Category: poetry

Save

When I pressed the button
To save my latest words,
“Save rage as” came on the screen
And my mind went blurred.Save my rage  for later
Save it from distress
Save my rage as powder
Put it in a keg.

Save my rage for humans
Save my rage for God.
Save rage as important.
Is saving rage so odd?

Save rage for a scapegoat.
Don’t show it where it’s right.
Why not hurt a scapegoat
Who will go in the night?

Save my rage for praying
Save my rage for God.
Save my rage for lovers
Who like milk go bad.

Save as rage for holy ones
who boast their worship proud.
Save as rage for followers
Who talk of God so loud.

Save a rage for victims
Save as rage for poor.
Save as rage for children
Who live without a door.

Save as rage for rulers
Save as rage for fools
Save as rage for women
Save as rage at Cruel

When words

When words are the only way we can connect
communicate,

When words are our only link,

light

When words go wrong

Wring

our hearts

What are we to use to mend

minister?

What are we to write

right

wrong?

When the written is all,

alone,

When we can’t find the words

Wary

What are we to do?

Dictate

Dream

Deny

Depict

When words wound

wander

retaliate

writhe

Where are we now?

numb

null

naught

How can we make it up

Invent

In verse

Intent

lament

loss

love

linger

loiter

lie

link

last

least

locate.

Where is the wound?

Wreck.

Reckoning

Resolve

Resolute.

Redress

Where is our new map?

Meaning

Moaning

Making

Making it up

Inventing love

Re-creation

Return

Remember to forget.

Wrestle

Redeem.

Resolve.

No Retaliation.

No redirection

No harboring ill.

No bad will.

When words have gone awry,

Yet words are all we have.

When words don’t create a form

Yet direction is what we need.

When words no longer live

last

lost

We wait

Rest

Rescue

Retrieve

Remember

Love

lies underneath

lasts

longs

laments

lasts

and lasts.

Love lasts

till words connect

console

correct

catch you

cradle you

caress you

Conjugate you

Put you in a sentence

syntax

spell

magic

magnetic

mine

made new

murmured in your ear

mentioned

in my letters

write

rites

make right.

make us write

goodness.

Let it all be

Light.

Let me take your hand.

I give you my word.

I give you everything

Patterns of life

How lightly you touch me
Skin soft yet firm
Divides yet unites
Paradoxically elegant solution
to these lyrical questions.
How lightly you touch me,
Yet I feel your strength so much.
In turn I touch you.
Life is a pattern of mutual grace;
we are all touched
By the light and the darkness.
Forgive us,O God,
For forgetting your face.
Sun piercing through red maple leaves
Patterns the flagstone path.
Hear how the blackbirds call.
As we wander.Perhaps paradise is not for humans;
Though in the end,every living moment
Is paradise on this warm skin of our world,
as it spins again in the void:
And He said:
Let there be Light.
And there was ligh

Saturday evening

 

 

gentleman's rowLast night I went to a Poetry Reading for a Charity here and was very impressed with the poems written by the member of the  local poets group.Unfortunately, being in the South of England the people were not that friendly to a newcomer.I  didn’t see anyone I knew.But, at least I went to it.I look forward to going to their regular meetings.I forgot my husband was not here when I crossed the road because I  had left the lights on.Still, it would have been a shock if he was.I miss him so much.

 

I saw a black cat walk sideway

I saw a black cat walk sideways.

I saw a black cat play ball.

I saw a black cat walk on my bed.

I said, black cat,don’t fall.

 

I saw a light in your window

I saw a light in your hall.

I saw a you go out and then come back.

I  thought,why don’t you call?

 

The doctor   looked at my body

The doctor looked at my head

The doctor looked  through my eyes again.

I said,I’m still not dead.

 

The cat is called Miss Willow

She lives next door to me

She never bites or scratches me.

She does  that to a tree.

 

O little black cat,please dance

O little black please play

O little black cat I do love you.

But I don’t like to say.

 

If we don’t tell our loved ones

If we don’t tell our friends

If we don’t show our feelings

What signals do we send?

Because you kissed me

I  remember holding your hand.

A man told us off because you kissed me.

On the top deck of a  London bus.

Imagine that.

Before photocopiers,we copied ,by hand,

Articles from newspapers in South Africa House

About torture.

