To the Writhing Mind

The flowers of spring sprout,
A dash of colour amongst the grass.
The pink blossom dances in the breeze,
And the birds sing through the clouds.
Above the tall white mountains.

Yet one may be blind to such beauty.
I seethed amongst this scene,
And slumped against a tree.
My anger seeped through me
An incessant drumming of my fingers,

But I realised later, once I returned,
That my breath could be stolen,
By such a stunning visage.
It was then that I shed a tear,
For once I had yearned for difference,

Surrounded by the difference I yearned for.
Like an actor in a tragedy, I was blind,
Corrupted by my experiences,
Not trialed by them.
My fingers drum a different tune.

Chapter 6 – The Impending Bewilderment

There was a time
When my thoughts were more coherent. . .
I was journeying swiftly
How did I become so desultory?

The path was clear,
Bare under the sky
How did it evade me?
When it was under my feet

Oh! I have been searching
Long forgotten and lost
Clad in abundant verdure,
Does it not want to be tread?

Or perhaps it was a thought
A mere creation of the mind . . .
I think of abandoning my search
Should I sift my heart instead?

In the timeless forest of my memory
I await for a long night
Maybe the north star will reveal itself
And guide me to my road?

Our Odyssey

I sat with you that day,
My long-time friend.
We drank to company in front of the sun,
That faded from blue to orange.
Giddy, we smiled and laughed that day.

We had chosen Yalu River to sit by,
As the speaker of day, its water wavered,
With rays of sunset that painted a shimmer.
Joyously, we counted the petals that sailed the current,
Happy, we drank and we drank that day.

As the light cooled, the drinks felt warmer,
Do you remember, my friend?
We lent against the city’s gate,
Whose stone did stand strong.
Oblivious, we had cried out and laughed that day.

Our eyes were averted from the reeds,
That sprouted from the riverbed,
They rustled, of course,
But only when we turned our head,
Where crouched amongst the grass it lay,

You had spotted then, or so you thought,
Something in those reeds – that did contort,
Some small bird, that could want our bread,
But as forward you crept, the animal leapt,
And with a cry you bled that day.

On a winter’s morning,, now I stand alone,
With bundles of disgruntled reeds,
Those that I plan to lay,
At the stone that represents your body,
And at the words that represent your life.



“Too curious, careless and kind.”

70

The light,
It flows through me
The luminous specks
Force my spirit to scream,
Are they here to set me free?
To carry me away as I become
One of them?

thepleasantsimpleguy

Ballad of Solemnity

The rolling skies stretch far,
Torn by clouds that smear the blue canvas.

Like knives that threaten to strike the sun,
Huge peaks, jagged, are tipped with the poison of snow.

Monolithic mountains encircled by clouds,
Wisps of smoke trail from the cliffs otherwise bare.

One peak harbours blossom, sprouting pink over grey,
With a mountain breeze the petals are shaken free.

Beneath the branches; above the stone snow,
Sits a zither, strummed by a lone soul.

She is covered in white robes that flow like a mountain river,
White like the blossom of the cherry tree, white like the snow,

White like the ocean island clouds, white like the moon.
To whom does one play such a solemn tune?