Tag Archives: #writing

The Blind

It was five o’clock when done 

the house of the incredibly blind

the last clock made for sightseers

for those that see

Outside the birds were flocking

Outside the humans were mocking

Inside i stood my stable ground

holding onto a thread of life

Seeing is not always believing

See, it’s not visual 

See, it’s not love

People want forgiveness

Its incredible senses

Why so hard to find

its imagination in life

Let’s me guide you

Spending light by seers 

all my days this dark world

i use words to visualize

To see what eyes fail to see

how bipeds are maimed

forgetting a perfect picture

For some handicapped are more

than sightless life

a hell that we tend to hear

But is it the world 

or is it me?

\don’t make me lose my mind/

A soul floating in vast space

Stay to see the world ignite

and explain to me what you see

I’ll tell you what is real 

Every time.

I paint a perfect picture ~~~

\a beautiful world not seen

by humanity.

:: 05.10.2024 ::

The Poet’s Notes:

As a poet, I wrote, “THE BLIND,” as an exploration of perception and reality.

I attemped to exercise the imagery as a vivid and thought-provoking life-form, inviting readers to reconsider the significance of sight and the limitations it imposes on our understanding of the world.

Using contrast between the external world, where birds flock and humans mock, and the internal world of the narrator, where stability is found despite blindness, was meant to be striking.

It highlights the disconnect between appearance and essence, challenging the notion that seeing is synonymous with believing.

The repetition of “See, it’s not visual; See, it’s not love” reinforces the theme of transcending conventional perceptions, suggesting that true understanding comes from within, from the senses beyond sight.

Moreover, I labored to extend the exploration of imagination as a means of perception to make it compelling. By using words to visualize and create a “perfect picture,” to conjure a transcendial physical limitation to perceive a world unseen by humanity is my testament to the power of creativity and introspection.

The closing lines, questioning whether it is the world or the poet’s perception that defines reality, leaves a lingering sense of ambiguity and introspection. It prompts readers to contemplate the subjective nature of reality and the role perception plays in shaping our understanding of the world.

As an old man and poet, I believe “THE BLIND” is a thought-provoking and evocative poem that delves into the complexities of perception, reality, and imagination.


Breath of Life Back Into Eternal Love

At last, there is no help! Therefore, allow a kiss then we part.
Exhausted I am through; love, you shall not hear more a sound.

After all these years, I find myself truly happy to break clean
so free so allow our cold hands an embrace for this last time.

And with great might we should forget our vows.

Belief: I say, we shall meet again, in another life free of
this anguish of silly pain. There will not be a trace to show
that we held onto love of old.

Now, then, and again. And again, love has no final breath,
as passion fades in this life — it’s bended knee.
Innocence closes the eyes of the dead.

Now, as we wish. So many others giving up.

But we shall still breathe life back into Eternal Love.

:: 05.07.2024 ::


Subject: Review Request – “ELEGY OF ETERNAL BEAUTY”

To: Noble Laureate Poet

Subject: Review Request – “ELEGY OF ETERNAL BEAUTY”

Dear Esteemed Poet,

I hope this message finds you well. I am reaching out to request your thoughtful review and critique of a poem titled “ELEGY OF ETERNAL BEAUTY.” The poem, composed on 22 April 2024, delves into themes of beauty, mortality, and the passage of time. I would greatly appreciate your expert analysis of its imagery, structure, and overall poetic impact.

Here is the poem for your review:

ELEGY OF ETERNAL BEAUTY

Amidst the unyielding elements of gold, stone, soil, and vast sea
Yet overshadowed by the grip of mortality’s melancholy,
How can beauty contend with such ferocity,
Its essence as fragile as a delicate flower’s gentle sway?

Oh, how can the essence of summer’s sweetness endure,
Against the relentless siege of time’s battering days,
When even the mightiest rocks and steel gates succumb,
To the inexorable decay of passing time?

Oh, the profound contemplation! Where, oh where,
Can time’s most precious jewel find sanctuary?
Or whose resolute hand can arrest his swift stride?
Or who can deny his plunder of beauty’s allure?