The guard never said a word.

Then you wrote an article.

If you did anything silly

And I asked you why

You said, it seemed a good idea

at the time.

Where are you?

I looked in the shed

I looked in the bed

I looked everywhere

but I can’t find you.

It’s not fun anymore.

 

I won’t let you

He said,I could go to the City

It’s just you won’t let me

I said,that’s true,I won’t let you.

Sweetheart.

He said,I could get dressed and meet my friends

But you won’t let me.

I said

No,I won’t let you.

I won’t

let you.

He said,I’ll be alright tomorrow,won’t I?Will you let me?

I said,Yes,I’ll let you.

Then he smiled at me and closed his eyes

And I let him

Go

And he went.

 

 

 

He isn’t here

He isn’t here

The air rippled like sea

Niarbyll bay and butterflies

I caught a glance

In water

Shining

He isn’t here

Waves blind me

With white heads

Sunlight in the morning

Hit the fridge door

He isn’t here

The teapot glinted

An  eye,perhaps.

The warmth is unusual for February

I went to the hospital again

He wasn’t there

He wasn’t there

He wasn’t there

 

Yehuda Amichai

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/2095/the-art-of-poetry-no-44-yehuda-amichai

A Child is Something Else Again

BY YEHUDA AMICHAI

TRANSLATED BY CHANA BLOCH

A child is something else again. Wakes up
in the afternoon and in an instant he’s full of words,
in an instant he’s humming, in an instant warm,
instant light, instant darkness.
A child is Job. They’ve already placed their bets on him
but he doesn’t know it. He scratches his body
for pleasure. Nothing hurts yet.
They’re training him to be a polite Job,
to say “Thank you” when the Lord has given,
to say “You’re welcome” when the Lord has taken away.
A child is vengeance.
A child is a missile into the coming generations.
I launched him: I’m still trembling.
A child is something else again: on a rainy spring day
glimpsing the Garden of Eden through the fence,
kissing him in his sleep,
hearing footsteps in the wet pine needles.
A child delivers you from death.
Child, Garden, Rain, Fate.

 

 

In the snow, I think

 

 

Too old for cold,I stand, now ,against our hedge,
Watching   snowflakes in the glare of neon street lights.
Darkness has come early,and I think of country uplands and huddled sheep.
On Salisbury Plain,shepherds watched their flocks
Just as in Bethlehem two thousand years before,
But, “between the wars”,it stopped.
Now we know there is no “between the wars”.
Who decided
To cull the sheep and shepherds and the space for kindness ?
Now that same Plain still exists,but banned.
It’s closed to human-kind,
For bombs ,not wombs it’s there
Not for birth of lamb ,nor gypsy child ,nor Saviour.
Where would He go today?

When doubts and drawbacks struggle in the mind

When doubts and drawbacks struggle in the mind
And certainty seems but a demon dream,
When the faith to love is what no-one can find
For even when asleep, the mind still schemes.

When darkness and defeat seem close at hand
And lights dim even as we pray for peace
when wrecks and ruins rile the native sands
When in this life we feel we’ve lost our place…

Then, at the saddest depth we see the light
Surrounding with such warmth, with love adorned.
The path that seemed so wrong now leads us right
And in our hearts, warm feelings are newborn

Within each storm ,there is a calm still eye.
From there we see the fiercest clouds blown by.

Watercolour love

Like watercolour pictures left out in the rain

Our colours have mingled,

yet the originals still remain

Two watercolour paintings without frames,

Became one picture over time,

Yet two of us still there.

Our colours blended naturally,

Now all the hues are shared.

I love your colours intermixed with mine;

Together they have made a new design.

A Watercolour picture enhanced by the rain.

We may go, but our Watercolor Love shall long remain

And people looked like watercolour flies

The morning  sun still low in winter  sky

Made brilliant light with darker shadows thrown.

And  people looked like watercolour flies

As ,  nonchalant ,through the  shopping mall they roamed.

 

So here we see in colours black and white

We do not see the usual shades and  hues.

And so inside our mind, a too great light

May prejudice our judgement  and our views.

 

We learn to understand by metaphors.

As did our unthought ancestors before.

