Feathers whisper stories and poems of life before.

Feathers whisper stories and poems of life before.
Feathers lie in the cold, it tell stories of life before.

Saturday, June 1, 2013

The Palm, The Pond and The Rose


Melancholy pierce the consciousness. Encompasses the whole being, tortures the soul, grab the only hope of being happy--later on, shrinks the soul into a dark pit--of pity, of despair.

Then it vents all its hopelessness in the lake of tears, brims it, as if downpour passed by, in a moment of time, to the point of asking justice.













Swarms of thick nimbus are heavy and drifting 
Conspire with grave Russian winds; fiercely cool
Caressing winds, the morning clouds in mourn

As though, when obsessed to dribble ‘pon pool.


 




The stupor pool breath bits of chilled water
The droplets wildly swelled went on gushing.
Weary eyes and achy breasts in pool linger—

Wailing, sobbing flash’ beside flirty spring.



 



Blue moment: gushy brooks, drowsy lakes
 And dopey pool, mingle in the pale palm;
The mid-curve, a pond—a rose sobs and shakes

Nay, Faun's soft euphonies ever becalm. 






Who, in this planet got stout courage ever?
Herculean strength he has, to pluck the   gloom
And tearing grief, of lonesome soul by mere

Whisper to rose’ ears, for next rosy bloom.




















1 comment:

  1. I aimed for a love poem. Such a disappointment when finished that I had nothing in my mind to exactly point out what title it should carry.

    I feel bad when I wrote this kind of piece: without inspiration, no clear mind, most of all, imagination's falling so low. All systems plummeting down at high speed except intuition soaring up--kicking my ass to get a pen and to dash down something adrift and unknown.

    I feel insurmountable difficulty--mind and emotions didn't existed. Prodding was the only one that pushed me up--like a powerful projectile hissing to an empty space.

    Can you think a better title for this 'undesirable child of intuition'?

    ReplyDelete