A world without creativity

    Let us examine ourselves
    What is something that make us differ?
    Differ from others
    Differ from their opinions
    From their thoughts and attributes
    It is the level of creativity.
    Creativity, the fulcrum of life
    Without it, the world is grey
    Dark grey
    Creativity is the sun
    Shining its rays on us
    Boxed, our lives would have been
    Shattered our dreams
    Creativity as we know it
    Would have ceased to gleam.


    Death

    Life as she knew has gone away
    With the Almighty she is to stay
    Heavenly life enjoying anew
    Memories of her we all shall carry through
    For life passes away like a cloud's trace
    But memories are immortal, a phase


    Poetry is ...

    Poetry is the testimony of what is around us.
    It is the feeling of peace
    A moment of expression
    A slice of heaven
    It is the way God communicates
    A language which means nothing if you lack creativity
    Not sophisticated, but sincere
    Poetry is emotions
    Bundled in words and soaked in all the intangibles
    Not perishable, but just made up of different parts


    Wintery Train Days

    The gloomy dementors have covered the night sky
    with cold winds. The winter,
    has arrived upon us.
    Here I am, sitting in a train.
    From Britomart to Manukau.
    'Stopping at all stations' says the cold automated voice.
    The train stops, the conductor blows the whistle
    and away it goes. To a different station.
    I hear the sounds of the engine roaring.
    The wheels turning, as it strikes against the iron rails
    The sun has gone to bed, tucked in by the clouds
    The moon has not yet greeted the night sky.
    Just clouds. Dark grey clouds
    Invading the wintery night sky
    Giving clues of tomorrow's outcome.


    Winter

    I stood there shadowing the happening:
    The clouds, like lurking demons,
    About to strike like predators;
    Fields, streets covered in a white blanket.
    Casting my vision upon the lakes to find
    A glass coffin ... trapping water
    In quest of the noisy shadows beside the stream
    Where branches are thrown over the pool
    Branches swaying from side to side hence in the windy frozen wasteland
    Rocks beside the brook paved with coldness.
    Looking up I see birds in a V formation,
    Smoke like an outstretched arm reaching for the sky,
    Contaminating the air
    With gloom and despair.


    Time

    It takes no sides and has no enemies because it is just.
    Time.
    Has no
    friends and still
    hangs around with all.
    A river rushing reluctantly rigorously,
    time has no time to waste.
    Time is money some say, but never
    understand what they mean by this wonderful saying.
    Methods of time have changed but time itself has
    stayed the same. A little sleep and folding of hands
    and poverty hunts you down. Look at the ants, the creation
    of God. They have no chief or king, yet they work persistently.

    In Time they are able to gather according to what they will need
    and enough to last the whole winter season. Learn from them
    We must.


    Death

    What a sensation!
    The curtains are drawn and the show has finished.
    However, there is no audience. No applause.
    Life as you know it has ended.
    The bright, sunshine-filled day
    Is now a dark, silent graveyard.
    That this flesh should perish quite,
    And all of life's spring cease to flow.

    Thoughts cease, and immortality no longer
    Lingers in the mind lying in silence.
    The sands of time will not flow back.

    As it lies in the silent grave,
    Howling winds over the carcass,
    Nothing is heard of or done
    As it is wrapped in the ropes of flora.


    Dear Friend, From France

    Encapsulated in a wooden
    chrysalis by incommunicable depression,
    writing to you my first letter.
    Dying to listen to a "How are you?"
    like a wilted rose I have ceased to bloom.
    Like a starving animal I have decayed vigorously.
    Moments of delight have perished.
    Beaune has shown my past; how
    I sat and stared at the Yonne River.
    I am ever so unapparent now that
    I can hide my emotions.
    My mind is empty, but
    thoughts provokingly question my anxiousness.
    I can return to you and
    let my friendship be known.
    Yet this abyss cannot be bridged.
    Love

    Your Friend
    From Paris


    Who am I?

    The gusty, jagged blow upon the mast,
    Gratis howls of the raging oceans
    Creating spectacles of soldiers
    Of the times of 87 B.C.
    Funderfully, enchanted sediment, Selah!
    Like dew in early morning grass,
    Mild resentment of the savoury aroma
    Grousing shrill between fissure in crags
    To a placid breeze upon the face of land.
    What am I?
    Wind


    Your heart is—

    Different and unusual,
    Jittery and jolly,
    Willing and can.
    Prepared and dominant,
    Alive and well,
    Peaceful and in harmony.
    Filled with drama.
    Weak at times and
    Strong at other times.
    Skipping beats and
    Occupying the blood.
    Jam-packed with ideas.
    Fresh as lettuce.
    Aspiring with ambition,
    Greasy with knowledge,
    Uncivilized as pigs.
    Without a leash.
    Captures an inhumane emotion – love.

