Tag: Writing

Far from the Madding Crowd

In the middle of the sea, I feel peace and freedom.
I am where I’m meant to be, in the water’s kingdom.
Passing waves encircle me and I touch their beauty.
Sea foam, seagulls, salt and me—all I want, forever.

In the middle of the field, I feel joy and wonder,
As I touch the golden corn, as I hear the thunder.
I rejoice in summer rains and I hear the crickets.
Sunflowers and sunlight now whisper sacred secrets.

In the middle of the trees, deep within the forest,
Listening to dancing winds, I am truly restless.
Feet in cold, refreshing springs; bathing in the quiet,
I lie back on soft green moss—berries: black and scarlet.

In the middle of the snow, veils of white surround me,
Snowflakes touch my rosy cheeks, passion thus igniting.
I am where I’m meant to be: wilderness and nature.
I am who I’m meant to be. Artist and creation.

– Patricia

Milestones

In the middle of the forest lies a still and peaceful lake,
Summer, winter—all the seasons—left it sleeping or wide awake.
But in summer, when the beings would rejoice in warmth and sun,
There was magic on its surface; such a story—there is none.

Water lilies showed their beauty—oh, such splendour, such delight!
And the sunlight kissed them—tender, rejoicing in their pure sight.
Such a lively stunning painting was the lake in all its might
And yet—better, for it existed—a breathtaking work of art.

On the lake of such rare beauty lived a tiny, tiny frog,
Making music of its own kind—breaking silence day and night.
It explored the water’s surface which seemed endless for its size.
Every day, it ventured out there, as soon as the sun would rise.

Hopping on the water lilies, it grew tired rather fast,
For they had humongous, green leaves which seemed endless in its eyes.
And yet every day it ventured to explore their kingdom, for
Deep within, it was a being of courage—down to its core.

Every day, there came a challenge like no other it had seen,
Leaping higher, farther, faster, it explored the sea of green.
Every day, it reached new borders—every day, a milestone,
Such was the determination of the bold and tiny frog.

And with every leap of wonder came a cry of victory,
Every now and then, the music would come flowing joyously.
And the tiny frog’s adventure was a journey of the soul,
For it came to know the mysteries of the lake and of its own.

A journey of self-reflection, that of self-discovery.
Every leap would bring it closer to what it was meant to be.
In the middle of the forest, on the surface of a lake
Jumped a mighty and brave being whose spirit was wide awake.

– Patricia

Simplicity. Meaningful.

Erasing the Person—Volition

I rise from the paper that’s home to my figure,
And a new dimension I meet—liberated.
I step away from the drawing to see myself clearer,
I look at myself as I am—eviscerated. ǀ Fine

And I see my world as it is—unaffected
By blindness, by having only those two dimensions.
I now know how to judge my then confusing situation,
And I see all the flaws in my character and decisions.

I thus grab the pencil and accentuate my pale features,
Correct all the flaws in my character—wanting
Improvement and patience, as now I am eager
To better the person I see on the paper.

And by drawing new lines, and by drawing new colour,
By erasing the ones which would hurt those I treasure,
I give form to the person, give life to the figure
That only existed to cry or to smile.

For now, I’ve corrected the person, evolving,
For now, I’ve erased all that mattered in that moment.
I lay back on the paper, resume my existence,
Returning again when that solitude’s needed.

Da Capo al Fine

– Patricia

Erasing the Person

He lay in a puddle of petrified tears,
A look of sheer terror was spread on his face.
He had seen the nightmare, indeed, his worst fears,
He’d looked in the mirror—thus frozen in place.

His mind wandered back to those happier times,
When he was a child with the brightest of minds,
But veils of the present began to appear
And blurry his vision—the memories died.
 
The mirror had shown him a future of void,
A world with no guidance, no presence of mind.
His dreams and the memories would soon all be gone,
Forgetting himself, leaving sanity behind.
 
He’ll only see figures, but none known to him,
The ones he once loved would be shadows—unknown.
They all would be one and the same in his world,
All colours would fade to the beige of the mould.
 
He tried to hold on to his thoughts full of light,
But darkness appeared and began its embrace.
He wanted to fight it, but with weakened soul,
His own features now had become a blurry face.
 
He lay in a puddle of petrified tears,
With a distant gaze in his now blinded eyes;
The veil of oblivion had covered his mind,
He had met with the sickness which brought his soul’s demise.

– Patricia

Echoes in the Rain

In the rain which pours in silence lies a shadow so unnerving;
Nothing moves the broken body, who believes is undeserving.
All it hears is breathless anger pouring acid on the pavement,
Only rain eases his being—cold is what he thus now favours.

He’s a silhouette of fear, burdened by regret and anger.
Shadows of unwanted mercy on his fragile body linger.
He rejects their touch of fire, wanting loneliness forever,
Disregarding their intentions to bring warmth against his tremor.

He lies still and listens closely to the echoes of the raindrops,
Their cadence calming his spirit, feeling so exhilarating.
He lies there, embracing darkness and the quiet which then follows,
Welcoming the flood of tears—anything but short or shallow.

In the rain which pours its echoes lies a shadow so unnerving;
Nothing moves the silent body, who awaits its timely healing.
All it hears are rhythmic echoes falling from a veil of dimness.
He lies there awaiting sunrise and a sky of glowing crimson.

– Patricia

The Pilgrim

His endless journey had begun
Under the reign of midnight suns.
The pilgrim set off seeking truth,
And an adventure thus ensued.

He left behind his home of light,
Forgotten were confusion, fright;
He ventured into the unknown,
Wanting to reach the ebony’s core.

Where everything that is began—
He sought to reach that mythic realm,
The centre of the universe,
His place of birth, his origins.

He passed by new-born, burning stars
And velvet black holes—growing scars,
He saw the passing meteorites
And constellations—so divine.

He felt the present and the past,
He touched the canvas of stardust,
He felt the heat: the burning suns,
The icy cold—he came undone.

He saw it all and understood
What no mere mortal ever would;
The destination of his dreams
Was, in the end, at once revealed.

He travelled to the end of all,
To the beginning, to the core,
The pilgrim who had sought the truth,
Who now eternity understood.

– Patricia

Da Capo al Poetry

Dim lights, pencil and a paper
And the music which completes me.

Calling unto words of amber,
Aching for a touch of sacred,
Painting feelings—notes and poems
Of another world—forever.

All I am, two joys colliding:
Love for poetry and music.

Painting tremor, vibrant spirit,
Oasis is the written canvas;
Echoing through my whole being,
Tender notes are born, igniting
Realigned suns—constellations.
Yes, I yearn for words and music.

I went back to the beginning,
I have found myself again.

– Patricia

A new beginning?

I see the mirror yet again,
Its gleaming surface—crystal clear.
I see myself, familiar face
Of constant suffering and fear.

I see behind me—burdened past,
Cold stares which pierce my fragile skin.
I wish to leave it all behind,
To seek a way to be redeemed.

I see my present, see my past,
My eyes are stuck, I can’t move on.
There is no future here for me,
Yet here I stay—frozen, alone.

I see the day, I see the night,
They pass by me, yet time is still.
Confusion flares through saddened eyes…
The distant scent of daffodils.

I was, I am, but will I be?
I cannot see past blurry glass.
The future I cannot control,
Only this moment which will pass.

I close my eyes and hope to break
The endless cycle of self-doubt.
What will I face? Awakened hope?
Or ancient fears which will devour
What’s left of this unyielding mould?

– Patricia