Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

When there's too much to handle...


When dreams blaze in technicolour,
And smells get too thick,
When hands can't stop shaking,
And gaze flies too quick.

When sound starts to shatter,
And eyes start to tear.
When heart beats a-flutter,
And breath is no cure...

Drive a stake into the ground
And strike up a tent before the sound.
Find your center, find your source...
Still your breath, be no more hoarse.

Deepen your breath,
Drill into your mind.
Gather each moment,
Boundaries unwind.

Steady each dream,
Focus each curl.
Study each dream,
Until it unfurls.

Follow each sound,
To its very last peal.
A chorus might hound,
Ignore its appeal.

Let softness seek you,
Be caught not in the chase.
Let twilight entice you,
Fight not for its grace.

And suddenly you will find


Mist floats around you,
Sounds lose their edge.
Figures fade to stillness,
Thoughts lose their sludge.

Life can be wielded
As a weapon to be honed.
Or seen as a gift,
To be embraced, enthroned.





The Jumblies by Edward Lear

Another hilarious poem I wanted to share...

The Jumblies 

They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they went to sea:
In spite of all their friends could say,
On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,
In a Sieve they went to sea!
And when the Sieve turned round and round,
And every one cried, 'You'll all be drowned!'
They called aloud, 'Our Sieve ain't big,
But we don't care a button! we don't care a fig!
In a Sieve we'll go to sea!'

  Far and few, far and few,
  Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
  Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
  And they went to sea in a Sieve.

They sailed away in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they sailed so fast,
With only a beautiful pea-green veil
Tied with a riband by way of a sail,
To a small tobacco-pipe mast;
And every one said, who saw them go,
'O won't they be soon upset, you know!
For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,
And happen what may, it's extremely wrong
In a Sieve to sail so fast!'

  Far and few, far and few,
  Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
  Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
  And they went to sea in a Sieve.

The water it soon came in, it did,
The water it soon came in;
So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In a pinky paper all folded neat,
And they fastened it down with a pin.
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,
And each of them said, 'How wise we are!
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
While round in our Sieve we spin!'

  Far and few, far and few,
  Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
  Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
  And they went to sea in a Sieve.

And all night long they sailed away;
And when the sun went down,
They whistled and warbled a moony song
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
In the shade of the mountains brown.
'O Timballo! How happy we are,
When we live in a Sieve and a crockery-jar,
And all night long in the moonlight pale,
We sail away with a pea-green sail,
In the shade of the mountains brown!'

  Far and few, far and few,
  Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
  Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
  And they went to sea in a Sieve.

They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,
To a land all covered with trees,
And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,
And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,
And a hive of silvery Bees.
And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws,
And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,
And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,
And no end of Stilton Cheese.

  Far and few, far and few,
  Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
  Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
  And they went to sea in a Sieve.

And in twenty years they all came back, In twenty years or more,
And every one said, 'How tall they've grown!
For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
And the hills of the Chankly Bore!'
And they drank their health, and gave them a feast
Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
And every one said, 'If we only live,
We too will go to sea in a Sieve,---
To the hills of the Chankly Bore!'

  Far and few, far and few,
  Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
  Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
  And they went to sea in a Sieve.

-- Edward Lear

A compilation of nonsense poems by others...

Hilarious nonsense poems:



One bright morning in the middle of the night,
Two dead boys got up to fight.
Back-to-back they faced one another,
Drew their swords and shot each other.
One was blind and the other couldn't see,
So they chose a dummy for a referee.
A blind man went to see fair play,
A dumb man went to shout "hooray!"
A deaf policeman heard the noise,
And came and killed those two dead boys.
A paralyzed donkey walking by,
Kicked the copper in the eye,
Sent him through a nine inch wall,
Into a dry ditch and drowned them all.
(If you don't believe this lie is true,
Ask the blind man -- he saw it too!)



Anglo-saxon riddle:



A moth ate some words -- it seemed to me
strangely weird -- when I heard this wonder:
that it had devoured -- the song of a man.
A thief in the thickness of night -- gloriously mouthed
the source of knowledge -- but the thief was not
the least bit wiser -- for the words in his mouth.


A poem by Christopher Isherwood from his Poems Past and Present:



The common cormorant or shag
Lays eggs inside a paper bag
The reason you will see no doubt
It is to keep the lightning out
But what these unobservant birds
Have never noticed is that herds
Of wandering bears may come with buns
And steal the bags to hold the crumbs.

Source: Wikipedia

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

A grand symphony of gears, tires, and tar

It's silly fare
I want to share,
The song that's in the air...

Of shiny gears
And metal rears
A symphony debonair...

My ride is bright,
smooth, adroit,
She flows through troughs and crests...

She's cherry red
And velvet felt,
With her, I have no frets...

