Poetic Rebirth
November 2018
Poetic Rebirth
It was November so guess what type of post I came up with, once again?
Oh of course, a normal birthday one. Yes, I might be secretly dedicating a post to my own birthday but let’s just forget about that, shall we?
November has shown me both the arriving and passing of mortality so here are a few poems, 5 to be exact, on the beauty of the temporary.
Sorry for the lack of update for so long. I’ve been busy procrastinating and handling my Tumblr page.
Dust in her face, oh the bus had whooshed by
Normalcy, nothing more there was
Flowers bloomed, wilted elsewhere
The rays of warmth shone brightly and made some sweat, the cold winds sent chills up others’ spines
Somewhere though, arrived what played with a healthy person’s mind
Something that charmed yet killed someone
Something that confused, made and also broke people’s entirety
Emotion
Emotion of birth of beauty
Perspective beauty
To proud eyes of two
Or
Emotion
Emotion of sobbing wails
The wails of loss
To many saddened souls
Days depend
Depend on so much
Depend on souls, so many
*
Sleep
Sleep, my child
Sleep, my child, smiling
Sleep, my child, smiling joyfully
Sleep, my child, smiling joyfully for
For a day
Not of beauty
Not of beautiful joys
But
Of beautiful pains
*
Auras of buzzing movement in the light baby blue
So similar to the pinch of fresh scent, stronger yet lighter than a spray of fakeness in aluminium tins
Fuzzy prickly grass, trying not to harm the softness of the feet but to grow and sprout
Winds, running, faster than his speed
With birds, swimming through the freedom of air
Giggles, so childish, boyish
Pride, not of accomplishment, but of love, she has
Watching the mirth
Of her dear boy
*
It had been a decade. It felt like it had been all my life.
17, a number. A cruel one. The day he passed. The day I hurt.
But my grieving days don't limit to the 17th's
It's every day. It's every minute, every second.
The Cheeks are tired of smiling fakeness when it knows it will be drenched in the night.
The Eyes are tired of holding in the tears. It's just cold.
Familiar footsteps startled the Ear, after ages
The Eyes had no business yet looked up stoned yet drenched?
Those heavy steps from those big feet. Those heavy breaths.
It can't be him, what a stupid thought.
He is dead, was dead, will be dead
He was the king of the world
Our memories burn like a forest fire
King of the abodes
Writing tales in the stars of skies
But I saw him approaching. The same protective smile. The same arms that hugged me ever since I was a second old.
Dad.
I ran. Embrace was natural as I broke down.
The Cheeks feeling moist as usual.
The Eyes turning from the hardness of stone to remembrance. Comfort. I was but a girl of inexperience when I last felt this.
Imagination only brought a flood of tears from my eyes
Better to stop imagination of things I will never have
I guess
*
And to end this set of poetry, here is a poem I wrote in November on behalf of my Grandfather, who sadly left for the greater world recently.
Flowers bloom around your very feet
Things can crumble beneath your very feet
Riches to rags, rags to riches
Yet the earth washes us, cleans our bones
Gives us wings
To fly again another day
Yet He comes, carries us up
Gives us hope
To play in the garden of life, another day
*
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