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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?