Jesus was our  Shepherd   and neighbour

We were sheep not wolves with slavering jaws

 

 

What we see depends upon the light.
And , where we stand and when , invites the sight

 

 

 

 

Origami

I like this poem
[From American Life in poetry by Ted Kooser]

This column is more than ten years old and I’ve finally gotten around to trying a little origami! Here’s a poem about that, and about a good deal more than that, by Vanessa Stauffer, who teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan.

Lessons

To crease a sheet of paper is to change
its memory, says the origami
master: what was a field of snow
folded into flake. A crane, erect,
structured from surface. A tree
emerges from a leaf—each form undone

 

reveals the seams, pressed
with ruler’s edge. Some figures take
hundreds to be shaped, crossed
& doubled over, the sheet bound
to its making—a web of scars
that maps a body out of space,

 

how I fashion memory: idling
at an intersection next to Jack Yates High,
an hour past the bell, I saw a girl
fold herself in half to slip beneath
the busted chain-link, books thrust
ahead, splayed on asphalt broiling

 

in Houston sun. What memory
will she retain? Her cindered palms,
the scraped shin? Braids brushing
the dirt? The white kite of her homework
taking flight? Finding herself
locked out, or being made

 

to break herself in.

Mihalyi Cskizentmihalyi

Mihalyi was a saint of sorts;

he improved, with his search for understanding,

the lives of so many yearning writers;

the lame in spirit heard his Zen-like words.

He could not have imagined the journey

From Hungary to Zürich.

From Zürich to Chicago

A glimpsed mandala led to the heart of the impossible image

How did he learn to trust the flow?

The Rhine flowing down to the North Sea

May start as some minute spring

At the confluence of the gravity of water and earth.

And those then who have cast their nets into that sea

May bring in treasures not found in the business of cities.

At the first sighting, the image seemed hazy

Then the words began to flow like current through a wire.

Like a river cutting slowly through rocks of marble,

like an unknown sage from the Himalayan Alps

who had kissed the lips of his muse more than once

As she floated like a ghost; no, more like music

Tracing concentric spheres into the air

Till the universe was singing.

What was most human was his appetite, his love.

Touch the hem of his garment, follow your flow

Cut your path through the hard darkness until you find

The sunlit sea you were made to swim in

like a fish in its own sphere.

Symbols of our darker selves

I’d love to ride on a tiger

Or just admire its stripes from afar.
I’d love to see the pride of the lions
Or the eyes of a handsome cougar.
But who wants to admire houseflies
And other insects or pests?
A worm may not be an insect
But I’ll throw them in with the rest.

Lions and tigers can kill us
Yet we admire their strength
But who admires mosquitoes
As they sweat in their tropical tents?
And when we look for a simile
Or a symbol or metaphor,
If you want a symbol for cruelty and harm-
That’s what insects are for.

The smallness and the cunning
As they slip in right under your clothes,
And bite you on your most private parts.
Where, nowadays, no-one else goes!
That makes us fear and hate them
But they are just doing their job
That is what they are made for
By their creator, Lord God.

God wants them to remind you
You aren’t so invulnerable
So he may send a tiger to eat you.
Gnats  so  innumerable.
St.Francis made friends with the birds
And with the wild animals too.
But which Saint made friends with the insects
Which live in this great earthly Zoo?

Will you be the volunteer holy one
Who befriends the hornets and fleas?
Will you tolerate their sharp sniping
As you try to tempt down the bees?
Will you preach such honey filled sermons
That spiders and beetles will flock,
And none of these insects will sting us again,
When they are tamed by you eloquent talk?

You’ll be the Patron  of Envy,
The knife sticking into the heart.
You’ll be the Patron of Rage and of Malice.
I’ll be relieved when your new Mission starts

My hand on your face,

As we come nearer,
I feel your warmth.
Warmth draws me in
I see you here.
I touch you tenderly.
My hand
on your face,
on your skin,
acknowledges your being.
At this boundary of the world and you,
we touch.
I feel that peaceful breath,
the spirit, the wholeness of the flesh.
Touching gently,
we acknowledge the Otherness
the holiness of life itself,
in the form of the Beloved.

The force that generates the waves

The force that generates the waves

The foe who stimulates our rage.

The  fierceness of the hurricane.

The flash  floods  and  the  lashing rains

 

These dangerous forces  we each know,

Dwell within as passions flow.

