under the mango tree the poet

under the mango tree the poet sat

determined to be inspired to write

to say something;

outside the shade

five boys there are

mirthful at their play they are;

not too high up a bough

the mango fruit hangs confidently

it's dark green and though robust and plump

it's still not half a fist;

the boys found rocks

upwards they hurled them towards the mango fruit

but they're poor marksmen

the rocks just kissed thin leaves and brown branches;

the mango fruit just laughed inwardly

the boys got tired and cursed their fate

under their breaths;

under the mango tree the poet sat

and wrote ---

O mango fruit, time will come when you will be

fist-sized and golden and ready

and will fall towards the earth 

as is ordained

the boys might not be here nor I

to witness this unfolding

but, Time will come.

by the Rules, we all must abide,

the Universe is perfect by Itself.

they say it takes a poet

it has been so long since the last time I was able to post a blog entry.   

it really comes.  this seemingly dry spell, or rather, this lazy, uninspired period.  I cannot deny it. yes, the mind is able to meander and so many thoughts and feelings had marched in succession.  

indeed! a parade of insights and realizations that were wanting to be put into words and somehow be shared.  but sadly, the mind could not will the pen to write, to leave curlicues of words, to smear the white, blank sheet of paper and fill it up with ideas, hopefully to communicate, to reach somebody, to attempt to be at one in spirit ...

and happily, the mind again is able to will the fingers to hop excitedly over the letters of the keyboard, ten blithe, bony tap dancers forming words, phrases, sentences.  birthing the germs of thought in the mind, giving them form and body that others may see them and have the chance to think about them as well, perhaps to disagree or agree, to contradict or acquiesce, but, above all to be able to share in what the mind experienced and realized.

this was a very old poem i wrote that i feel somehow expresses the idea how there are times we are afraid to share an experience, an insight, a realization ----

they say it takes a poet

to see such beauty from a stone

for

although the sea has polished off

it's barren face

it casts no reflection of the Sun;

they say it takes a poet

to hear sweet music from a brook

as it squirms and circles round

while it flows

and wrinkles like a pauper's cloak;

the thing is we are all poets

but this we do ignore

for we are all afraid to see

that we are a wrinkled brook

and we have our own unpolished stones.