Hi,
I have written three hundred and sixty five poems in just over three hundred and sixty five days. So I shall now leave this blog here. I do have another blog, basically one I have revamped where I will continue putting down my musings. You can check it out at ' baginidreaming.blogspot.au'.
A Bagini is a spirit creature of the Kurnai Aboriginal Nation in Far East Gippsland, Victoria, where I live.
Saturday 16 January 2016
Friday 1 January 2016
A Year of Poems - The End.
I've been a poet,
An entire year.
In three hundred and sixty five posts,
I've expressed the ideas,
Filling my mind,
Inspiring me to write.
Making me desperately sad.
Or with wonder,
Lifting my heart,
And making it light.
Poems that flowed like a song,
Onto the page.
Others I penned,
Feeling hurt and outraged.
Sometimes I was pondering,
The ills of the world,
And sometimes the hurts,
And insults were hurled.
To ease my own suffering,
I wrote and I cried.
But then in my enjoyment,
Frivolity bubbled inside.
Sometimes it was a chore.
But sometimes...
I wanted to say more and more and more.
Write to a friend,
Cryptic messages send.
Express my love.
Express my joy.
Be outlandish,
Or subtle or coy.
But to my heart,
I have been true.
And these poems,
Are my gift to you.
Oh the rapture,
Oh the pain...
Perhaps one day,
I shall do it,
All again.
An entire year.
In three hundred and sixty five posts,
I've expressed the ideas,
Filling my mind,
Inspiring me to write.
Making me desperately sad.
Or with wonder,
Lifting my heart,
And making it light.
Poems that flowed like a song,
Onto the page.
Others I penned,
Feeling hurt and outraged.
Sometimes I was pondering,
The ills of the world,
And sometimes the hurts,
And insults were hurled.
To ease my own suffering,
I wrote and I cried.
But then in my enjoyment,
Frivolity bubbled inside.
Sometimes it was a chore.
But sometimes...
I wanted to say more and more and more.
Write to a friend,
Cryptic messages send.
Express my love.
Express my joy.
Be outlandish,
Or subtle or coy.
But to my heart,
I have been true.
And these poems,
Are my gift to you.
Oh the rapture,
Oh the pain...
Perhaps one day,
I shall do it,
All again.
Learning from those that hurt you.
Learning to forgive those who have hurt you,
Is an opportunity to practise unconditional love.
To not differentiate favour between enemies and friends,
Is to practise equanimity.
To avoid devisive speech and speak with only kind words,
Is to practise self control.
To attempt to understand the suffering of others,
Is an opportunity to practise empathy.
By standing up for the oppressed,
Is to practise courage.
And to avoid vexatious people and situations,
Is to be wise.
Is an opportunity to practise unconditional love.
To not differentiate favour between enemies and friends,
Is to practise equanimity.
To avoid devisive speech and speak with only kind words,
Is to practise self control.
To attempt to understand the suffering of others,
Is an opportunity to practise empathy.
By standing up for the oppressed,
Is to practise courage.
And to avoid vexatious people and situations,
Is to be wise.
Something Missing
Some people have something missing,
It's little gap,
In themselves.
Perhaps it is self doubt.
Are they of value?
Are they here for a reason?
And this doubt,
Creates a terrible gnawing inside.
That drives them to despair,
Or other desperate measures.
They cling to the edge of life,
With their knuckles whitening.
Mostly people fill this gap
With purpose.
A life of industry and usefulness.
Some fill it with acts of kindness.
Others with the care of partners and children.
They all see themselves reflected in their deeds,
And find their worth.
She trawls the internet looking for love.
And pours out her sadness to strangers,
Hoping to find acceptance and approval.
I look on hopelessly.
She isn't courageous enough,
To see the pattern of her folly,
And with each rejection,
Her gap increases.
It's little gap,
In themselves.
Perhaps it is self doubt.
Are they of value?
Are they here for a reason?
And this doubt,
Creates a terrible gnawing inside.
That drives them to despair,
Or other desperate measures.