Rage and hate and jealous minds,

Make tempests   cruel and unkind.

 

Is there a  brief moment of  choice,

To stop us heeding instincts’ voice?

Are we  helpless in red mist

As  we clench our naked fist?

 

To  kill our foes  is  tempting but

Do we need what they have brought?

Do we need to add their view

When we determine what to do?

 

Bite your lip and count to ten

Listen hard especially when

The   stormy rage grips hard and tight

And tempts us into yet more fights

 

Since the first cities were made

Men have fought for land and trade.

Is it possible to live

With a life alternative?

 

With the eye of predator

Wily brain and weapons more,

Men can kill without much thought

And  say their gods tell them they ought.

 

We need to build  a channel clear

Through which can flow our rage and fear.

Let not the anger claim your arm

But seek instead for spirit’s balm.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poem by Rimbaud

from Rimbaud: Complete Works, Selected Letters, a Bilingual Edition

Translated by Wallace Fowlie and revised by Seth Whidden

Mémoire
I

L’eau claire; comme le sel des larmes d’enfance,
l’assaut au soleil des blancheurs des corps de femmes;
la soie, en foule et de lys pur, des oriflammes
sous les murs dont quelque pucelle eut la défense;

l’ébat des anges;—non…le courant d’or en marche,
meut ses bras, noirs, et lourds, et frais surtout, d’herbe. Elle
sombre, avant le Ciel bleu pour ciel-de-lit, appelle
pour rideaux l’ombre de la colline et de l’arche.

II

Eh! l’humide carreau tend ses bouillons limpides!
L’eau meuble d’or pâle et sans fond les couches prêtes.
Les robes vertes et déteintes des fillettes
font les saules, d’où sautent les oiseaux sans brides.

Plus pure qu’un louis, jaune et chaude paupière
le souci d’eau—ta foi conjugale, o l’Epouse!—
au midi prompt, de son terne miroir, jalouse
au ciel gris de chaleur la Sphère rose et chère.

III

Madame se tient trop debout dans la prairie
prochaine où neigent les fils du travail; l’ombrelle
aux doigts; foulant l’ombelle; trop fière pour elle
des enfants lisant dans la verdure fleurie

leur livre de maroquin rouge! Hélas, Lui, comme
mille anges blancs qui se séparent sur la route,
s’éloigne par delà la montagne! Elle, toute
froide, et noire, court! après le départ de l’homme!

IV

Regret des bras épais et jeunes d’herbe pure!
Or des lunes d’avril au cœur du saint lit! Joie
des chantiers riverains à l’abandon, en proie
aux soirs d’août qui faisaient germer ces pourritures.

Qu’elle pleure à présent sous les remparts! l’haleine
des peupliers d’en haut est pour la seule brise.
Puis, c’est la nappe, sans reflets, sans source, grise:
un vieux, dragueur, dans sa barque immobile, peine.

V

Jouet de cet œil d’eau morne, Je n’y puis prendre,
oh! canot immobile! oh! bras trop courts! ni l’une
ni l’autre fleur: ni la jaune qui m’importune,
là; ni la bleue, amie à l’eau couleur de cendre.

Ah! la poudre des saules qu’une aile secoue!
Les roses des roseaux dès longtemps dévorées!
Mon canot, toujours fixe; et sa chaîne tirée
au fond de cet œil d’eau sans bords,—à quelle boue?
Memory
I

Clear water; like the salt of childhood tears,
the assault on the sun by the whiteness of women’s bodies;
the silk of banners, in masses and of pure lilies,
under the walls a maid once defended;

the play of angels;—no…the golden current on its way,
moves its arms, black, and heavy, and above all cool, with grass. She
dark, before the blue Sky as a canopy, calls up
for curtains the shadow of the hill and the arch.

II

Ah! the wet surface extends its clear broth!
The water fills the prepared beds with pale bottomless gold.
The green faded dresses of girls
make willows, out of which hop unbridled birds.

Purer than a louis, a yellow and warm eyelid
the marsh marigold—your conjugal faith, o Spouse!—
at prompt noon, from its dim mirror, vies
with the dear rose Sphere in the sky grey with heat.

