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Poems

Our Anthurium Like Heart



All races give out rays of light
Under a sun that rises for everyone
And stars that shine brightly for everybody.

And what about the plants, the trees?
Same too, you see, they appeal to all of us –
We’re just different colors, sizes, & shapes
Different types of body embodiment.

The ocean rests there, extending itself till horizon
For the eye of everyone who surrenders to beauty
And for those that mesmerize at the miracle of life.

And then it dawns on everyone, everything
As our tears look alike like diamonds
That cascade down on those cheeks of us
While our Anthurium like heart blooms in same soil.

I would tell you too of the beauty of our variances,
Of all these mysteries that make us up
And of that blood like magma that streams in us –
That unfortunately erupts oftently, with ache and hate.

I don’t hate you brother, I don’t hate you sister –

My whiteness, my blackness, my yellowness, my redness,
My coffeeness, my greenness, my contrasts, my uniqueness.

I don’t hate you brother, I don’t hate you sister –

My querness, my disabilities, my loveliness,
Our weaknesses, our weaknesses, our weaknesses.

I don’t hate you brother, I don’t hate you sister –

We are only one tiny drop in that ocean of life,
Making one member, linked, linked.

And when I finally go to rest, I return to our ocean, mingling as one.

I love you brother, I love you sister.

                             /

If you see the uniqueness, if you see beauty, if you see intelligence, if you see the richness, if you see the love, in everybody else, then you’ll be beautiful, you’ll be intelligent, you’ll be rich, you’ll be loved, you’ll be unique. These are the magical words I silently repeat everyday in my head – that one law of attraction that I try to practice, though how difficult it is.

Perhaps I am the leaf, perhaps a bud, or the root, that holds on firmly to a stem. Or perhaps a hand, a finger, a tiny cell, a little bacteria – a function of that one body!

I think that the anthurium plant is an interesting metaphor to describe the human race . . . don’t you think so?

Categories
Poems

The Sequential Dream I Made Of An Abacus

😩I am busy these days – helping my children with their lessons at home, writing, and masterminding new plans. And yes, my dreams are often very weird… most of the time with calculations, which in reality are my worst nightmare.

i

I try to count –
One, two, three, four, five, six Learning calculation;
Take that one bead I found,
And plus one more around,
There you are, it makes a two.

On my wooden abacus, there I slide the beads,
Red, Blue, Yellow, Green,
Learning calculation.
There pops out the numbers in colors,
In my twinged mind filled with confusion.

These all that gives what’s equal,
Trying to confuse my mind even more,
What I may say about it –
I and the world of digits don’t get along very well,
I prefer the formulations
That emanates from alphabets.

ii
The arithmetician tried to show me the realm of all his calculations,
Ideas that intersect to make a web,
The power of the alphanumeric.
But my mind dreams in images,
Which is much less boring than the mathematician’s integers;
But then, what secrets link those that see
Beyond the forms of things. Spit out,
Beyond the numbers. Chewed out,
Beyond the sentences. Flamed out.

iii
There stood I pale and incensed,
With my mind blowing out nums;
Blowing out nums I don’t logicize.
My mind’s nestle the mistake of logic,
Logic that strays into that dreamer’s eyes,
Eyes that’s black contoured of fatigue
And of the concentration to answer
to nullify or equalize,
I found it was all of a nightmare
My abacus in my bare hands
I try to count, dreamily senseless.

iv
The abacus sits on the corner of a desk
The child needs me to help them count,
My bed is still a mess when days break
And my heart pulls out like daunt
Seriously thinking that it’s no fun

I slide the colorful playful beads
On the wooden abacus that still sits
In a little corner of a white office
Whose circled panes seem to miss
Of the warmth of the throning sun

In the end, with the abacus at hand
I teach un-merry to the curious child
Some calculations that seem to bend
Unrevealed matrices that openly hide
More of coming formulations undone

The abacus sits in the corner of a desk
Alongside some books and other carnets;
Carnets that the child curiously open
Happy now am I, till the coming dusk
To read merrily, holding my pen.

Categories
Poems

A Letter To …….

Black and white photo of a withered flowered branch on a handwritten letter note,  and pen
When will we gain enlightment?

We are merry-go-rounds floating above the ground,

Little shingles shining in the night;

Foams too, escaping till the landscape.

We are closed cities, yet still pretty,

Sending kisses far away, to another galaxy.

We used to bump each other’s head with bones of Mammoths,

But embraced mechanic, became megalomanic, and created weapons.

We are addicted and addictive creatures,

Easily sprinkled with made up dreams.

We are cells filled of filthyness, of excess of fats, sugar and salt,

With scars that’s hidden deep, deep.

We pretend that we know, but to fend a coconut is knowledge too.

Some of us dream to remain naked, others on the other hand dream of prudery.

