“Unending Love”

“Unending Love”

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times…
In life after life, in age after age, forever.
My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,
That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms,
In life after life, in age after age, forever.

Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, it’s age old pain,
It’s ancient tale of being apart or together.
As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge,
Clad in the light of a pole-star, piercing the darkness of time.
You become an image of what is remembered forever.

You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.
At the heart of time, love of one for another.
We have played along side millions of lovers,
Shared in the same shy sweetness of meeting,
the distressful tears of farewell,
Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.

Today it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in you
The love of all man’s days both past and forever:
Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life.
The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours -
And the songs of every poet past and forever.”

― Rabindranath Tagore

shellet xie - yin yang - pressed flower art - balance

shellet xie – yin yang – pressed flower art – balance

 

“Madness”

MADNESS

Hopeless bleeds
Haunts shadows
Mind loses calmness
Raw bones stripped clean
Grinds the deadness
Shadows in the dark
Pretend fear away

Unsuccessful the voices
Breathe stolen images
Nightmares’ leftovers
Circle around
Before the grave
Quiet the sound
Words echo
When spoke aloud

Lost in a mine field
Blood explodes
Owns the end
Sanity rejected
Sucks down
The rough terrain
Rips life away
Shreds existence

Dread madness
Releases uncertainty
The light surrenders
Anxiety overwhelms
Fear’s strangers
Aloneness within
Consumes Universe
While Nothingness holds court

© jk 2015

walking amongst the darkness (c) jk 2015

walking amongst the darkness (c) jk 2015

“not even the rain, has such small hands”

“somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands”

― e.e. cummings

hands-reaching-out-into-rain

“It has often been said…”

“It has often been said
there’s so much to be read,
you never can cram
all those words in your head.

So the writer who breeds
more words than he needs
is making a chore
for the reader who reads.

That’s why my belief is
the briefer the brief is,
the greater the sigh
of the reader’s relief is.

And that’s why your books
have such power and strength.
You publish with shorth!
(Shorth is better than length.)”
― Dr. Seuss

stars shifting in blackness of space