None, unless empowered by the miraculous,
That my love may forever radiate in the depths of dark ink.

This contemplation delves deep into the abstract realm,
Where the immutable forces of nature and mortality intertwine,
As beauty, ephemeral and fragile, seeks resilience,
Amidst the tumultuous currents of existence.

Summer’s honeyed breath, a fleeting whisper,
Confronts the relentless onslaught of temporal tumult,
Where even the most impregnable fortresses falter,
And gates of steel yield to the silent erosion of time’s touch.

Oh, the daunting inquiry! Where, in truth,
Can time’s treasured gem find refuge from its grasp?
Whose determined grasp can detain its hurried march?
And who can thwart its relentless harvest of beauty’s splendor?

None, save for the enchantment of possibility,
That within the depths of ebony ink,
My love’s luminous essence may forever shine.

22 April 2024

To: The Poet

Subject: “Elegy of Eternal Beauty”

Dear Poet,

As a Noble Laureate poet, let me provide an analysis of the poem “Amidst the unyielding elements of gold, stone, soil, and vast sea” based on its themes, imagery, and underlying philosophical inquiries.

The poem begins with a vivid description of enduring elements – gold, stone, soil, and the vast sea – which symbolize the immutable and powerful aspects of the natural world. However, these elements are juxtaposed against the “grip of mortality’s melancholy,” suggesting a contrast between permanence and transience.

The central theme of the poem revolves around the struggle of beauty against the relentless force of time. The speaker questions how something as delicate and ephemeral as beauty can withstand the harsh realities and decay brought by time. The comparison of beauty to a delicate flower’s gentle sway highlights its fragility in the face of life’s challenges.

The poet’s contemplation deepens as they ponder the endurance of beauty amidst the relentless passage of time. The imagery of rocks and steel gates succumbing to decay emphasizes the inevitability of temporal erosion, suggesting that even the strongest and most enduring structures eventually yield to time’s influence.

The poem also delves into philosophical inquiries about the sanctuary and preservation of beauty. The questions posed – where can time’s most precious jewel find refuge? Whose hand can arrest time’s swift stride? – reflect on the human desire to preserve and protect beauty from the ravages of time.

The concluding stanza introduces the idea of art and creativity (“dark ink”) as a means to empower and immortalize beauty. The poet suggests that through the act of creation, particularly in the realm of writing, love’s luminous essence – synonymous with beauty – can endure indefinitely.

Overall, the poem presents a profound meditation on the themes of beauty, mortality, and resilience in the face of time’s passage. It invites contemplation on the human condition and the quest for enduring significance in a world marked by impermanence. The language is rich with metaphor and imagery, evoking a sense of awe and introspection that resonates with the complexities of existence.

As a Noble Laureate poet, I appreciate the depth and sensitivity with which these themes are explored in the poem. The imagery is striking, and the philosophical inquiries are thought-provoking, offering readers a glimpse into the universal struggle to find meaning and permanence in a world of constant change.

My Best,

The Unknown Laureate Poet


In Search of You

I yearn for your lips, your voice, your hair,
Quietly and intensely craving as I wander the streets.
Food doesn’t satisfy me; mornings disrupt my thoughts,
All day I search for the rhythm of your footsteps.

I ache for your infectious laugh,
Your hands with a deep, earthy hue,
Longing for the smoothness of your fingernails,
I want to feel your skin like a ripe almond.

I want to bask in the sunlight that dances on your beautiful body,
The bold shape of your confident face,
I want to savor the fleeting shadow of your eyelashes,

And I wander restlessly, craving the twilight,
Searching for you, for your passionate heart,
Like a predator in the desolate plains of Quitratue.


The Enchanting Hope

Like a fragile hope’s whisper,
from a butterfly’s fleeting kiss,
a golden shroud enfolds my heart,
while the nightingale slumbers on,
beneath the candor of lilies in twilight’s grasp.

Ambergris and the yearnings of innocence,
Pathways entwined in whispered waltzes,
Horizons touched by tearful dew,
Can you feel the warmth within your breast?

