Poetry – Page 7 – Da Capo al Poetry

Creation and Mould

I want to write the stories of the old,
To tell the lives of people—long ago,
I want to write new stories to be sung,
Of old and new, the future and the past.
I want to write and write. Yet I stay still…
The quill is white and silent. I am mould.

I want to write the feelings which are born
Inside the carcass which contains my soul.
I want to tell the feelings of all those
Surrounding me—their sorrows and their joys.
I want to write—the paper lies untouched…
The quill is white, unmoving. I am still.

I want to write: the universe, the stars,
The galaxies—all sworn to secrecy,
The world within and all those which exist
Between reality and never-ending dreams.
I want to write, to leave their legacy…
The quill is white, untainted by my touch.

I want to tell the journey of the soul
With all its unmasked facets—as it is.
I want to write the many thoughts I have,
To write them down, thus giving birth to words.
I want to write—the paper shines so bright…
The quill is white, so close yet far away.

It seems as though my fingers are too dark
To want to taint the pure and silky white.
My thoughts are thus imprisoned in my mind,
Too dangerous to ever be set free.
So, I wait—still, dark as the never-ending night…
The quill is white. We’re silent. I am mould.

– Patricia

Acrostic

A challenge is born in the quiet night,
Creation belongs to the curious mind.
Rejoicing in limits—for they set him free,
Of another world. The poet thus breathes.
Surreal the peace which governs the world,
The storm that’s inside him to thunders gives birth.
In moulding the tight chains, he knows he is free,
Creating his rhythm towards liberty.

– Patricia

Reflection

Redeem yourself—when all seems to be lost,
Even the shadows left the empty carcass.
Forgot yourself—no future and no past
(You)
Levitate between nightmares and an empty canvas.
Ethereal worlds, your being is amidst
(The)
Crevices of imagination and reality.
Taking the truth of who you are from both those worlds,
Inspired by the mirrors of infinity.
Ongoing trials—you know once again—
Negate your sense of vast confusion. They show you who you are.

– Patricia

Summer Nights

On a summer night, the child
Gazed at twinkling stars above.
He laid on a golden haystack,
Listening to crickets chirp. ǀ Fine

Suddenly, from veils of darkness,
Falling stars began to dance,
Heading towards the world of humans—
All asleep but one who dreamt.

He jumped down, touching the soft grass,
And began to chase the stars.
He would find out where they landed
And would watch their final dance.

So, he ran through fields of harvest,
Through the village, past his home,
Through the mountains and the forests,
Only looking to the sky.

Never tired, filled with wonder,
He gained strength from watching them.
Barefoot, but not feeling sharp stones,
Not needing to stop or rest.

He ran till he reached the sea shore,
Standing now on golden sand,
Where water began its kingdom,
Where the bright stars would soon land.

He watched as they touched the water,
Disappearing in the night.
One by one, their first encounter
Was also the last of this kind.

When the last star met the cold waves,
It was dark again on Earth.
Gazing back at constellations,
The child followed them back home.

He laid down between his parents,
In the quiet of their home.
Just before the sunrise started,
Just before the crack of dawn.

He was fast asleep before that,
Entering the world of dreams.
Till nightfall would come back once more,
He dreamt of stars being born.

Da Capo al Fine

– Patricia

Humans

Some seek great fortune in their life on Earth,
Some want to perish as soon as they’re born.
Others embrace their journey with delight,
And others live with evil thoughts, deformed.

Some only seek the power which they think
Will give them something meaningful to hold,
Some seek the praises all others can give
And never stop to question what they’re told.

Some dare to dream and act upon their dreams,
Believing in themselves and having faith.
Others—so sceptical—think life only deceives
And feed their gloomy thoughts until too late.

Some seek the moment, never thinking twice
What legacy they’ll leave in this huge world,
While others never seem to have the time
To stop and smile, to cherish what they behold.

And only one or two in this enormous world
Won’t be forgotten when the sun of life then sets.
Ephemerality—the seal of passing mould,
Posterity—the blessing few possess.

– Patricia

Intrusive Thoughts

First, it happened when she smiled
At a lovely blossomed rose.
“So delicate and so pretty!”
Cut it! said a passing thought.

It came quickly and was gone then,
Quick as the death it had claimed.
She forgot about it soon, then,
As it wasn’t hers at all.

The next time such thought appeared,
She was chatting with her friend.
Suddenly, mid-conversation:
You’re so fake! You just pretend!

This time, it lingered a moment
Before being gone again.
She acknowledged its existence,
But quickly ignored it, then.

