Thanks, Danik, for the timely boost while the wind is howling like ghosts and demons outside in this part of the world.Quote:
Originally Posted by Danik 2016
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Thanks, Danik, for the timely boost while the wind is howling like ghosts and demons outside in this part of the world.Quote:
Originally Posted by Danik 2016
Haha! Cheers!Quote:
Originally Posted by angliholic
The glory of yesterday
is as hard to find
as a sunny summer day
at a time when the wind outside
is wailing like a banshee.
And the sky is nothing but murky
with deep sorrow,
you might just as well
forget about the rainbow
and tomorrow
because tonight
must be a starless night.
And someone must be dreamless
in conjunction with cureless.
Hope you are enjoying a good book of poetry.
Seeing that the beauty
of a white calla lily
can't last longer
than the season of Indian summer,
I can do nothing but collect your laughter
along with the pretty rose color
on your face
in the book of my poetry
sooner rather than later
before it's plucked and put in a vase.
By the way,
my poetry is for those who go astray
in the jungle of a concrete city,
and it's as free
as the blue sky you see.
When early December's withering
like those water lilies in cold weather,
I'm startled to remember
my blissful days are also evanescing
even before I comprehend the meaning
of holding spring dear
while stream water is still clear.
Is it a marvelous feat or miracle?
In a democracy
where everyone should be equal,
but some are richer than a country
whereas others poor as a squirrel.
If you ask me,
I don't mind
who owns the Empire building
providing that I still possess a window
of white clouds, roaming
in the blue carefree canopy.
Once in a while, please remind
the gentle breeze
not to bring in any tinge of sorrow.
I miss April,
which was once in your eye,
so much so that I sigh.
On the distant hill
there must be a maple,
I believe,
shedding leaves now like tears
on my behalf
as if there's no tomorrow
on this somber day.
I guess
you're going to miss
till doomsday
the May sunrise
which was once here to play.
Nevertheless,
I know
I must hang on
like the last leaf
clinging to the ivy vine
in the depth of winter
so as to pass on
the bewitching story of a drifter,
perhaps, sweet as red wine,
perhaps, bitter as lemon.
In the wake of days
of wind and rain,
my friends,
let's step out
to a green meadow,
wearing a Mexican sombrero
to herd the cloud.
Let's step out
to expose all of our sorrow
in the sunshine,
warm and mellow.
Instead of riding horses,
we may lie down
watching flocks of white worriless
roaming about
in the blue heavens
with no post or rail fences.
Let's step out.
Supposing
we may drift off to an exotic land,
don't even feel distress.
They won't go missing,
for the boundless sky is
our pastureland.
So, let's step out.
Since I knew
the meaning of blue.
I've recognized your name.
Yet it's a shame
that I didn't have a clue
why I've never had a liking
for you
especially
when you're shuddering
in the brittle air
on bleak hills and everywhere.
Seeing that
the season
you're blooming
is the season
maple leaves are falling,
I guess
I finally realize the reason
why the wind's weeping
like a willow
and why I'm not willing
to face tomorrow.
Words just fail me
whenever
the fantabulous verse~
April showers bring May flowers~
springs to mind.
It's a pity
that I don't know
who came up with this romantic line,
yet I dreamily know
December rain brings me
nothing but pain.
Coming out of nowhere,
the moonshine in the lane
whispers something
in my ear~
The colder the weather becomes,
the more fragrant the plum blossoms.
Supposing
tranquil beauty
only thrives in the adverse rain,
I'm willing
to shed an ocean of tear
merely to endure this infinite pain
and never complain.
Following the foot steps of April showers,
you were a gazing bud
of May flowers,
waiting to be written on the fragrant leaf
of my book of poetry.
In the wake of December rain,
which brings me nothing but pain,
I'm merely a rusty leaf
waiting to be written in a melancholy leaf
of your book of diary
before falling upon the mud.
I came up with a poem
while taking a walk
in the misty rain,
ethereal
as a puff of smoke,
surreal
as climbing a rainbow.
Come tomorrow,
I'll send it to you.
You needn't rack your brain
or feel blue
while reading
and smiling
at your cozy home.
It's sure to overshadow
all your sorrow.
Gold's definitely sparkling
and dazzling,
but it's a pity
that I'd rather my poetry
to be light as a feather
and ethereal as moonlight.
