Tag: Narrative Poetry

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?

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.

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

“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.