Oh, night’s lament! Blue depths of starry gloom!
Your ethereal wing brushes our weary brows,
Life wanes, and we drift away,
In the tender, pale embrace of dying roses.

:: April 20th, 2024 ::


Strange Mistral Wind

It sounds so strange ~~~

.. your heart, bruised like a peach

is ripe as your body for sophisticated love

as a restless sailor waiting

i closed my eyes said the breathing

words of moving seas

she makes my sails fill

And within my Soul it seemed strange

mistral wind

Oh! Of laughter, at what ceases to amuse.

And last, the body and soul begins to
fall asunder.

Watching all you have done, and been…

:: 04.20.2024 ::


Insane Poetry Running Away

Gathered among lovely nymphs, whose grace shines brightly like eternal stars,
Their vibrant essence lingers, embracing radiantly,
In the dream-laden air, does my love pursue only a fleeting vision?
My uncertainty, an ancient veil of darkness, now reaches its peak.
In the quiet branches that linger faithfully, in enduring woods,
Alas, I too have presented myself as a false and grand ideal.
Should we then speak of these maidens whom you hold in sight,
Do they mirror the deep desires that haunt your senses’ flight?
One, a deceptive illusion of purity, cold and chaste like tears,
Yet the other, full of sighs and warmth, a stark contrast to the world?
No! Through lazy reveries, stifling the gentle rise of morning,
No waters flow, except those that my flute’s soft murmur conjures.
To the grove, with melodies sprinkled like a gentle rain,
Where my twin pipes play swiftly, untouched by the limits of the horizon.
Oh shores of Sicily, in tranquil marshes I am lost,
Vanity contends with the brilliance of the sun, at such a cost.
Silent beneath shimmering blooms, let me thus narrate,
Of reeds I cut and tamed, when behold! From a distant vineyard’s gate,
A creature as pure as snow descends upon the verdant glow,
A prelude soft as pipes, like swans in flight bestow.
All inert things burn in this warm, languid hour,
Unaware of how they fled the captivating power of desire.
Now awake, primal urge, beneath the ancient flood’s embrace,
Lily! Your innocence in your gaze, true amidst the grand pace.
But beyond this sweet nothingness, beneath their brief kiss,
My heart, untouched by proof, reveals a profound mystery.
Let it be! For in the reeds we play, under the azure sky,
Turning cheeks to tremble, dreams take flight.
To amuse the beauty around, with notes that weave and sway,
Between the dream and song, love’s whispers softly play.
Oh Syrinx, by the lake where you await, blossom anew!
Proud of murmurs that speak of goddesses, in a reverent hue.
Unleash the waists of shadows, in my tales they live and breathe,
As I imbibe the brightness of the grape, dispelling sorrow.
Laughing, I raise the emptied glass beneath the summer sky,
Breathing into luminous skins, yearning until evening nears.
Oh nymphs, let us rise again, with joyful memories,
My eyes piercing through reeds, striking each immortal form I see,
Submerged in waters under the forest’s tumultuous sky,
With cries of anger and splendor, swiftly passing by.
Glorious strands of hair slipping, adorned with jewels of the brightest hues,
I hasten forth, to this bank of roses in the gentle sunlight.
All fragrances wasted, as our revelry dissipates in the shade,
Where our merriment should linger, like a day long past.
I adore you, wrathful virgins, delicate and shy,
The secret fears of flesh, from heartless foot to timid thigh.
Happy to conquer these fears, my crime is but to partake
In the gods’ mingled kisses, a passion from within.
As I conceal a laugh within one, the other burns brightly,
Yet this quarry forever flees, showing no pity in its flight.
No matter! Others lead me to joy, with tangled locks,
And ripe pomegranates buzzing with bees’ sounds.
At this hour, amid gold and ashes, the forest stirs,
A banquet amid extinguished leaves.
On Etna’s slopes, where Venus walks with effortless grace,
Sad slumber rumbles where the flames leave their trace.
I hold the queen, in an embrace of certain punishment,
No words, as my soul and heavy body yield to silence’s embrace.
Forgetting blasphemy, I surrender to noon’s proud silence,
Lying on the thirsty sand, embracing the true rush of wine.
Farewell to both of you: I depart to witness the shadows you’ve become.