Her gears are smoothly oiled,
Her clutch is light to heel,
She gallops at the least request,
And moves as in a dream.

The traffic hops and rears about,
There's no reason all around,
But with my car, a manual drive,
Hope for roads abound.

The symphony of tar and tires
The philharmonic joys
Of morning woes and cursing throats,
Abound on every fork.

But the point lies
That when the tide
Rises, falls, or cries...
I listen and learn
And then in turn,
We flow into the miles...

She talks to me,
A whisper, a sigh,
She sings a breathy wheeze...

And with each note
I do respond,
With gentle pressure or release

And she does dance
And so becomes
The mistress of my fate.


Friday, May 4, 2012

Simple Gifts (A Shaker song...)

'Tis the gift to be simple,
'Tis the gift to be free
'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gain'd,
To bow and to bend we shan't be asham'd,
To turn, turn will be our delight,
Till by turning, turning we come 'round right.

'Tis the gift to be simple,
'Tis the gift to be fair
'Tis the gift to wake and breathe the morning air
And each day we walk on the path that we choose
'Tis the gift we pray we never shall lose

I don't think I have taken the time to put the song into written script in my blog before. If there was one song that really influenced me, it is this... 

Friday, May 7, 2010

Blossoms!

I'm sitting at my desk at work,
Procrastinating just a little...
Not behind, not ahead,
Just about done,
Ready to call it a day.
Cut adrift,
Settling into a deep vale
of calm content -
of peace and haze
with no checklists to fill
and no tasks to complete...

And i get a jolt
and electric shock of massive voltage.
I receive a message which call up memories!
Of a bookstore I left back where
and back when!
I throw my head back,
my eyelids drift shut,
my nostrils flare with remembered scent,
and I am there!

Within my memory,
It's late and the day's far done.
Home and hearth calls
Traffic battles won
But a diversion beckons!
I park my bike
And hurry my feet.
A litany runs through my head:
Oh! let it be open!
Oh! let it be open!

And miracles do happen!
It is!
The sweet owner is bent
Looking to close the accounts for the day
And I peep in...
May I come in?
May I enter this treasure trove?
May I submerge myself?
Just for a few minutes...
And browse and bury my nose...
And catch a glimpse of far off places
And imaginary heroes
And palatial houses and cozy cottages...

May I smell the most beautiful smell of all?
The smell of brown pages,
turned by awed readers
The smell of leather wrappings
Dipped in mystic wonders
Holding memoires and fairytales
Hugging fantasies and maladies
Shouting for an eye to caress
Or a finger to fondle
Waiting for the reader
Who will cherish and drown
Within stories galore!

There are massive stacks of books
and books and books and books!
and more books!
And so many tales to tell!
So many dreams to share!
I put my toe in the store,
and I drown!
I cannot wait to pick new friends
There are so many!
How do I choose?
I soon have a stack
Waiting to own me
and bemoan my tardiness.
The store owner beckons...
Do I not want more?
He's willing to stay open
If I want to steal more of his friends...
Such generosity of spirit!
Of course, I will fatten his pocketbook
And buy him many dinners
With tonight's purchase.
Ah, I could not have it in me...
Not to grudge this sale to him...
So, I buy and I buy
And I go home happy!
My bookshelves swelled to happy content
And desirous of reading all within the next moment!

I miss them - the smells, the ceilings shadowing the books,
The enormous joy of being surrounded by books...
I miss Blossoms... the bookstore :(

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

a strange ode!

So I set to pondering
What can i present
To spread xmas cheer
that my daddy might be lacking...
I hit upon an idea
what about a tie
but that wont work
what i need is a panacea...
so i went on bouncing
as the bus bumped along
ideas winked by

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Arthurian romance

Come blue sky or twinkling stars,
Come wash away these petty days!
Lift us high into the dawn
Of the beauty and love of Arthurian lays...

Sunday, July 5, 2009

A moment caught

Gilded Feathers
Slashing sight,
Carry stillness profound
In frozen flight

Saturday, July 4, 2009

Treasures in the dust

Silken webs
Of spun silver,
Clinging,
Sighing,
O'er soft, dark silhouettes,
behind grimy doors
shut long, long ago...
Opened anew...
To be gently held,
Caressed,
In the womb of treasured memories...

Just to be...

I want to go home, to my home, my heartland, my life!

I want to go to paradise, where there's air that sparkles and water that chimes.

I want to live my life on a small, gurgling stream;
I want to flow with it, floating serene over rocks and brine.

I want to cup my hands in the pure white life,
To lift it gently to my lips,
And swallow the purity of the forever time.

I want to sing a song,
That tinkles in harmony
With the soft blue laughter
Of cloud scudded skies.