They cling to the edge of life,
With their knuckles whitening.
Mostly people fill this gap
With purpose.
A life of industry and usefulness.
Some fill it with acts of kindness.
Others with the care of partners and children.
They all see themselves reflected in their deeds,
And find their worth.
She trawls the internet looking for love.
And pours out her sadness to strangers,
Hoping to find acceptance and approval.
I look on hopelessly.
She isn't courageous enough,
To see the pattern of her folly,
And with each rejection,
Her gap increases.
Missing Someone
It is a little hollow feeling.
A small ache in the chest.
At its worst,
It is a hard tight knot,
At the remembrance,
Of the time you spent together.
You can think about them,
Their quirks and idiosyncrasies,
Their little mannerisms.
And inwardly smile,
Your heart warms and your ears are soothed,
By the sound of their name spoken aloud.
And the anticipation of reunion,
Is even better than the actual embrace,
Which feels like a homecoming.
A small ache in the chest.
At its worst,
It is a hard tight knot,
At the remembrance,
Of the time you spent together.
You can think about them,
Their quirks and idiosyncrasies,
Their little mannerisms.
And inwardly smile,
Your heart warms and your ears are soothed,
By the sound of their name spoken aloud.
And the anticipation of reunion,
Is even better than the actual embrace,
Which feels like a homecoming.
Singing with my hands.
I am not sure why,
But when I sing,
When I pour every ounce of my soul into a song,
And I feel each atom of my being vibrating in unison.
When I gently rock my body to the rhythm,
Close my eyes,
And tilt my head trancelike,
It is my hands that lose all control.
But I sing in a choir and I am almost there.
In that unique little zone of happiness.
Communing with my fellow choristers,
And making beautiful music,
Together.
Yet...
To set my hands free,
To move and jerk about to their own will.
To flap and retract and bend this way and that,
To no design but their own.
It is in these brief moments.
When I sing unrepressed.
I can be truly free.
But when I sing,
When I pour every ounce of my soul into a song,
And I feel each atom of my being vibrating in unison.
When I gently rock my body to the rhythm,
Close my eyes,
And tilt my head trancelike,
It is my hands that lose all control.
But I sing in a choir and I am almost there.
In that unique little zone of happiness.
Communing with my fellow choristers,
And making beautiful music,
Together.
Yet...
To set my hands free,
To move and jerk about to their own will.
To flap and retract and bend this way and that,
To no design but their own.
It is in these brief moments.
When I sing unrepressed.
I can be truly free.
The Escapees
Three naughty sheep, did a roam.
Three naughty sheep, away from home.
Into my neighbours they did stray.
So we promised to take them away.
Three naughty sheep, did a roam.
Three naughty sheep, so wild and free
Three naughty sheep, not belonging to me
We caught them and thought it easier,
To fatten them up for the freezer.
Three naughty sheep, did a roam.
Three naughty sheep, stirred up the rest.
Three naughty sheep, our fences did a test.
We decided to keep them here.
Three naughty sheep had other ideas.
Three naughty sheep, did a roam.
Three naughty sheep, returned back home.
Three naughty sheep, no longer did a roam.
It seemed there was nothing else to do.
But they took back with them another two.
Three naughty sheep (plus two more, my lambs ) did a roam.
Three naughty sheep, away from home.
Into my neighbours they did stray.
So we promised to take them away.
Three naughty sheep, did a roam.
Three naughty sheep, so wild and free
Three naughty sheep, not belonging to me
We caught them and thought it easier,
To fatten them up for the freezer.
Three naughty sheep, did a roam.
Three naughty sheep, stirred up the rest.
Three naughty sheep, our fences did a test.
We decided to keep them here.
Three naughty sheep had other ideas.
Three naughty sheep, did a roam.
Three naughty sheep, returned back home.
Three naughty sheep, no longer did a roam.
It seemed there was nothing else to do.
But they took back with them another two.
Three naughty sheep (plus two more, my lambs ) did a roam.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)