I know nothing of ballads

I know nothing of ballads
nor rhymes or rhythm
to sing a note
or follow a tune
of music and musings
are rare and few
I know nothing of the moon
nor the tides to pull
heartstrings a few
I know not my right foot from left
and of dancing
akin to drunkenness
of romance and gentlemen’s way
I know not what is wooing
or how to even do it
but dear
all I know is
I cannot go a day
without greeting you
without thinking how happy you’d be making
with just by being you.
I know not of ballads,
nor the power of pretty flowers.
My dear all I know
that the day is fairly bare without just a simple glimpse of you.
I know not how to sing to you.

The wind was calling her name

She sat on the wide window sill
soaking the mild winter’s sun
the cobalt path littered with piles of snow
and as the wind blew
she couldn’t help but hear a calling
as if from miles away
a voice unpinned echoing, cooing in her ears
the door opened beside her and her father popped his head
‘Dear, you better get in here before the gale takes you away.’
She nodded with a smile
and stayed there a longer while
something in her deep soul stirring
longing for land far away
she could hear its calling,
thus she stayed, waiting against the wind
‘Where?’ she whispered
stretching her face into the swirling voices
‘Away’ in a whisper it said,
‘Away, my darling I wait.’
She turned to the door and stared,
and slowly peeled herself away.
The wind was calling her name.

Blind wandering

May I ask you a question love
will you answer truthfully?
That of this world I cannot see
What be colours pray
How do they dazzle thee?
I hear they speak of feelings
Tell me of the cities you’ve seen
The roads you’ve travelled
and the seasons you’ve felt
Pray tell me about the world
So through your eyes I can breathe
a new image to this place of my wandering.

Life Street

life street

This little life
glows and ebbs
at the cusp of time
nor here, neither there
a vagabond for all eternity,
or at least this lifetime borrowed
this lifetime lived
dare not to tease the delicate
it feels and sees
and for just a moment,
in a moment, seeks
another vagabond
traveling lonesome
down the same street
an unknown string pulling
and in that split moment
this little life breathes.

You cruel beauty!

my my, how you trick,
you dazzling beaut
amongst mighty dunes.
How cruel you be
if a weary traveller,
hungry and thirsty,
shall ever stumble upon
the empty promise you keep.
Mirage, you cruel beaut!

Where in the maze shall I stray?

OMG!!! Before I let you delve into this piece of poetry I’ve just penned on the train (and I’m still here – in the train that is).
Here is what I wanted to say.
Will you give me a moment worth sharing, today?
This piece is quite personal,
slightly unconventional, I must say.
It was an utter labor of love,
for all the muses, that do leave me
somewhat astray.

Before long, I give you…

Where in the maze shall I stray?
Hard of hearing,
and no, I don’t mean that thing
where I yell at you as part of a conversation.
And no, I do not also mean deaf – you’re far from it.

Hard of hearing, you are,
hearing all the words that say,
‘You are going the wrong way!’
Perhaps you should have paid a moment and taken the right turn, they say.

Hurt of hearing,
and yes, I mean what I say,
this is the part you’ve dreamed,
this is all that’s been consuming your everyday.

Hurt of hearing, you are,
hearing all the words that say,
‘You will never make it this way!’
Perhaps it’s still not too late to change, not too late they pray.

Yet you plow,
heart still hurting somehow.
Should you still follow,
the road that lies ahead,
hidden within a maze?

Hard of hearing, you say?
No, I’m just ignoring, while I be searching for that who leads me away.

Where in the maze shall I stray?

How to write Poetry – from an amateur poet.

Hi there! Ola, Namaste, bonjour, hallo, hello, and Gooday.

I’m feeling very perky today (if you haven’t yet noticed). So, you’re wondering what zibber-zabber I’m about to ramble today? Oh, you’re not?
My bad. I’m going to write this anyway. I haven’t done a confessional post in quite some days – for some reason Uni and poetry have got in the way. That’s all I’ve really been doing here this past week. Some of you have even ‘liked’ the little pieces I’ve done of late, especially ‘Would you be so kind?’ And ‘Chime’. One of my favourite has been ‘Bring back the day’, perhaps the reason being that this one is actually personal and based on my childhood days with my siblings and cousins.

Now here is what you may not have noticed, or overlooked: I am not a poet! Yes, I dabble (a bit too much lately), but I actually do not know any of the rules and regulations of writing poetry. I write what sings in my head (and yes, these all sing, each with their own tune – but I’m a terribly singer and an even worse musician, so you are all lucky I only write them down!).

I must confess, part of the reason I’ve put my poetry hat on lately was because I had so little time to express my creativity in between fetching multiple cups of tea or coffee as I scratched my head over uni assignment.

So you must be thinking, if I’m not a poet, then how am I writing these? Gut instinct! Yes, we have those! And sometimes they know better than our educated selves what to do with an idea. And, truth be told, I always just get the first line of these poems coming to me, and I write and fiddle around till it starts making sense – and eventually, 3 or 4 lines down the track I finally see the headlights, then slowly and slowly with each line the poem builds itself.

Sorry if you had actually stumbled into this post hoping to learn a thing or two about composing poems, but I simply do not have the guide-book on that. All I can say is start with a line, or a word and then hand the reins over to your gut! It will (or should) lead the way. You can always tweak later on.

Don’t despair though, I have a treat. And as always, it began with a line and build itself. I’m merely the construction worker. Hope you will like…

Thousand Words
A picture says a thousand words
What does a picture of me tell you?
Does it say, ‘Oh, look at that gorgeous girl, ain’t she happy?’
Does it invite the admiration we desire?
Or does it stir deep beneath your porcelain glee a hidden heart of venom?
Or perhaps your glance at the image stirs nothing, nope, not a twig, for you couldn’t care less about the girl in that dress?

The girl, with her ever wide smile,
those cherry lips on a milky face,
her hand on merry waists of friend, or family – who cares?

You may not know,
nor may you care,
but the girl you see may never be
the girl everyone sees. Not even she.

You do not see the strain in her smile,
the clamp of her hands,
her chin slightly tucked in,
Or the fact that her eyes glint.

You may not know what she has seen.

Beauty behold

As seasons come and seasons go,
though days turn from weeks, years and more,
that burnt sun rises and that burnt sun sets,
and even as the blue seas swell at times towards the heavens and kiss the sky,
it would all mean nothing,
all the beauty striped and taken,
all these seasons visit for nothing,
if man hadn’t the voice, eyes, and touch to validate,
the beauty that always was and shall ever be.