Here you will find poems that I have written over the years and now decided to upload to my blog. Please comment your thoughts on them and share the links but do not copy the content to use elsewhere without my permission.
What is that outside the window? Just the same old repeated sight. The frost kissed by the sun’s glow. The January air taking a small bite into the warm Earth and the flesh of all. The long, synthetic granite desert, not seldom touched by acceleration. Salt, mud and slush mixed with dirt, to be replaced by Gaia’s transformation. A point of the life of Earth as Gaia’s ball. Rolling, rolling, and rolling.
I am the grey garment in the wide window that will never be sold. The stimulating, sorrowful, saintly story that will never be told. A fiery, firm furnace forever cold. A calm, composed, cheerless child that will never grow old. The bounce-less, bulky, beached ball that will never be rolled. Made from a monotonous, melancholy, maroon mould. A blank, boring, blunt book nobody will ever hold. The empty, extensive, endless, endemic streets that will never be strolled. The plain, page-less, passionless paper that will never bear a fold. A grain of solitary, sorrowful, shiny silver on a beach of gold. I am the low, lamenting, loveless loneliness. Who at some point we must all in life behold.
There is no true joy without experience of pain, and no true pain without the experience of joy. No need to take action, if there’s no purpose to refrain. Without the purpose to refrain, action your mind can not enjoy. What is the ultimate truth, without the presence of any purebred lies. Just as what is any set of truths, without false, deluded beliefs. How true to you are your ears, nose, tongue, hands and eyes? And how true is your belief, without any definite disbelief. Can life be possible without death, the very end? No, just as death is not possible without life, the beginning. How can we play-act, ‘put-on’ and pretend, if comprehension of truth and fact is winning. but what does it, the subjectivity of philosophies, ever matter? Never much for me or to anybody is truthfulness. What does any subjective truth and perception matter? Nothing at all, and that is the only truth so plentiful. I leave this unto you, to see what of this is true?
Off land, and onto a large, empty ship, looking ahead at the great unknown. Holding onto the helm with a loose grip, about to mark this wide, uncharted zone. The only way is forward, towards the end. Storms, calm, rain and winds all the way. Unexpected, one of any waiting at every bend, and at every turn of the helm, of every day. Looking behind you, the horizon is faded. Looking forward, it is undefined and unclear. Your journey is solely yours, you are unaided. In you it creates joy, pain, pleasure, and fear. Other travellers will join you along the way. Most of them will fall, sink, burn or go off track. Your journey ends at the horizon, of night or day. When you will sink, fall, or burn. But not go back.