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rain may shed its tears of sorrow,
The gray clouds may bury the light,
But one thing remains apparent,
The glowing rainbow amongst the plight.
No matter how blear and
dreary,
No matter how difficult it is to see,
The birth of a rainbow between storm,
Is the friendship between you and me.
Union of Wind and Water
The wind and water play a
duet.
A gentle breeze, a tender phrase,
An agile trill gliding in ripples,
over the smooth translucent veil.
The wind and water are in
storm.
As the wind screams in fury,
the water crashes with dissonant waves,
ready to drown the wandering lost spirit,
that is captivated by its angry, insinuating presence,
and its mysterious murmur.
The wind and water are in harmony,
when the wind is calm, whispering a lullaby,
the water shimmers in complacency,
reflecting the allegro of a morning glory,
and the adagio of an evening nocturne,
so sublime in the orchestral sanctuary.
Without wind, the water remains an empty gourd,
an empty mirror,
unable to reflect the invisible soul of dancing light.
Without water, the wind bears,
a repertoire of musical score,
fastidious, unplayed.
FOR WIND IS THE INSPIRATION
FROM WHICH WATER CARRIES MUSIC,
AND WATER IS THE SOUL
FROM WHICH WIND IS BORN.
Of Life, Of Dreams
(based on my
favorite inspirational book on Life and Dreams: "Hope for the Flowers",
by Trina Paulus. I was so inspired that it led me to write this poem)
Part I
The tiny fragile caterpillar born,
On a thin leaf glowing with morning dew,
Smiled a gleeful smile at the world,
For sorrows of life it little knew.
So it lived in
comfort on the leaf which guarded so long,
And day by day it grew and ate,
Until a moment struck it decided to depart,
So very sudden, was it a matter of fate?
The little
creature began to explore,
The mountains and water, moon and stars,
And cherished each vital moment gazing at light,
Mesmerized by the vast horizon, wondering what was afar.
So curious, so
intrigued was this creature,
It decided to climb to the highest treetop,
So it could see for itself the beauty of truth,
Ah, the danger of truth from the peaceful loft......
Part II
One splendid and shining morning,
The caterpillar, infatuated with his feat,
Set forth on the least travelled road,
To begin the lonely climb to the highest peak.
At first it
crawled with great spirit,
Many dreams to guide the way,
But as the sunsets sighed their soliloquies,
It trembled with fear in the broken bark lay.
So lonely, so
deserted felt the creature,
That the afternoon radiance seemed to loom,
And the distant breeze breathed a storm,
Trapped by an unspoken voice beneath the silent moon.
By now the caterpillar reached a midpoint climb,
Half desiring to continue, half yearning to decline,
Not knowing whether to listen to the silent voice,
Unable to discern between the heart and the mind.
To the blind eye, sunken heart, and paralysed mind,
There seems to be only two paths,
One to continue pursuit, the other to succumb to defeat,
Life just seemed so unfair, so poisoned by wrath.
What must the
caterpillar do, what must it decide?
Are there only two paths, of which determines new destiny?
Are the secrets of truth hidden by unreachable stars?
There are no simple answers to cure our friend's misery.
Part III
The whispering wind seemed to waver in the golden dusk,
An impenetrable silence spanning an infinity,
When the tired caterpillar caught a glimpse in the air,
And from that moment on unfolded the story of affinity.
A fleeting
curtain, embroidered with brilliant intricacy,
Danced lightly far above in the sky,
With the wind gently carrying it higher, what was it the caterpillar saw?
The magical being of a spontaneous butterfly.
So potent, so
magnificent, so intriguing was the sight,
The tired caterpillar awoke with sudden fervour,
Its spirit enlightened by the vision of truth,
The chains of mere existence broken forever.
The blazing motion of the flying creature,
Seemed to beckon the caterpillar from above,
As if to guide the fragile spirit and broken heart,
To a sense of knowing, a plateau of self-love.
Whether it was
a matter of luck, of affinity or fate,
The risen caterpillar no longer wept,
Instead it unravelled itself into the bonding threads,
Of the beautiful secrets of Faith, Love, Hope - fine Virtues kept.
The caterpillar
swallowed a bitter isolation as true silence lingered on,
A continual darkness haunted the wounds of the threaded being,
To endure the painful loneliness and fears of the unknown,
For the sake of consummating with Truth, of Living and Believing.
***
One beautiful and glorious day, on a silken morning dew,
A strangely beautiful creature emerged into the sky,
No longer the inner turmoils to climb or to recline,
For it unfolded its illuminous wings and sung to the world:
"For Life, for Beauty, For Faith and For Truth I Fly....."
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You are my matchbook, I am your
match.
A simple strike and a glowing flame,
Will show the world our love......
Says the Heart:
A Candle in Sight,
A strike, a blazing flame,
A blinding, dazzling, scintillating fire,
Racing in a wild frenzy,
Only to be burned and scarred forever,
With a bleeding memory.
Say the Head:
A strike, a blazing flame,
No sooner ignited,
So sooner extinguished.
For the relentless Wind,
far beyond control,
will splinter the match,
and tear the matchbook,
both caught in a winter storm.
Only Time and Circumstance will tell,
If after a many blustering and cruel winds,
if the match and matchbook will find,
on the same lonely path,
Each Other.
And only if by Chance come True,
a Fire will explode,
in the midst of a dark winter night.
O my Match, do you not see
the light,
its beams imprisoned by the chains of
Fact and Logic, Wind and Circumstance,
Rub your eyes once more,
Perhaps,
You will see,
a tiny beam,
Searching for a Candle,
Buried, but in Sight? ...
Because You Are Mine
In a vast ocean,
There lies a beautiful pearl,
Hidden by the forbidden armour
Nourished by the tender flesh,
of an oyster.
One ponders,
About the endless hours,
And the warming care,
The oyster must have given
To unveil this timeless jewel.
One is amazed,
How such a creature,
With its impenetrable shell,
Its hostile, tightly shut appearance,
Can be so sensitive, and delicate from within.
One questions the mystery of Nature,
Though pearls from the oyster's heart,
Can be indeed so rare,
that there surely must exist many pearls,
many such rare pearls,
in the vast deep sea.
The answer, my friend,
Is that only the pearl,
from the oyster you have chosen,
is so special,
so precious, because
the oyster breathed life,
into an isolated pocket,
unravelled by the darkness of the sea.
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