Third time was when she was swimming:
What if you just stayed down here?
She just swam up to the surface,
This time feeling bits of fear.

“I’m not sad and I’m not angry,
Nor depressed or hurting, so
Why do thoughts like this appear?
Is there something wrong with me?”

Time and time again she noticed
That such thoughts would come again:
Sudden, real and disturbing,
And nothing of what she felt.

One time, strolling through the city,
One time, when feeding her pet,
With her family or driving,
At night, when the sun would set.

One time, watching children playing,
Or when basking in the sun,
When embracing her grandparents
Or when hugging her dear mom.

Push them! Hurt them! It’s so easy,
Look at them, so vulnerable.
All it takes is one short second
And then it would all be done.

Drive over the edge—so simple.
She stepped on the brake so hard:
Breathing heavily, she started
Questioning her state of mind.

Troubled and concerned, she started
Doubting that she knew herself.
For some time, she felt like she had
Lost her sense of who she was.

Till one day when she decided
To accept them as they were.
She would never act upon them;
They just came and they just were.

Coming, going, she would know them,
Yet she knew herself, as well.
She kept living, breathing, smiling,
Each time bidding them farewell.

– Patricia

Wishing Well

The little girl was sent for water,
To fetch some from the village well.
Skipping away on dusty, dry roads,
The jug she carried in her hand.

The summer sun—burning like fire—
Prolonged the never-ending drought,
As fields of golden corn desired
The missing rain, the stormy clouds.

Joyful arrived the little girl, then,
Looking around for signs of life:
Driven away by reigning heatwaves,
All others sought shadow, not light.

As thirsty crickets ceased their chirping,
The little girl rejoiced in peace.
She gazed into the well—so quiet—
And then began to sing her wish.

“I’m wishing,” sang she as she smiled,
“I’m wishing,” came the echo back,
And all the birds that heard her singing
Came closer, chirping with delight.

And so came she each day, excited
To make her wish and to rejoice
In all the magic which the village,
The air, the nature offered her.

The cool, deep well kept all her secrets,
Singing them back only to her.
The sun governed deserted dirt roads—
Her wishes belonged to the well.

– Patricia

Left Behind

Flying over peaceful meadows,
Lonely bird was left behind.
Desperate to catch the others,
Every breath is petrified.

Broken wing and broken spirit,
Fighting to catch up to them,
Lonely swallow fights each moment
To stay flying in the air.

Yet the earth sends endless whispers,
Calling it to stop and rest.
Broken wing receives the calling,
As the heart pounds in the chest.

Yet the spirit fights to gather
All the ounce of strength it has,
Not wanting to stop—each second
Brings it closer to its kind.

Falling, rising, wing and spirit
Fight to have complete control.
On the tired, breathless swallow
Cruel defeat then takes its toll.

And, accepting autumn, winter,
The bird stops and rests at last,
Wounded, lonesome and discouraged,
With its mind caught in the past.

While the flock will have a future,
It will die here all alone,
On the long-forgotten meadows…
Oh, the pitiful, poor soul…

Waiting in the quiet meadows,
It then hears the howling winds.
Won’t be long now, winter’s near,
It shall meet eternal spring…

– Patricia

Letter to Myself

Dear Me,

I’m writing to tell you it’s good to be back,
The pain you have suffered wasn’t in vain.
I’ve been gone for so long, but now here I am,
Accepting the scars, the sorrows, the disdain.

I never meant to be gone for so long,
I’m sorry. I know you felt lost and depressed.
I’m sorry I forgot where I truly belong.
I left you alone and got lost in a trance…

I know you felt lonely, abandoned and scared,
Anxiety lurking wherever you looked.
In searching for me, you forgot who you were
And grabbed onto others in your search for the truth.

I know how much you hated that you felt insecure,
Despising yourself for falling so low,
For seeking approval from all but yourself,
For not knowing your value, for how desperate you were.

I know. And I love you. I’m finally home,
I’m here to support you through no matter what.
It’s alright, you’re still you—undone, beautiful.
I love and accept you; I embrace all your thoughts.

I love you. I love you! I mean it so much!
I know who you are and the lessons you’ve learned.
Together—I promise—we’ll find our way out,
Together—a team. I’m awake and you’re strong.

We’ll fight through the darkness, through fears—we are bold.
You make the decisions, I’ll follow prepared.
We’re in this together, I—the shield, you—the sword,
We complete each other. We love and we dare.

With Love,
Me

P.S.: Alis volat propriis.