Under milky stars,
And watercolour skies, Your hand on my heart, Your eyes gazed at mine, Our minds intertwined, My purpose you ignite, Long I've wished to find, You through this fog of night. Pains me it does so, To have cast a rough stone, And to have rippled the flow, Of all that we hold, Ne'er have I lost hope, It's my wish to atone, And that we shall cope, 'Til joy we can hone. I hope one day soon, As we lie side-by-side, Blessing our fortune, Of calm and of pride, I may gaze at you, With your hand on my heart, And come may the moon, For this is but the start. [Original date of writing: 2nd March 2021] [Final edit: 8th May 2022]
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To the griever, the anxious, the reminiscent and kind,
To those who have drifted beyond the river of control, To the man of his thoughts, to the woman of her mind, A cautionary tale is all but to behold. A man so great, a man so bold, Fiery strength adorned his nerves of steel, No fear nor challenge would force him to fold, He believed himself without Achilles' Heel. But a conscience so weak, his humility amiss, The man would taunt and strike out fear, To all those who glided each stride with bliss, Who lived average lives throughout their years. "Fools", he would call them, "the bland and pathetic", To succumb to mortal matters of body and mind, To dwell, to age, to follow old rhetoric, To try, to fail, to graft and to grind. His passion was art and his talent renowned, In his veil of reality, his skill was unmet, No lesson could be learnt, no rival could be found, But soon would come a lecture he could scarcely forget. A man with a flair, an eye for a scene, Entered the town one bitter afternoon, He painted the cold and the grim so serene, The men would gawp, the women would swoon! To this bitterest of men, this hack would not do, His politeness too keen, he was humble and wise, Someone so meek, yet talented - how askew!, He would outshine this rival, and brag at his demise. For months, he slathered canvas with paint, And sketched the greatest of all he could craft, Yet his work was viewed as pale and faint, When compared to his old, it made people laugh! His brush soon mirrored his elevating rage, It now rarely glided; it stabbed through the cotton, His pencils scarred and cut through each page, Had they gone mad? Had they forgotten? It was he: whom held the title of town artist, It was he: whose masterpieces once shone above, The people's money belonged only within his fist, How dare they betray him; his work was still good! But the months went by, and the pennies drew thin, Nobody cared any more for this relic of old, The man once mighty, now bones and skin, His artwork shrivelled, his legacy untold. On a warm, sunny morning, he rose with dismay, And looked upon his works with a fresh new eye, Over time, and with anger, his talent had decayed, His reality clipped at the wings of his lies. He knew what he must do, and swallowing a pride so grand, Found the painter and pleaded for teachings of success, The painter smiled and with a steady hand, Extended his paintbrush to his rival so perplexed. "Come paint with me," was the cheery bloke's invitation, To the rival who could not dismiss an offer so sincere, "And we'll discuss the ever-queer revelation, Of how you found yourself approaching me here". "Your past is a sketch: it lays foundations for all to come, Your future is your mind: you foresee what you desire, But one must know the limits, and to know when they're done, For acceptance is a beauty we seldom admire. We mortals need help, we take lessons and are shown, We don't seek the same paths, not born of the same seed, Each brush stroke is a contribution, but a picture of its own, That craves respect by the peers they heed. Take with grace what you can do, and cherish what you know, We were all better once, we all wither into the ground, Be true to yourself, you are not the you of old, Rejoice in what you are; those are the lessons to be found." [Original date of writing: 13th May 2019] [Final edit: 8th May 2022] Close your eyes, memories flood of childhood,
Whisper tenderly as your father and mother would, Remember the childhood friends you grew with, How they would see you now, what you would give. Remember your school plays, glitter on handmade cards, Rolling down field hills on sunny days, the joys of it all, Remember days of being happy, when innocence bloomed around, And recall the laughter of children, your teachers, the playground. Look back and close your eyes, solace is not yet lost, Although tears are shed, and regrets enclose your heart with frost, Dreams of yesterdays' joys, and the thrills you once had, Don't forget them for a moment, even if they make you sad. The memory of yesterday, the dream of your present, Can fuel a better tomorrow, should you not be hesitant, Although you are now old, and time has shown its wear, Just remember yesterday's child, and travel back there. Sit with your grandchild, and tell stories of glee, Times you were sad, and the times you were happy, Feed them a humbug, and watch their eyes shine, And recollect back on when that was you one time. And when your life is drawing to its end, your hour is nigh, Remember there is no one word to describe your life, For when all has been done, and nothing is left to do, Sit in your chair...and await the firefly's light to embrace you. [Original date of writing: 31st May 2010] [Final edit: 2nd May 2019] Petals and clouds whisper in the breeze,
Sunsets and spirits fly by with time's ease, A burden of loneliness, of hatred and tears, All fade away together, with lifelong fears. To look into one’s eyes is to gaze into one’s soul, Sweeping away sadness with a feeling of home, Lie down in fields and watch the sun's rays, Believe in your soul and reside in Nature's praise. [Original date of writing: unspecified, 2010] [Final edit: 9th May 2022] Amidst the silence, shadows doth loom,
Owls fly hollow-sighted beneath the moon, A whisper beyond lips, a touch beyond stroke, All to be revealed, each movement, each note. Blind minds will surpass nothing but the dark, Blind eyes reveal the world's beauty and spark, For sight is nothing but an untrained sense, Virgin of instinct, to both past and present tense. The lies, the glory, the fame we may seek, Searching for something so mindless and bleak, Love and happiness keeps us to live once more, To never close that dreaded final door. To what formidable lie to enclose our minds, 'We are superior, Gods to all, we are mankind', When animals loom deep within our souls, Our origins, our blood, our prime, our own. To sunlight, we dance, we sing, we pray, To moonlight we hunt, celebrating the day, In twilight we philosophise, reflect on each word, For all of our actions are amongst the absurd. The children of our future, so innocent and free, Mistrusted and enslaved by the eyes of society, Yet hope is not far from these young ones' view, A chance, mere a glimmer, is all they ask of you. Beyond the calling of night's true whisper, 'Curiosity and glory within; please come hither', The truth lurks eager, our minds now hallow, Wisdom is not beyond us; just amidst the silent shadows. [Original date of writing: 28th September 2009] [Final edit: 12th January 2015] |