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

*