That's why
it can fly and hover
like a glowing firefly
in the dead of night.
Without precious burden
on my wings,
my soul is left in peace,
and that's the time
my inspiration's ready
to float on air,
and sing like a wind chime
in the breeze.
As the night's still young,
I take a stroll
on a winter street
of a small town.
It being windy and chilly,
I stop for a while,
lifting my head,
and looking up at the night sky,
murky and empty.
Seeing that
there's not a single star,
I long to see the bride in June
so much that
I start searching hard
for what she looks like in my brain,
but in vain.
I can barely remember
love-in-the-mist was once
in season,
but never in December.
On the timeline
you wrote,
"Snacks and peanut candy,
these little things around,
really sweeten life."
If you don't mind,
send me a piece or two
to heal this inner void of mine
when the moon turns blue.
As soon as I'm free,
I'll send you one or two,
the most nostalgic leaves of vine,
to keep you company,
to enrich the odyssey
of your life.
Give me an empty glass
so that I'm free
to fill it with my favorite grape wine,
so that I'm free
to choose the aromatic lemongrass
as Muse of my verse,
so that I'm free
to pen a line or two,
perhaps eternal or blue,
as the evergreen vine.
Glad to read your poetry. You rightly say:
"That's why
it can fly and hover
like a glowing firefly
in the dead of night.
Without precious burden
on my wings,
my soul is left in peace,
and that's the time
my inspiration's ready
to float on air,
and sing like a wind chime
in the breeze."
Thank you, Danik, for your most uplifting feedback. I'll keep searching the beauty in the remaining days of my life and keep writing it down.Quote:
Originally Posted by Danik 2016
If you know
it's a beautiful misunderstanding
that people here often take cosmos flowers
for Persian daisies,
then you should also know
why,
under the bleak sky,
beside a lonely farmhouse,
there's always a field of Persian lasses,
waiting patiently
and quietly
in the winter wind
for their landlord to come home.
I didn't expect today
would be sunny
as a sunny side up I ate yesterday
when it was cold and wet
as a wet fish
on this subtropical island.
So rare and bright is the sunshine,
especially in December,
that I'd like to cut a few patches
with a scissor
and send them to you,
but this plan won't do
just as you can't hold water
with a fishnet.
Hence,
this little poem springs to mind;
enclosed is the sunshine
to share with you.
Hopefully,
it may brings a ray of cheerfulness
to your gloomy day.
Without eating bread
for many a day,
you'll go hungry
and become skinny
as a rake.
Without dipping your head
in the elegance
of poetry
for only a day,
you'll become vulgar
as a monkey
and misery as a wreck.
If there's only one choice
between the two,
I guess,
you'll choose the same
as I do.
Supposing
it's sentimental but true to say
that life is short,
yet beauty is immortal,
then one day
you don't need to sob,
as the wind does in the forest,
the day when I must leave,
like a fading leaf,
drifting in the chilly breeze
and finally
falling onto the ground.
Just pick it up gently,
glue it to a floral vignette
and be free to moon around.
This is so beautiful, angliholic!Quote:
Originally Posted by angliholic
Thank you, Danik, for reminding me of that poem written many years ago. Yes, it's still beautiful to me.Quote:
Originally Posted by Danik 2016
If you happen to see me
lying under a banyan tree
in the light of day,
please don't presume
that I've run out of steam
or feel sleepy.
Neither do I
enjoy the cold winter wind~
I'm just temporarily
running short of inspiration.
Hence,
don't bother to awaken me
so that I may lie here
until the sun's getting too doddery
to shine,
until Persian daisies forget
how to smile,
until a beautiful piece of poetry
leaps to mind.
A sage once told me~
If I could imagine
life's an anthology of poetry,
then it might turn to be
a pleasant feeling
to hear the north wind whistling
down the sky,
to say nothing
of the spring rain
which was easy on the eye.
Just as God gives us the garden
of paradise,
the rain is sure to bring
a smile to every wild flower
in the plain
where there's a river
gurgling
its winding way to the sea.
After doodling a verse,
I suppose
it must be touching
and captivating
as the yellow rose of Texas.
Hence,
I can hardly wait
to read it one more time.
Before finishing the first line,
I fall asleep myself.