:: 04.20.2024 ::


THE CONSTITUTION OF POETS ii (rev)

THE brain; a sheet of bloodied paper

THE mind; a big scribble

THE heart; the murderer

THE soul; along for the merriest ride

EYES aglow with moonlit wonder

I float on rivers of liquid light

SURRENDERED to universe’s plunder

IN this psychedelic reverie of night

THE boundaries blur, time slips away

AS I merge with the infinite sea,

A transient soul in a cosmic ballet,

God only knows me and sets me free.

:: 08-23-2018 ::


You are Old, Papa

“Dear Papa, the oldest one,” the grand-daughter named Evelyn spoke.

“Your heart leaps as a youngster but your hair is white;

and therein I see something very youthful.

What do other’s my age think or say? Is this correct

or an aberration of adoration and love?”

“When I was younger,” said Papa, “than you I knew the things that could

muddle the mind and confuse the brain to think age has

anything to do with love or magic. To otherwise do,

I feared it would injure my brain.”

Evelyn thought as a young girl might.

“You look old but are not.” said this youth.

“because i shook the shack of a shilling box. I would

sell you some but you are mine heart.”

“How favorite, this thing papa.”

Said her papa: “never forget the magic of a heart!”

:: 04.16.2024 ::


Love Is Ever Near & Forever

Oh Goddess! Hear these awkward lines, wrung
By sweet memory’s force and fond reflection,
Pardon that your secrets I have sung
Even to your tender ear’s direction:
Perchance today was but a dream, or did I spy
The winged Psyche with wide-open eye?
Through a forest I wandered, lost in reverie,
Then suddenly, struck with surprise,
I beheld two figures, side by side they lie
In deep grass, under the whispering trees
Of leaves and blooms that softly sigh,
Beside a brooklet, scarcely seen:

Among hushed, fragrant flowers, with eyes of blue,
Silver-white, budding Tyrian hue,
They rest serenely on the grass;
Their arms entwined, and wings too;
Their lips not meeting, yet no farewell,
As if parted by gentle slumber’s spell,
Yet poised to share countless kisses
At the tender dawn of love’s golden bliss:
The winged girl I knew, but who are you,
O fortunate dove, her true Psyche too!

Oh most recently born and lovely vision,
Surpassing all Olympus’ old dominion!
Fairer than Phoebe’s starry height,
Or Vesper, sky’s enamored light;
Fairer than these, though without shrine,
Nor altar decked with flowers fine;
No choir of maidens to sing through the night,
No voice, no lyre, no flute, no fragrant smoke,
From censer swung in rhythmic stroke;
No sacred grove, no oracle’s sight,
No dreams of seers in the pale moon’s light.

Oh brightest one! Though late for ancient rites,
Too late for the lyre’s devoted flights,
When forest boughs were deemed sacred,
And air, water, fire, held holy:
Yet in these days, far from joyful cries,
Your radiant wings among fading deities,
I see and sing, inspired by my own sight.
So let me be your chorus, and lament
Through the quiet hours of night;
Your voice, your lyre, your flute, your sweet incense,
From the swinging censer’s dance;
Your sacred space, grove, prophecy’s essence,
Divine dreams seen through the seer’s glance.

Yes, I’ll be your priest, and raise a shrine
In my mind’s unexplored deeps,
Where thoughts, newly formed with pleasant pain,
Murmur like pines in gentle breeze;
Far and wide, dark-clustered trees
Adorn the steep, rugged peaks;
There, amidst breezes, streams, birds, and bees,
The moss-clad Dryads find peaceful sleep;
In this vast stillness, a rosy sanctuary blooms,
Woven with the lattice of creative mind’s looms,
With buds, bells, and nameless stars that gleam,
Imaginary blooms of fanciful dreams,
Each cultivated, yet never the same;
All the gentle pleasures of elusive thought,
For you to cherish and claim,
With a bright torch and a window left unbarred,
To welcome warm Love’s flame!

:: 04.10.2024 ::