deepundergroundpoetry.com
Wise Moments In The Wild
Around The Future
i spent the morning on the mountain, roaming like a drifter searching a new way
to chase away my stress, and spill out the bitter spleen in my heart, striding along,
passing every stone, climbing each rock, hearing every bird sending his complains, filling the dead void with a thousand sighs..
The pine forest lies quite on the steep rocky plain, anchored firmly to a childhood earth,
as some joyous robins and goldfinch broke my thoughts with a twitter and a gentle birdie scream,
Seemingly, Spring has sped some happy harbingers to hail his coming before due times:locusts and butterflies skip hither and thither, now sucking on autumn buds, now fluttering in sunny rays;
Still, winter sheds a cold warmth, leaving misty horizons to fade over remote hills..
Time is still a spell of meditation over the passing time, and the coming future between two tense times and fuzzy visions.The moment is precious and the time is flat like those far meadows where the eye loses its gleam...
Awaiting, here abiding, with pen holding all the pain, and leaving behind a poetic stain until further notice.
i spent the morning on the mountain, roaming like a drifter searching a new way
to chase away my stress, and spill out the bitter spleen in my heart, striding along,
passing every stone, climbing each rock, hearing every bird sending his complains, filling the dead void with a thousand sighs..
The pine forest lies quite on the steep rocky plain, anchored firmly to a childhood earth,
as some joyous robins and goldfinch broke my thoughts with a twitter and a gentle birdie scream,
Seemingly, Spring has sped some happy harbingers to hail his coming before due times:locusts and butterflies skip hither and thither, now sucking on autumn buds, now fluttering in sunny rays;
Still, winter sheds a cold warmth, leaving misty horizons to fade over remote hills..
Time is still a spell of meditation over the passing time, and the coming future between two tense times and fuzzy visions.The moment is precious and the time is flat like those far meadows where the eye loses its gleam...
Awaiting, here abiding, with pen holding all the pain, and leaving behind a poetic stain until further notice.
Published 8th Dec 2024
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9th Dec 2024 12:49pm
The pen will ever hold all the joys and pains.. but what we savour of moments in time is quite enlivening especially when that precious time is spent in the realm of a lively Nature.. A chance of inestimable value! To be there in the warmth and Beauty of Mother Nature! You have wonderfully with an adept poetic brush and quill painted and composed a so beautiful scene! A treat to read you.. Stay always blessed and happy.
9th Dec 2024 1:20pm
To be true poet, or to write true poetry, we must live the moment
with its good and bad, its first impression what affect it makes in
the mind and the heart of the poet, or the Artist...otherwise,all
that is composed is almost all of it, just fake, false, liable
to mannerism, and masks and extra unhuman. not man's touches..
Thank you again, your presence is highly valued. MS. best regards
with its good and bad, its first impression what affect it makes in
the mind and the heart of the poet, or the Artist...otherwise,all
that is composed is almost all of it, just fake, false, liable
to mannerism, and masks and extra unhuman. not man's touches..
Thank you again, your presence is highly valued. MS. best regards