I want to go slow,
Slow as a mountain's growth...
Slow as a flower's bloom...
Slow as the kindly wink of a misty fairy eye.

I want to wander,
Over crust and sea,
Over heaven and earth,
Over micro and mile.

I want to see,
To see the light:
The light that kindles!
The light that flies!

I want to free my mind, my soul and heart,
In a scream:
A scream that stills,
A scream that rocks,
A scream that cries...


I want to walk the grass,
And run the sea..
I want to feel the colors:
A part of me?

I want to be the sigh,
That grows from morn
And sets in the eve
In a quiet song.

I want to cradle the child,
The innocent babe,
That toddles and frolicks with elves and their throng...

I want to feel alive,
To taste the glow
That hides behind the knighted sky.

I want to breathe pure air,
To breathe golden fare that fills the stomach,
No need for wine!

I want to feel the heady rush,
Of wind that blows,
That weeps,
That flows...

I want to be...
Not the person I Ought to be...
No!

I want to be,
Just to be...
Just to enjoy and frolic,
In this heartland of mine...

I want to be...

Prayer for the day

I'm as taut as a guitar string that's been tuned too high...
Pluck me and I might call out the bats!

Today is my testing field.
Shall I prove to be strong?
Can I verbalize my convictions?
Or do I get mown down again,
By a will more durable than mine?
And see the course of my life
follow a path not of my seeking?
Leave me a dry hollow husk,
with complaints my only verbal decor?

Ah, I wish it will not be so!
That I be given a silver tongue -
that I be capable
of setting emotion and communication
on opposing sides of the table,
and express my views
calmly and forthrightly,
no matter the opposition!
I pray it is so!

The Artist

'Tis said -

A person must be like a quiet river
With deep mind and soul.

When life breezes and storms,
The superficial current may swirl and froth;
So may tidal waves be formed
With many a bank overflowed.

And yet -

At the deepest reaches
Of a still soul's caverns
Some artist sits quiet, alone
Peace within a fingertip's reach...

He carves and smoothes,
Hammers and chisels;
Soul fire and memories,
Principles and bedrock,
They all come under his rough hands...

He pounds the most cacophonous melodies
Into gentle harmonies...

He draws out the slightest essence
From silent days:

Of potentials fulfilled, or not...
Of sorrows imagined, or not...
Of smiles begotten, or not...

I can see him with my mind's eye
Within my mind's eyrie;
Looking on with an artist's critical view,
At a slowly revolving centerpiece
With mellifluous lights,
And discordant harmonies;

Oh! That my soul when measured
Crosses that threshold into his pride.

Then may I die happy...

Ramblings...

Oh, what a silly thing
to find my mind
quite without my grasp.

It jumps from hill to vale,
or glade to glade,
in a path that can't be mapped.

It rambles around
With no particular destination
Alighting here, fleeing there,
Drinking out of lakes
Or saline seas,
Joyous in its warblings.

Friday, July 3, 2009

A look inside...

What do you do when you find life putting you in a corner?
...turn the lights out, sigh and die a little inside?
I started down that road today...

A three legged stool am I, with one leg sawn half off;
Emotional instability is not something to be proud of!

It's either about being too complicated,
or complicating things too well...
Or having a spectacularly different mindset -
a different outlook to life and its challenges -
an upbringing with an enormous generosity of inputs
not shared by blood, concentrated or dilute.

I stared at the wall,
searching brick by brick,
for a sign -
a crack -
that blood supports blood.
I stared unblinking;
My eyes teared up;
An anaconda charitably metamorphosed into a turban for me -
lucky me! or not...

I blindly searched out my blankets -
one did not suffice.
Hiding, ashamed, in my warm cocoon -
unarmored to heart-shots
that disguise themselves
as well-intentioned advice,
as righteous boosts of encouragement,
as superior understanding seeking to lever me up
out of my own stupidity or disability...

But I am uncovering some idiocy...
Let me disabuse myself of any veil,
see my reflection the clearer!

Why am I thus unarmored?
My sense and my sensibility are in no way lacking.
If anything - the latter is rooted too deeply in me!

I have looked at the crystal of my understanding,
danced it this way and that...
allowed dancing rays to search out all possible angles...
searched deep for flaws...
hunted for broken symmetries...
and i find this out for myself:
the crystal is by no means perfect.
I have hewn it and honed it at the fires of my intellect
and my intellect is by no means the most acute.
But I am satisfied with the crystalline imperfections.
In truth, I find myself at the edge of pride -
conclusive and concrete -
that I lack no positives that blood seeks;
though I might not have reached that pinnacle of perfection
that Time encourages many to achieve;
but my time is yet to come...
And until then -
I have no need to hide my face from the sun.