Each new day is so fleeting:
like a busy bee flitting
between its sweet hits, floating,
never slowing nor quitting.
Life’s made of days flying:
sighed hellos and then goings.
Through each room we go gliding:
near colliding, then dying.
19 APR 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, brevity, illusion, Irish verse forms, life, poetic forms, rannaigheacht mhor, time
Some say that simple ways are still the best;
as we add complication, things decline.
How we live puts that principle to test:
it’s so subjective, what one thinks is fine.
So, adding complication wreaks decline?
Stop making babies; that’s simple enough.
It’s so subjective, what one thinks is fine;
applying principles yourself – that’s tough.
Stop making babies; but that’s not enough.
End all this mad charade of cheating death.
Applying principles yourself is tough;
it’s work that needs more effort than just breath.
End all this mad charade of cheating death!
The purpose of this life is growing old.
it’s work that needs more effort than just breath;
those simple ways, if possible, are best.
11 APR 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, illusion, life, living, Malayan verse forms, pantoum, poetic forms, simplicity
Believe it: in a moment’s time,
what plans you’ve made can all unwind
and with a splash of turpentine
your canvas is again a blank.
No matter the expense and time
in pigment, brushes, sweat and wine,
no other act is as sublime:
your canvas is again a blank.
Perhaps it’s opportunity:
to start again, to disagree
with first intent, to be set free.
Your canvas is again a blank.
Or maybe just a timely prick;
ego’s balloon deflates so quick.
True art employs such dastard tricks:
your canvas is again a blank.
The simple blinking of an eye,
and one’s whole lifetime flashes by
before an ounce of paint is dry,
your canvas is again a blank.
The painting is your legacy,
but won’t reflect the means, you see,
only the end is guaranteed:
your canvas is again a blank.
31 MAR 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, death, French verse forms, futility, illusion, kyrielle, life, mortality, painting, poetic forms, tabla rasa
What is this thing life?
Even stuck still in amber
the passage of time remains.
What use is living?
Even the largest river
remembers the breeze touching.
What is this thing life?
Keeping track of each minute
wastes yet another minute.
30 MAR 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, breath, Japanese verse forms, katauta, life, mondo, poetic forms, time
Our life and death for a while leave
some tiny mark on the earth,
a minute’s trace of spent breath
before we repose in death.
In that lifetime, so fleeting,
what we think we truly need
escapes from us at such speed
we cry out at useless feet.
08 MAR 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, breath, death, englyn lleddfbroest, life, poetic forms, Welsh verse forms
What use worry
with its hurry –
finding danger
in fate’s finger,
and with fear’s gloss
opting for loss
instead of bliss?
Why choose to miss
life’s subtle tastes?
What a sad waste –
seeing devils
in time’s revels,
and in life, care,
not for what’s there
but hidden threats,
not happened yets;
with only death
chasing each breath,
filling days out
with crippling doubt.
21 FEB 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, cywydd deuair fyrion, death, doubt, hesitation, life, poetic forms, Welsh verse forms
What is life, unless
it seeks happiness
and the sweet caress
of contentment?
What good is one’s strain
in harness, kept chained?
Is what we each gain
self-evident?
What else is out there
past temporal cares,
waiting unaware
our finding?
How long will it wait,
our ebullient fate?
Will its revealed state
be blinding?
Just how will we know,
in that diffuse glow,
the truth and what’s so
from lying?
Suppose in the end,
that all life depends
on what we pretend
is dying?
15 FEB 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, cyhydedd hir, death, goodness, life, perception, poetic forms, time, Welse verse forms
