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How deep can a poet see? - Meaning of Life {competition}
You ask poets to look inside the meaning of Life -
How deep does a poet see when imagining this reality?
"Life is the awakening,
the awakening of thy senses." -
Senses that rehash the past, and
gift you the streaming present,
the present experience of awarness.
Experience that builds memories upon choices.
Choice memories from each day until the last.
The open-eyes do admire in silence.
Silently absorbing the truth before you.
Now the mind is receiving what the eyes cannot speak,
yet the unspoken language they harbor, screams wearily.
Screams wearily to time on its swift, fleeting wings.
Yes, to time as it stowes away your soulful ways.
Your ways that were placed carefully and recklessly, I'm afraid.
Carefully and recklessly traversing adversity in measured rues.
Treading further into the darkness,
the darkness that tries to hide in broad daylight.
Elapsing moments, seizing to be in these.
In these moments that are tethered to mindful wants and needs.
Woven, loosley woven with lives, lives not of our own.
Yet connected wholly. We are -
Sapplings, and fledglings captured in captivating.
Yes, all these!
Plotted, planned and penned, life never ends.
Only transcends as the cycle continues to lend.
The Earth, Oh the Earth, her lovely breath of life,
her embrace of warm sunshine -
thrills coincide and collide.
While smiles stumble and pleasures chuckle.
Your senses reel to be teased, and you are free to,
to grasp at sounds, scents, visions, tastes and feelings.
Pain is the truth in knowing you are alive.
Awaken the senses, it's called life.
Blind is the eye that cannot see inside.
- Webster is really smart about these things. His explanations are simply put.
{Life: In one account is, the experience of being alive; the course of human events and activities.}[/font]
How deep does a poet see when imagining this reality?
"Life is the awakening,
the awakening of thy senses." -
Senses that rehash the past, and
gift you the streaming present,
the present experience of awarness.
Experience that builds memories upon choices.
Choice memories from each day until the last.
The open-eyes do admire in silence.
Silently absorbing the truth before you.
Now the mind is receiving what the eyes cannot speak,
yet the unspoken language they harbor, screams wearily.
Screams wearily to time on its swift, fleeting wings.
Yes, to time as it stowes away your soulful ways.
Your ways that were placed carefully and recklessly, I'm afraid.
Carefully and recklessly traversing adversity in measured rues.
Treading further into the darkness,
the darkness that tries to hide in broad daylight.
Elapsing moments, seizing to be in these.
In these moments that are tethered to mindful wants and needs.
Woven, loosley woven with lives, lives not of our own.
Yet connected wholly. We are -
Sapplings, and fledglings captured in captivating.
Yes, all these!
Plotted, planned and penned, life never ends.
Only transcends as the cycle continues to lend.
The Earth, Oh the Earth, her lovely breath of life,
her embrace of warm sunshine -
thrills coincide and collide.
While smiles stumble and pleasures chuckle.
Your senses reel to be teased, and you are free to,
to grasp at sounds, scents, visions, tastes and feelings.
Pain is the truth in knowing you are alive.
Awaken the senses, it's called life.
Blind is the eye that cannot see inside.
- Webster is really smart about these things. His explanations are simply put.
{Life: In one account is, the experience of being alive; the course of human events and activities.}[/font]
Published 23rd Jul 2014
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23rd Jul 2014 6:29pm
wonderful write, Angel. poets have a voracious appetite for the mysteries & complexities of life; what is every poem but an homage to that exquisite gift...
23rd Jul 2014 7:15pm
Blue, this is beautiful. Reading it is a serene experience. I love the two passages below:
"Experience that builds memories upon choices.
Choice memories from each day until the last." (I am intrigued by the idea that our choices telegraph our memories)
and
"Woven, loosley woven with lives, lives not of our own.
Yet connected wholly."
(for me an apt description of my relatoonship with my DUP friends)
"Experience that builds memories upon choices.
Choice memories from each day until the last." (I am intrigued by the idea that our choices telegraph our memories)
and
"Woven, loosley woven with lives, lives not of our own.
Yet connected wholly."
(for me an apt description of my relatoonship with my DUP friends)
Anonymous
- Edited 14th May 2018 10:07pm
23rd Jul 2014 8:34pm
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