    But most of all it needs fortification,
    For out of it flow the issues of life.


    Forgiven

    What can't be lived with
    Should be forgiven.
    What is often forgiven
    Should be forgotten.
    What can't be forgotten
    Should be given away to someone who can.



    When I needed help

    When I needed help I went to my parents.
    I knew they knew that they were smarter.
    But they told me to go to the teachers.

    So I went to the teachers.
    I knew they knew that they were smarter.
    But they told me to go to the priests.

    So I went to the priests.
    I knew they knew that they were smarter.
    But they told me to go to God.

    So I went to God.
    I knew that he knew that he was smarter.
    He said, "Where's your faith?"


    Life is ...

    Life is like a bowl of steamed rice:
    You eat it while it's hot, or else there is no special taste to it.

    Life is like a salmon:
    You try to jump through the current, and you make it,
    But it's no use because you get eaten by the bear.

    Life is like a tree planted by the river side:
    As long as there is water, the tree stands.

    Life is like a computer:
    You must keep saving your work, or else it will be lost forever once it shuts down.

    Life is like a mirror:
    It only shows you what it wants to show you and not what you want to see.

    Life is like a dark room where you have to find the light switch in order to see.


    A child

    Born out of seeds.
    Different seeds.
    An innocent bud, opening in the world.
    Not knowing of existing devouring beasts.
    Born of a pure heart,
    With original sin.
    Born with a new perspective,
    A new dream, desire
    Slowly sprouting into maturity,
    But suddenly creeping along notorious norms.
    And gone!
    A child no more.


    Love is Patient

    Ah – the physics of love!
    Love is patient,
    Kind, envies no one.

    Love bears all things
    Magnetic.

    The salmon that swims,
    swims to get to you –
    Only in the process
    to be devoured by distrust.

    It breaks me
    To let you go. Patience is hard work.
    I envy patience –
    A sin, you may call it,
    but the truth.


    A dark gloomy day

    Yesterday the sky spoke to me.
    It told me that tomorrow he was going to cry.
    I asked him why?
    He didn't reply.

    The next day it rained.
    It started with some slow showers.
    And it grew and grew
    Until large droplets of water
    Filled the pot holes on the road.

    He cried and he cried and he cried
    Each drop I saw, showed me his pain.
    But I couldn't do anything
    Everyone whined when he cried.
    But no one knew why the sky would cry.


    The little girl

    I saw a little girl
    Selling papayas by the side of the road.
    She was a sweet little girl
    She sold papayas every day.

    I met her once and introduced myself
    She told me her name was Lucy
    I asked her where she lived.
    She told me under the bridge

    Lucy told me about her parents
    How they had died
    Now, she is all alone
    Selling papayas by the side of the road.
    Ronal Reddy


    The missing tree

    There is mum, dad, me, little brother Bill and little sister Anna
    There is everyone,
    but the Nectarine tree is missing in the photo.
    It was always there when I was young.
    I dream about it always.
    Its sweetness.
    Its smoothness.
    The stories about dad he reminded me of.
    And the nectarine juice that dribbled out my mouth when I took a bite.
    It's gone now.
    Never to be seen again.
    Just a memory, forever
    To be shared.
    I could meet Him again
    But death, would have to be my best friend.


    Old photographs

    Today was my grandmother's birthday
    She took out her golden bejeweled box
    Full of her treasures.
    Her moist burgundy colored lipstick
    Her necklace,
    And an old photograph of my grandparents

    They looked happy
    Through the stained, old, dog eared photograph.
    I saw the photo
    But she saw through it
    Her day, filled with laughter
    The picture came to life
    It captured their likeness,
    Their memories
    The photograph is a bridge for her through her lonely abyss,
    Into Her world.
    Which she found in her golden bejeweled box
    Full of her treasures.


    The broken heart

    A broken heart can rarely be mended.
    Cannot be stitched together
    And cannot be glued easily.

    A page washed along the banks
    Cannot be retrieved of the information it once showed,
    Only time could turn the tides, which it won't.

    Trust is the remedy which is bought without money.
    Dear is the cost yet shows no loss,
    Only profits, up.
    And therefore a heart broken no more.
    Sewn together with the,
    Thread of trust.


    Educated or Influenced?

    There I sat in the church.
    Listening, to the preacher as he
    Linked all his words to God.
    He is talking, about
    The creator and the creation
    The Risen Lamb
    The Prince of Peace
    The King of Jews.
    But by all this,
    Am I to be educated or influenced?


    Dreams

    I want to go to France and see such
    A majestic tower, sitting on its own.
    Absorb the vibe and return with a thrill of exuberant experience.