The temperature outside
is cold enough
for the most optimistic people
to suffer from depression,
not to mention
this insomnia killer of mine,
which is sure as hell
to bore a normal person to death,
like the last straw
that murders a camel.
The life of a poet is
less glamorous
than that of a beggar.
The latter enjoys at least
three meals a day,
whereas the former at most
one a day.
In the worst case scenario,
a poet may go hungry
for days,
sometimes,
even for months,
without food of inspiration.
No one sees me
stopping by a rice paddy
after harvest
in broad daylight.
The busy sparrows gleaning nearby
must surmise
I'm lonely as lonely can be.
Nevertheless,
the carefree winter breeze
which is basking
in the precious December sunlight
must guess
I'm here simply
to search for poetic muses.
Well,
confused as the confusing clouds
in the sky,
I wonder why
I have Chinese ancestry
whereas
my shadow is of a Bohemian.
It's not necessary
for you to remind me
of the cheerful sunshine of yesterday
because
no matter how warm it was,
it can't drive away the cold front of today.
It's not necessary
for you to remind me
of the yellow flower of yesterday
because
no matter how beautiful it was,
it can't remain forever young as a lass.
I see
there's a wide river
widening
between you and me;
I must admit
it was my wandering spirit
that should
take the blame.
Now that
I've learned
how to play the game,
a prodigal son
returning home,
please give me
one more chance
to erase
the moody weather
from your window pane,
to stretch
my sincerity
across that river,
and to make
a gentle span
for you
to walk on blissfully
into my humble lane
again.
On Christmas Eve morning,
there's nothing
I can do
but miss the sweet morning dew,
but that's not the reason
I'm feeling blue.
It's neither
the weather's getting cold,
nor am I getting old.
But would you
be kind enough to show me
how to craft an intoxicating piece of poetry,
and how to paint a purple daisy
on your face
when the world's getting colorless,
and my imagination lusterless?
Having climbed many a mountain,
having crossed the Pacific ocean,
having been
to England,
even to the promised land,
and back to Buckingham Fountain,
I've never seen
a lady
more happy go lucky
than Lisa.
Her enthusiasm gives forth aroma
more fragrant than
that of Mona Lisa.
A red rose may expire,
but her smiles never retire.
The sun may whine,
but her fervent heart will always shine
during the darkest hour,
sparkling
like a light tower
lest lonely souls might get lost
when the weather's so foul
that there's misty frost.
Cold rain,
blown awry by winter wind,
keeps sprinkling,
flying,
and tapping
on the windowpane.
Simply
at the thought
of stepping outdoors,
I turn timid
as a lamb.
If I can't leave my shadows
here and there
on the quiet lane
that leads to a fantasy world
of mine,
what's the use
of the pen
that used to
spin whimsical poetry
while dreaming
under an evergreen tree?
It's as easy
as you can see
plenty
of artificially beautiful faces
in fancy dresses
in a metropolitan city,
but I firmly believe
you have to leave
for a humble village
in a remote valley
to look for the most sincere smiles
which are worthy
to go a thousand miles.
Perchance,
you adore the wonder
of this world,
and believe in the creator;
you should also love the Lord.
Perchance,
you take a fancy
to my poetry;
then feel free
to fall in love with the beauty
but never me.
My poetry may be
as bewitching
as the sunset glow
in the evening,
but you'll feel absolutely sorrow
if you dear me
because I have nothing
for you
to feed on at dawn
except the sweet morning dew
clinging to a dancing daisy.
I have many a reason
to believe
you're the winter season.
Every so soften,
when you're howling
and roaring
like a north wind,
I make believe
to be an old banyan,
mercifully thick-skinned.
Surrounded by stormy weather,
I keep silent;
it's not because I'm sulky
but because I'm more lenient,
for I still remember
you used to be
beautiful, graceful and tender
like a spring breeze
singing with ease
and I, gleeful as a bee.
When you feel sorrow,
why not take a look at a sparrow?
Easily satisfied with a few grains,
it never brings pains
to mother nature,
let alone causing trouble.
However,
only few people
treasure such a small creature,
harmless and humble.
It's really a shame,
but who should take the blame?
Supposing
you're yearning
for a big feast
on the intoxicating scenery
of snowflakes, gently
swirling
around plum blossoms
in full swing,
at least,
you have to confront
and suffer
the cold front
in the depth of winter
in the first place.