that's plenty of endurance and patience to see their ego glow!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
On the slope of hill
The shadow of the leaned tree
Pause for the trekkers
In the sunrise of their twilight
they start to slowly gravitate
toward a familiar rendezvous
where, though vaguely feeling
out of place knowing no one,
they're reassured by a sense
that they do recognize everyone:
fellow trekkers, caring comrades,
like birds of a forgotten feather
in slow, quiet flight formation,
immensely grateful at the core
for being silently welcomed,
comfortable among themselves,
in fleeting bliss, as themselves!