    I want to sit and enjoy a pizza or spaghetti and meatballs
    In an Italian restaurant in Italy,
    Listening to Nessun Dorma!

    I want to soar the mirrored sea:
    The excitement of leaving the ground with a roar,
    And landing with the joy of having felt the blades cut through the air.

    I want to open the eyes of my exploration and
    Discover the heart of the Amazonian jungle –
    To unravel the secrets of nature –

    Search with a found heart,
    Think without thinking,
    Dream without doubting.


    Blossom

    Flowers yawn in their slumber,
    Trees shake their arms to rid of strains,
    River starts to race at normal pace,
    And the ground blossoms new grass.

    It is this scene we adore
    The splendor of spring comes forth
    Spreading the pollen of freshness,
    Filling with wonder and beauty.

    The sensation of peace and quietness,
    Robins and bluebirds singing as they nourish their children
    Sunshine beaming from above, piercing the leaves
    Reflecting on the dew fresh on the grass.

    The heaven's firmament is clear blue,
    With not a single sign of a cloud.
    Birds soaring in the air, animals awakening,
    Each emigrating to their pride.

    Feeling the air so pure and fragrant,
    Fruits unravel the flavor of the season
    By the gleam of the morning cinders
    Blossom has blossomed.


    Love?

    I remember the days just like yesterday
    When it all happened
    Like two swans
    We shall never depart he told me

    For better or for worse he told me
    But here I am
    Alone in my worse times
    Without the vowed man

    My first child he told me
    Would be named after him
    But when the time came for his arrival
    My 'husband' just left

    In sickness and in health he told me
    He would be there
    But when I became ill
    He disappeared

    I live alone now
    Without my 'husband'
    When people ask me of my true love
    I ask them, 'What love?'


    Night beauty

    The moon portrays the beauty of the night,
    The waters below charm the pohutukawa next to them
    To sway from side to side to the voodoo of the wind,
    Instructing moths to dangle in moonlight galore.

    The owl hooting in the moonlight, creating
    Lovely night rhythm filled with mystery;
    Mountains creating spooky distraction,
    Howling the fiction of the night.

    Flowers prefer to smooch the ground
    Than stand with pride in the malicious night;
    Breaking the silence of the hour
    Pops out a creature of utter annoyance.

    The night stays pure and still
    Until the shadows of the sun pull out their swords
    To strike against the dark,
    The rays invade the dark and declare: Retreat!



    Autumn

    Oh splendid autumn!
    Ooze out your beauty,
    Like mist upon placid morn,
    Like waves upon sandy beaches.

    Bewilder a giddy peace
    Upon the vain earth,
    Allowing the sun to cast its final rays
    Without cease.

    Night falls and the chilled air creeps in between,
    Sending a frisson down the spinal cord of nearby lakes
    To presage the arrival of the arctic –
    Oh, why must the autumn bring about cold?

    The sun hides its face when the clock strikes six;
    Visualize the lurking of winds, cold winds.
    Leaves whisper the sounds of our history;
    Beauty grows weak, covered in snow it withers.



    What is love?

    Is it a word without zest; or a labyrinth, or a lacerating emotion?
    Simply deep affection or fondness for each other.
    Love feels like trampling on morning dew
    On the lush green grass
    With our naked feet,
    Feeling the emotion cast out
    Like waves soaked at the margins of the sea.
    Looks like a sprinting cheetah
    Hunting with an exhilarated heart;
    Smells like roses cross-pollinated with violet flowers
    From the courts of Aphrodite herself.
    Tastes like sweet honey
    Marvelously derived from the beehive;
    Sounds like jingling church bells,
    Filling every moment with adoration.


    Winter

    Cold, damp
    Freezing, cooling, shivering
    Soup, apple pie, ice-cream, sun-screen lotion
    Tanning, hydrating, swimming
    Sunny, humid
    Summer


    A season?

    Love to me is just a season
    Each comes with its terms
    Seldom does it stay to please
    Often it fades and goes

    Hard to catch and difficult to brew
    Yet the strongest taste I would ever know
    For it is like a barking dog
    Which seldom lays a bite

    Stencils of love many have produced
    To implement their marks
    But a few are real gold
    Bite and see, to know if it was worth the sold


    My love

    Each day I would dream about her
    So beautiful she was
    She was ever so opulent
    So bright, cheerful and flowery
    Luscious and soft was her touch
    Goosebumps were discovered on my arms
    I never lusted for no one
    Midori, she was called
    In the morning she filled me with warm energy
    And at night her cool charms put me to bed
    But she was dying
    Each day she talked about how she was treated
    I listened, but nothing I could do
    For part of her death I was, somehow