I just submitted my recording. I consider it an honor.
The older I get
The more I think about
on that one way road
I count the seeds I should have sown
and all the dreams
I abandoned on the crossroads
Sometimes my brain just wants to explode
There are so many mysteries
yet to decode
and memories begin to erode.
I think about time all the time.
Days fly by
minutes and hour seem shorter
And after all is said and done
All I want to do is make good
of the time
write a poem everyday
and on occasion make it rhyme.
Sometimes I go to my favorite place;
silently and all alone.
no fancy name given
no signs to direct me there
no houses, no people
simply a natural space
in which to roam.
If ever you should need to go there
I will gladly show you the way
but there is one thing I must say
all you really need is to close your eyes
take three deep breaths
and wish yourself away.
* I often have dreams where I am just walking through beautiful and peaceful landscapes. The painting is one that depicts my latest dream.
I am happy to announce I am now a Goodreads Author. So please for those of you who have been so kind to buy my books and for those who buy them in the future, I will appreciate a review of my books.
Haiku Moments is available at barnesandnoble.com
The Secret Life of Mandalas
My brother passed away 21 years ago to the day and just two days before his passing we had a very long telephone conversation. I did not know it then but he was saying goodbye. We talked about everything. The one thing that still resonates is what he said a few minutes before we finished our long talk, “You only live once kiddo.”
I am reminded every day that life is too short and that we must live the present, the now, mindful of what matters the most to us. We must make time to look at the view and relish the beauty right smack in front of you. Learn to shut-off the electronics for a while and use the time devoted to keeping up with your Facebook posts to actually talk with you family members. We post the most attractive messages to share with friends but how often do we say those sentiments face to face. Out loud?
I painted the following and called it happiness. Take a deep breath, and be happy. Don’t wait until tomorrow because “you only live once kiddo” and life is too darn short. Peace!
The Bugle Call
It is a melancholy,
yet a comforting sound,
a sobering Call
that announces the fall
of a gentle warrior:
a brave soul,
perhaps too young,
to know how finite,
the summons will be.
I hear that song again
repeating an inquisitive lyric
“War, what is good for?”
My response is always the same.
I wonder about him
all the time
that Unknown soldier
and the one I knew well too
who chose to be remembered
the next to last day in May,
waiting to be lifted
his last wish comes true.
In Memory of my nephew Ivan.
a sweet memory visits me
I could feel her hug me tight
and I feel free
to let go of my fears.
I re-blogged this poem in honor of my mother. I can’t imagine what she would say about all that is happening right now. I hope she is not too worried.
Coming to America
She was only 18 years old
Her heart raced in her chest
like galloping stallions on the finca
they left on the island of emerald-green.
Soon their ship would pass by Lady Liberty;
All decks were packed with passengers
Some would salute proudly,
others knelt thankfully
as if at church,
but she simply held her breath
like when you get ready to
blow-up a balloon at a birthday party.
Her dreams danced in her head
like her favorite dancers Fred Astaire
and Ginger Rodgers.
She envisioned herself looking out
her bay window framed with lace curtains
as her two young girls jumped rope.
She imagined her Cape Cod home
surrounded by a three-foot white picket fence,
daffodils and daisies leaning comfortably against it.
That was her American Dream.
She knew there was hard work ahead
No one said it would be easy
her heart reminded her everyday
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After I wrote The Role of a Poet, I found this post that relates to the premise.
How do you want to be remembered? asked the poet
There were three poets, one doctor and two teachers present to respond to the poet’s question.
Finally after a long silence and obvious pondering the doctor says, “I want to be remembered as someone who took my oath seriously.
One poet said, ” I want to be remembered as a poet who wanted to promote peace.”
The other poet said, “I will be remembered as the king of the couplet.”
The remaining poet said, ” I hope people will remember me as the simple poet.”
Then the two teachers looked at each other politely and gestured one another to speak first.
After a few seconds one teacher speaks. “I want to be remembered for my patience,” she said.
The other teacher remains pensive for a few more seconds. She says, “I hope that the students I was not able…
View original post 174 more words
I often ask myself what is the role or job of the poet? Each time the response depends on what is happening in the world and in my personal life. I ask other poets the same question. Sometimes I wish I could ask my favorite poets, especially those who became well-known after they passed. I could imagine their reaction when they learn in their after life that people finally get and appreciate the poems they wrote.
As I pondered the question I went back to my collection of poetry books and looked for some insights. Inspired by poet’s biographies and other readings, I wrote a poem that hopefully answers the question. I mean if you have ever asked yourself what is the role of the poet.
The Role of the Poet
I believe the world needs a poet more today
It needed one yesterday as well
because a poet is one to tells
truths we may not want to hear
a poet brings to light what is most dear
and helps us to face fear
A poet brings you back into your own life
and teaches you how to breathe in and out
in stillness and in meditation
while you listen carefully to your breath and heart beat
and to the divine explanation of why we are all here.
A poet is a little god
who soothes your soul
and lets you peek into life’s crystal ball
to see yourself for the very first time
A poet sings the songs that make the world go round
and says what matters in free verse or rhyme
a poet knows how to expertly use every utterance and sound
in alliteration or onomatopoeia or assonance
and when it comes to choosing
the right meter
who else can we possibly trust
It does not matter what form a poem takes
A poet must not mistake
an epic, a limerick or an ode
As long as a poet can bring back the spring
in the middle of winter.
A poet can make you sing
and help you see the purpose of a fly
and you can either believe every word
or decide to defy
its relevance or ambiguity
but we must admit the poet’s acuity
for words and how to use them in a soliloquy.
Being a poet is not an easy job
a poet can make you smile
or make your heart throb
A poet can also make you think
about so many things that need thinking
and when you don’t understand
the message it can really stink
but as for me
I still hope to be
a poet someday.
random thoughts, creative writing
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