III

Madame stands too straight in the field
nearby where the filaments from the work snow down; the parasol
in her fingers; stepping on the white flower; too proud for her
children reading in the flowering grass

their book of red morocco! Alas, He, like
a thousand white angels separating on the road,
goes off beyond the mountain! She, all
cold and dark, runs! after the departing man!

IV

Longings for the thick young arms of pure grass!
Gold of April moons in the heart of the holy bed! Joy
of abandoned boatyards, a prey
to August nights which made rotting things germinate.

Let her weep now under the ramparts! the breath
of the poplars above is the only breeze.
After, there is the surface, without reflection, without springs, gray:
an old man, dredger, in his motionless boat, labors.

V

Toy of this sad eye of water, I cannot pluck,
o! motionless boat! o! arms too short! neither this
nor the other flower: neither the yellow one which bothers me,
there; nor the friendly blue one in the ash-colored water.

Ah! dust of the willows shaken by a wing!
The roses of the reeds devoured long ago!
My boat still stationary; and its chain caught
in the bottom of this rimless eye of water,—in what mud?

In between two rain drops

Some evenings, the sky turned  pink

We were happy, lying in the grass

watching the sun set,

arms around each other.

Seemed like eternal life had come

Earlier than forecast
.
Those weathermen are too often wrong!

They need new training.

But, forever,

I’ll remember you ,sweetheart,

in that timeless moment

in between two raindrops,

in between two tears.

Eternity is now

Deferential, I
Eternity await
Submit to your  grace
In my patient state.

 

None but God can judge;
None have his pure gaze.
Write me not your wish.
Tempt me not with praise.

 

Timeless as the  heavens
Eternity is now
Mindful of this lesson
Grace will show me how

Being sad is no disgrace

The bell rang on the ancient church at noon.

A sparrow flitted to  the Tudor wall.

Was this the knell  which brings us  damned gloom?

 

Perhaps there is no meaning here at all.

I read my unknown thoughts projected out,

And  in my rage, desire the walls to fall.

 

Like you, I am too  often stuck in doubt.

Betrayed by old ideal and vanished wish.

So what is in confuses that without.

 

Oh,pain, oh ,mind, oh agony, oh flesh.

I shall not cling to life and wait for grace.

I am, myself, a fish in net of mesh.

 

Was this my  destiny, my rightful place;

Alone besieged by sorrows on all sides?

I  err for  being sad is no disgrace.

 

So ,to my hopes, I’ll cling like drowning beast.

Until my invitation to the feast.

 

 

 

 

Love shall be my song.

Photo0674
Underneath the sweet sky, lover,
You shall be the one.
You were with me in the dark
When all the rest were gone.When the trees throw out green leaves
I’ll love you all night long.
When the flowers fill the cornfields
Love shall be my song.

Poppies red.and linseed blue
Shall decorate my dress.
Hold me in your arms tonight
While I my love confess.

Meadows filled with buttercups
Fill my inner eye.
I love the scent of minty leaves
When my mind is all awry.

I see the sun through closed eye lids
And rose scent’s in the air.
Wherever summer joy comes from….
We have had our share.

 
 Photo0690

Definition: What Is Terza Rima?

http://study.com/academy/lesson/terza-rima-rhyme-scheme-definition-examples-quiz.html
http://poetry.about.com/od/poeticforms/g/terzarima.htm

In many cases, we can tell that a piece of writing is a poem just by hearing it read out loud. This is especially easy if a poem rhymes. Of course, not all poems rhyme in quite the same way. In formal verse, there are many different arrangements of rhymes, or rhyme schemes, to choose from. One such rhyme scheme is terza rima.

aba, bcb, cdc, ded, efe,

 

Terza rima is a rhyme scheme that uses tercets (three-line stanzas) and a pattern of interlocking end rhymes(rhymes that occur at the ends of lines). This interlocking pattern is often describing using the following letters:aba bcb cdc ded . . . and so on. As you can see, each tercet contains a rhyme from the one that comes before it. To be more specific, the second rhyme in one tercet becomes the first and third rhymes in the next tercet. This pattern can go on as long as the author wants, traditionally ending with a couplet or a single line that rhymes with the second line of the second-to-last stanza (for example, ded ee or ded e).