We are fragile beings, easily infected, easily affected, easily ruled –

By planets, by pathogens, by tides, by other beings, and more;

Yet we pretend that we are superiority –

The dream of ruling never leaving most of our minds.

Our cutesome babies giggle and cry out loud

And we are able to love, to care, with all of our heart.

We still don’t know who we are, for we are all inflicted with amnesia when morning comes.

Our species is a very clever one, but not yet intelligent, way too material, unaware of what’s energetical,

Thus we burn while we learn, break while we learn.

Look! We’ve been able to materialize that’s what’s only blurry shapes.

We are filled of flaws, of vanity, most of the time disoriented,

We are vermines, vandals, eternal unsatisfied –

We do get easily angry too, forgetting that we are free to be,

Yet, we still beautiful, amazing, and worthy, you know –

Such fascinating living creatures.

We love to dance, to sing, to write poems and forgotten stories of us,

Though unaware of the soul connection,

We are just everything coming from everywhere,

One of the kind, a beautiful find, called the human race.

In such difficult times I always wish that there is something more superior and intelligent that’s above us – guiding, guarding, and watching over everything and everyone that makes up existence. I am not a sceptic nor a believer, I just go along with what I know from my own perceptions… an individualist who suddenly feel shaken by the threat of the Corona virus.

Categories
Poems

Behind A Fog

Black and white clouds
Foggy sky

It had the face of a luminar

Thus attracted me to what’s far –

A gigantic fire, fiercely burning

It’s body, an incensed torpedo

Those flames, a sweet spot for melting

The shape of its eyes, a glittering facet

It’s enthralled chant, a musical crescendo

And like a moth, I died inside its flames.

It’s so unlucky, you see

As to live an illusion,

Running away as to be free –

A slave to these things unreal

Chained to those beings all fake

Wanting liberation from the confusion;

Trying to catch the state of what’s real

Dying to know, for one’s own sake.

How I wished your dews were pure water;

Not infected by a poisonous enzyme

Fogging my ideas for me to deter

Things and places that will never be mine,

I was taken aback by fear, certainly

Undigested feelings burning me

But I am too, an undefined structure

Ready to break out, like thunder.

© Eiravel

Categories
Poems

Imageries Of Fiction

I am currently reading catch-22, by Joseph Heller. 
And I found myself being immersed into a strange 
world filled of absurdisme, with pints of surrealism; 
genres that I have at heart. And I do think that while 
writing this piece, my mind was still planning
into the dimensional space of this book.

“Sometimes, when I can’t seem to come up with something deem as being the norm for writing a piece, I abandon myself to whatever my mind commands during the process of drafting something; where most of the time, the sentences seem to be bits of some kind of analysis I have unconsciously stored into my random access memory. In the end, it becomes a piece rooted into absurdisme, conquest, and surrealism. It becomes pure invention of a genre that begs to become concrete. And whether this writing experiment works or not as to fit the certainty of pleasuring the mind of readers, I personally think, that it offers the evading experience needed to achieve the finality of what reading fiction has to offer.”

Why you love reading fiction? Because of time.

Time! What’s time?

A fiction

A fiction! Say . . .The process.

What’s the process then?

The writer thinks. The writer writes. The writer crafts. Time. Then, the reader reads, and, it’s a story with a start and finish, compressed into one whole book. Time.

No. There’s more. There’s more. Tell. A book. A creation. A subtle aesthetic design.

Then there it is. And what if
What if we can’t seem to feel
That these filmsical skies seal
A spell with which we can’t deal
Hidden under glows of sun
And glows of moonlit beam
Of this one thing that wants to be seen
But still remain lock away behind screen
And where one can only feel its eye upon us
When attuned with it with all of our senses
With all of our mental capabilities
What would have you done
If ever you were all alone
Into a cold and darkening void
Accessing remotely to everything
What would you have done?
That is the question
                      To you.

Categories
Poems

Materialisation

Immaculate canvas —
Awaited for brushstrokes
Like a lover waiting for love
Like a pen in need of use
Like a mould wanting to shape,
Expressions and Abstractions
Materialising from minds
To come alive into existence
To exist, to make you see —
Invisible information, invisible lessons
– Invisible instructions
Focusing elements of life
Begging to be seen through detailed intellect
Deciphering the beauty that’s ours
Detailing the truth that’s ours
His hand draws contours
And bits of remembrance
Comes back each time
The mind creates from genuine self
Lugubriousness materializes
To scream out to us —
That we remembered.

Artworks of every type have always been of great inspiration for me

Today I was inspired to write this poem when an artwork by Paul Klee appeared on Google Doodles. The painting was so striking to me that it kindled my imagination. Have to say that artworks created genuinely always catches my attention, which brings out-forth my fascination for the creator of the work.