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Posts Tagged ‘imagination’

Stare out of the window

while the sun greets you.

Smile at the beauty of the leaf

giggling at the wind’s kisses.

You can dream while you’re awake

basking at your solitary pleasure

in isolation, without discontent.

 

Your mind paints on the canvas

the memories that has flesh and bones.

You can touch them with your imagination.

And your shadow whispers at something

about being in love, with life

and the pain is fleeting. Moving

like pictures of the waves at sea,

clouds sojourning the blue sky,

and the sun bids goodnight.

 

The wine will lose its spirit.

The midnight lamp extinguishes.

The sounds will soften.

But sleep will shy away

to the oceans of many

thousand nights before

with the stars shine bright.

For another day is here

reminiscing in solitude.

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He keeps me shrouded in shredded pieces

sprawled and reclusive and momentarily

locked up vanishing in mediocrity.

 

Like someone who is afraid of the sanity

and Charles Dicken’s tale of two cities

and I never get to understand Virginia

Woolf, why her heart cries like a wolf

in the night longing for words as

earnest as Oscar Wilde. Dorian must be

some kind of lover of self and boisterous

as Ernest Hemingway. Not in the league

 

of imagination pours in my cup of tea.

Blood of ink flooding in my desk.

Days and days of wandering and wondering

where the words hide in the curtains.

That great expectation.

 

Lucky is Jane Austen for she can choose

not to be shrouded and shredded but

privileged unlike some Emily Bronte’s

Heathcliffe who tries to redeem romance.

Some hearts that pound in the will of the horse

and to kill a mockingbird of Harper Lee.

I hope to catch the rye like JD Salinger.

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Imagine yourself playing the part.

The melody in a slow tempo

touching the white bones in mine.

The blank spaces glide

filling the staves into octaves

where rhythms of silence

are aching to be heard.

 

The approaching train

in locomotion slowly halting

to a rest and the muse

steps out in a sudden hush.

Whose inspiration reminds me

of the autumn breeze

that shifts its weight

among the rustling of leaves.

 

The sounds in the pavement,

and the trickling of the rain

drops of minims, crochets,

semibreves and quavers

into unfamiliar serenade

awakening the restless

in the night’s peaceful embers.

 

I remember the beating pulse,

the sharp pause counterpointing

the pace and the careful movement

of that forgotten harmony

smoothly entering my soul.

 

When all love was just a dream

and tonight I hear applause

thundering under my own skin.

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He stares at the frosted window,

dreaming of pigeons in flight.

Probing shadows in his oblivion

while the neighborhood is asleep

on this night bathed in blue light.

 

His heart refuses to surrender

to someone else’s handwriting.

 

He’s an outsider, perhaps a victim.

No one knows how he spent hours

imagining a beautiful world.

Unable to express, struggling

for a line to be understood.

 

An empty love bleeding sentences

that can never be written.

 

Such beauty, a flower in the field

belonging to some lucky bee.

Jealousy hits his innocence

like a knife to a man’s desiring,

leaving his wounds unhealed.

 

For the lady who reads letters

from some scented envelopes.

 

There is blood in the trash bin

and it does belong to him.

Among the crumpled sheets,

the fingerprints and drops of ink-

a memory of his scarred sanity.

 

How he endured the paper cuts;

this man’s life in blank pages.

 

The postman didn’t come today

and the letters were undelivered.

No one has foreseen death’s coming-

such as his knocking on doors

and opening of mailboxes, each morning.

 

They found a fountain pen in his hand,

motionless and still- in cold blood.

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Mid-air  in my waking dream

are clouds and clouds away.

Like migratory creatures

homing their way into

transient frontiers.

Lulled by the rhythms

of the humming steel.

It churns anxiously, and

earnestly of home.

 

While the hands of time

back paces into

a counterclockwise.

The book of days

Suddenly flipped

to a journey of old memories.

Of  some silky threads

of years slipped through

in a hindsight.  As if

I didn’t left yesterday.

 

Then, something in me

fluttered like a fly.

Or is it really?

Touching down

this imagination to a farce.

 

As I watch the blue sea

became the bleakest

monotony of rust-colored roofs.

And the bumpy runway

made me remember

of the past.  That is much more likely-

today.  When nothing ever happened

to the ones I left behind- yesterday.

 

The gossamer of traffic.

Life entangled mazes

survival in the loop.

Sleep walking and heady

as the smog filtered

in my nostrils.

A reality I denied to believe.

Have I gone too far?

Too fast. Too soon.

As if I didn’t left?

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The world is one big classroom, I must say.  And we are all the students learning how to figure out life’s great lessons.  Just as we are looking at that big greenboard of countless possibilities of reading, of thinking, of testing ideas, of talking and of course, communicating.

We all sit there in our own chairs and desks doing what is required by our society. Taking up life roles quite unique to us and doing what is expected of us to do. And the challenge, is for us to contribute. To open up. To understand. To question. To clarify. To accept.  To be better.

And like most of the students, we have varied approaches to learning. Some diligent, some irresponsible, some bookish, some drifters, some enthusiasts etc. Same as true as how we do in our lives. No one in the class can contend who did well or who did not, but only the teacher, who had the lesson plan. The teacher who has the pen to write down the grades.  The teacher who is in the front like a mighty warrior quelling ignorance among us. 

They say, a teacher is a great influence to your well-being, second to your parents.  If the teacher has inspired you, there you’ll get inspired.  If the teacher has empowered you, then you’ll be of power.  And if the teacher make you see wider than you are used to, I bet, you will go a long way than you could ever imagine.

And the success of the teacher is not on how many doctors, lawyers, CEO’s and government officials they had produced.  But teachers who produce another set of responsible teachers and mentors in other fields enriching and nourishing.  The workplace. The community. The church.  The government.  The society.

Even after university life, we all have mentors in our workplaces. We have elders in our churches to encourage us.  We have community leaders who prod us to be responsible. We have fathers and mothers, whose voices are still relevant. In this life, no one survives on his own. We need teachers, who can tell us the difference between right and wrong.  We need teachers, who had a definite view of what is acceptable or not. We need teachers, who have a strong moral ethic and can’t be compromised.
That is the worth of a teacher.  That was how their profession is simply the noblest.  You might say, that it seems like forever their turf is in the classroom.  Staying there as long as they have the energy to teach. But can you imagine, how their ideals travelled the world, among their students?  Can you imagine how the society at large being built by their minds among the movers and shakers of this generation?

The world may boast of its many achievements.  But these rest upon the shoulders of the teachers whose influence help shape it.  The teacher whose idea fire an imagination.  The teacher whose life becomes a beacon of hope between the present and the future. 
 

 

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