The soul in exile
it seems as it were,
keeps no friends or foes
but a myriad of words
weaved into a tapestry
of stories live to tell
with a spark of spirit
at the thrilled touch
thrust in passion’s flame
aroused from the buried
detritus of memories bygone
and the fire that has gone
ablaze with the delirium
of delight in the magic
of the words she has found
keeps burning the dark
reigning in her glass castle.
The dawn’s breaking
through the gray curtains
of the shadows of the past
and releases moon frosts
sprinkled with star flakes
on the leaves of the trees
and pours them onto the grass
that makes the whole meadow
a sumptuous panoply of pleasure
List the people you admire and look to for advice…
There used to be a section in the New York Times Book Review where an established writer was asked whom they would invite for dinner, alive or dead. So today’s prompt is relevant to the dinner list, (well for me lunch or coffee time list is more fitting) which comprises people I wish to have as wise and pleasant counsel.
I want to have people who are well-read, open-minded, understanding, cultured, patient, and confident, with a sense of humor devoid of sarcasm. I want them to be older than I am, at the Judge or old stage according to Shakespeare’s seven stages of life, because they have withered the vicissitudes of life to live to tell. Of course, not all mature people are wise. However, still, I would feel more comfortable being in company with them to talk about the woes of life than with MZ generations who regard the preceding ones as something medieval, if not ancient or prehistoric.
Therapists or counselors are paid to give us advice, but what if you don’t have the resource or are unlucky to meet a good one who can show you precise feedback with a touch of humanity? So I envy those who have people whom they can turn to for wisdom, not criticism under the pretense of grain of salt.
The hate fills you with spite
the heart is a barren desert
the mind is a desiccated tree
basked in the heat of hate;
There’s a cat who walks
by himself by the proud tree
and his eyes full of memories
that once beheld the leaves
dancing in the breeze of peace;
He catches in silence at the sight
by the awe of the forlorn fate
that wails into a void of ether
and continues on his wander
into the end of distant rainbows
bridging over the skies yonder.
The eyes harvesting sunlight
see a day moon and stars
under a golden veil in the skies
that no one sees at a glance
that no one could care less
unless you have the eyes
like his that sees the spirit
and the soul and the heart.
The sun’s up, and the day’s begun
The eyes open, the heart chimes
arise, awake, or forever fallen
Hoping, achieving, sorrowing
Try again, or better yet, fail again
Better worse, alas, still worse
Worst then, fail worst yet again
Till ripped apart, broken again
stumbling, crying, ad naseum
A circle of life as is the nature
whatever it is, the spirit’s high
not made of crude materials
but born of stars, dews, and fire.
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