Monsoon’s Sing-song

A beautiful poem, I can hear a song as I read.

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A Meeting in the Bog

A really interesting read, great short story.

The Faith Gap

Until the Blue Planet, I had never seen a place where somethingotherexisted. There were cosmicworlds suspended in darknessand nomadic chunks of iron, like myself, barreling alongwaitingto be pulled into one of their orbits. That was it. Gas and metal and rock and speed.

I’d seena few of usgetclose enoughto collide and disintegrate into some of these distant worlds. Even so, after the enormous amount of energy was released, not much changed. Gas and metal and rock smashing into more gas and metal and rock for billions of light years in every direction.

But when I saw the Blue Planet, itwas filled with…life.

Massive life. Strange life. Life much different than after our collision. Life with fangs and tusks and scales. They were equal parts majesty and terror, and I would soon disintegrate with them. It’s the reason The Mover redirected me towards it in the first place. He…

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The Lonely Wave

Gentle, soothing, harsh, lonely … great poetry.

Its PH

wave

Like a lonely wave of the sea,
That hated to touch the sea shore,
He preferred to stay alone,
He was for himself.

Like the dirt in the sea,
That disturbed the serenity,
Life had cruel lessons,
He was for himself.

Like the hardness of the water,
That never failed in presence,
There were people to mock,
He was for himself.

Like every wave had to end,
That had to touch the shore,
Everything washed away,
He was at peace.

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A Child of Two Places

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Image credit: Pixabay

One is lush, fertile and green, a home for all who can appreciate the beauty of nature
It grows all around me, quiet and at peace;
The other’s filled with lights, people, drama, a centre for the busy lives of those with too much to do
It’s built all around me, noisy, and I am at peace

I know the loneliness of those empty, rolling hills
Of solitary farmers working hard to tend their crops;
I know the comfort of those crowded, moving streets
Of men and women in suits discussing business on their breaks

One is childhood and life, a home for easy memories in times of pain and longing
It grew all around me, lacking something more;
The other’s future and new life, a centre for tomorrow’s beginnings to wrap themselves around me tight
It was built all around me, promising me something more

I know the comfort of those empty, rolling hills
Of tired farmers chatting after a long day’s work;
I know the loneliness of those crowded, moving streets
Of men and women in suits glued to their mobile phones

One is out beyond the reach of modern gadgets, cordoned off to allow for the rise of cities
It’s build all around me, no longer natural;
The other’s progression in the eyes of many, developing itself in news ways, new cultures, new ideas, blending them to suit
It grows all around me, and one day will become natural

In Late Spring

A wonderful metaphor – there are gardens like this in all of us that need attention, nourishment and patience.

A Hundred Falling Veils

The garden rows are visible now,

the slender shoots of carrots,

the succulent leaves of calendula,

the curly beginnings of kale—

after many years these first green shapes

feel like old friends.

I greet them as I walk the rows,

tell them they are doing fine.

And then there are the gaps

between the sprouts, the places

where I can only guess about

why the seeds don’t grow.

A lack of water? Planted too deep?

A shadow? A dud of a seed? A slug?

Of course I take it personally

and wonder what else I should have done.

And then I pull out the extra seeds

and fill in the spots where there is no green.

There is no use in blaming. Just plant the seed

where nothing is growing. It’s so simple,

the task, so lacking in blame.

There are gardens in me begging

for me to do the…

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Nature’s Veil

I love the imagery and personification of nature in this poem.

helenvalentina

Image credit: InnerVisionArt/Shutterstock.com Image credit: InnerVisionArt/Shutterstock.com

Nature’s veil is elusive
She is a sprite peeping out
for mere seconds
Till you see her and then
she is gone
A memory you cannot
be certain is real
And an essence too pure to dispute

Above earth our species strives
for relevance and a mark of time
Underneath she susurrates
More sublime and full of meaning
than our little lives may be

A child may see her clearer
in the full morning of youth
And hear her sparkling laughter
in the rushing of a stream
And knowing life is not
ever what it seems
gives their young clear clarity
to her world of dreams

(c) Helen Valentina 2016

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Rabbit’s Thoughts

There was a path going through the forest, separated from the wildlife by a wooden fence. The fence was high enough for admiring adults to lean on it when they wanted to look closer at the animals and plants on the other side, but there were enough gaps in the panels for eager children to poke their heads through the fence, too. It was covered in weeds and other plant life that had crept up the sides of the fence over many years of trying. At one time, they had been cut back to keep the fence clean and sturdy, but no more.

The forest floor was covered in small branches and twigs that had been hurtled to the ground by the wind. Some of them were arranged in piles that might have once been used as fires or shelters, but no more.

A rabbit emerged from behind one of the trees. It moved slowly, as though anticipating some sudden movement from nearby, then stopped, its ears twitching as it listened out for signs of other animals. The wind blew between the trees and rocked some of the twigs on the ground back and forth, but nothing else made a sound. At one time, there had been laughter and footsteps and conversation, but no more.

It might have wondered to itself, if rabbits can wonder, what had happened to the children who used to run up and down the path, shouting and playing. It might have even remembered them. They had loved the forest back then, but no more.

People had tried to tame the forest, but in more recent years nature had been allowed to go wild. The rabbit listened to the sounds of nature, to the wind and the leaves and the twigs, and noticed that there was nothing to disturb it. It could not hear the tell-tale footfalls of a fox or the approach of anything else besides. No humans and no other animals. The forest had once been full of life, but no more.

Had it been the humans? Had they done something that had reduced the animal population – and their own? Had they simply become bored with the forest and the beauty of the natural world? There were no answers, not anymore.

The rabbit hopped on, disappearing behind the next tree. The wind continued to blow.

Butterfly

A beautiful, very enjoyable poem. I like the idea of the butterfly being imprisoned until it comes out of the cocoon – and then the notion that however beautiful something is, all things must come to an end.

Kite Dreams

black_and_white_butterfly_by_charlie_trumpet

The butterfly dazzles
And finds her hermitage
On an unruffled leaf
When unforgotten
Are the times when she was chained
And imprisoned until
She came of age

She rises and falls
Flutters, dances and beautifies
An otherwise mundane ambient
And finds a heavenly dose
Of nectar on the base
Of a flower, until she meets
Her nemesis – a bird’s beak
And in that moment
All the glory is lost forever

After all
Any beauty – however spectacular – is transient
Even love that binds and blinds
To one earthly creature
For the very best of things
Are bound by ephemeralities

So little butterfly
Flap your wings and fly away
To “Carpe Diem”

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Pastoral – National Poetry Month – Day 11

I love the combination of fantasy and reality to describe a genuine but very magical place.

Iron Ink Productions

Yesterday, I visited a place like the place described below. I’ll return!!

Pastoral

I know a place where the hills roll –
green and gentle, like the belly of a snoring troll
gone to slumber after his grog has thinned

his muddy blood. It’s a good place –
where breezes blow as tender as a fairy’s dream
‘cause fairies always dream of tender things:

feathers dipped in sunlight or raindrops
set to glimmer on a frog’s back, full of hush
and moonshine. I visit when I can, with a packed basket:

cheese as white as ivory, soft enough to slip a knife through,
warm bread, with crust thick as a goblin’s will to lay it on,
and a pint, a dark pint, cold, a stout river just begun to thaw

after April disturbs its winter rest. There I’ll eat and breathe
until slumber eases up about me like a damp…

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