Terza Rima in Dante’s Divine Comedy

To get a better understanding of how this unique rhyme scheme works, let’s look at an example from terza rima’s early history. The earliest appearance of terza rima was in Italian poet Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy in the fourteenth century. The following example is an excerpt from contemporary American poet Robert Pinsky’s translation of Dante’s Divine Comedy:

As I drew nearer to the end of all desire, (a)
I brought my longing’s ardor to a final height, (b)
Just as I ought. My vision, becoming pure, (a)

Entered more and more the beam of that high light (b)
That shines on its own truth. From then, my seeing (c)
Became too large for speech, which fails at a sight (b)

Beyond all boundaries, at memory’s undoing– (c)
As when the dreamer sees and after the dream (d)
The passion endures, imprinted on his being (c)

Though he can’t recall the rest. I am the same: (d)
Inside my heart, although my vision is almost (e)
Entirely faded, droplets of its sweetness come (d)

The way the sun dissolves the snow’s crust– (e)
The way, in the wind that stirred the light leaves, (f)
The oracle that the Sibyl wrote was lost. (e)

If you listen carefully, you’ll hear that few of the rhymes in this example seem a bit off, but the sounds of the words are still fairly similar. This is called slant rhyme. You may also have noticed that the example doesn’t end with a couplet or a single line. This is because this example is taken from the middle of a canto (or section) in a larger work.

On Robert Frost

Was Robert Frost underestimated? Read the article

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/article/251952

 

I HAVE BEEN ONE  ACQUAINTED WITH THE NIGHT

I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have walked out in rain – and back in rain.

I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Robert Frost

Form: Terza Rima

As he kept on smiling.

My husband liked being recumbent

He was lazy in all  of his ways.

I never knew he was  dying

As he kept on smiling.

What can I say in his praise?

 

I told him off for keeping me  waiting

Not knowing his heart  had a leak.

In a way I admired him

For keeping cabs  standing

And being reluctant to speak.

 

He rarely addressed these  cab drivers

But blessed them each with his gaze.

He sat  with composure

And little disclosure…

Though sometimes  his guns were ablaze.

 

When the drivers were told he had passed,

Some wept and my hands they each grasped.

Oh, my dear lady

We were all ready

To drive you to Hampstead quite fast.

 

The compassion from the  humble and lowly

The love from the poor and the weak

What can I say  for

We miss  all his  labours

If only we could at least hear him speak.

 

I held his left  hand for an hour

I held it again for much more.

I felt a stiff tendon

Which refused any bending

And massaged it as I sat  on the floor.

 

 

He never  repeated me he loved me,

Nor how I should live when he’d gone.

I suppose by that  time

He believed all was kind.

And his earthly endeavors were done.

 

It seems like a dream, a performance…

And I keep thinking life will resume.

I see no apparitions

Have  no  new intuitions

This is my life,I presume.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

New light will shine for me

My present  mind is like a magnet.It attracts those small

yet potent words

that fit its present thoughts,

creates a replica

of wounds afresh.

If, like a welcome sun,

new light will shine for me,

reveals,

transforms.

I’ll then

perceive

those frozen narratives of loss

as only part of me,

New words,

New sentences.

New narratives,

New stories made from generous recognition grow,

if what’s perceived is held,

like iron in the fire,

till transformation comes.

Burned into being by this blazing,

Transmuted, changed.

New conceptions

linked to draw, as from a different view. point.

Then, recognised, by heart and soul,

They shall combine to makes a larger whole.

Underneath cares, we find peace

Deep in a  sad and  nervous state,

Relaxation is hard to create

I feel so tense I can’t sit down

My eyes glare out and  then I frown.

I talk too fast ,I lack patience

I lose touch with my common sense.

To follow instructions from a book

Seems hard when I feel  my brain’s been spooked.

So what to do to help ourself,

Not to mention  soul and health?

I discovered that very deep inside

A pleasant silence often abides.

To  be tranquil, we need to sit

And to consciousness  peace admit.

Deep down inside we are at rest

And with love the soul is blessed.

All we have to do is wait

To get in touch with this sweet state.

Our own deep peace is always there

Too often hidden by common cares.

Pretend the chair is full of glue

We have some here called UHU.

I pretend  that I can'[t  get up,

An elephant sits gently on my lap.

Gaze  in wonder at a   tree.

Discover what we rarely see.

So let your thoughts float by like clouds

Your mind will  slow down when allowed

 

Trees in sunlight