The bloom of youth had barely blushed
When from her enigmatic past
Emerged a harbinger of gloom;
Her fated future was unsure.
She did not know who fathered her,
Her mother died while giving birth,
Leaving her parentage in limbo;
Her mother’s mother, mothered her.
Her pleasant childhood never lacked
Nor tasted any untoward strains;
The older carers filled her needs,
She was a vibrant, happy child.
The story of her life, she knew,
No difference to her life, it made;
A roseate future lay ahead,
Within the rhythmic field of dance.
Then came that sunny autumn day,
A letter dropped in through the post;
Someone who claimed paternity,
Had filtered in from distant past.
The family home in disarray
Envisioned losing lovely lass;
Their fears would prove to be unfounded,
Her future would be guaranteed.
Advice was sought to save the child,
Gently a calming voice declared:
‘The missive bore not gloom but glory,
Paternal legacy for her!’
From: Late Harvest.
For your personal delectation and reflection!
~Click on the Pics~
It was in the garden of a madhouse that I met a youth with a face pale and lovely and full of wonder. And I sat beside him upon the bench, and I said, “Why are you here?”
And he looked at me in astonishment, and he said, “It is an unseemly question, yet I will answer you. My father would make of me a reproduction of himself; so also would my uncle. My mother would have me the image of her seafaring husband as the perfect example for me to follow. My brother thinks I should be like him, a fine athlete.
“And my teachers also, the doctor of philosophy, and the music-master, and the logician, they too were determined, and each would have me but a reflection of his own face in a mirror.
“Therefore I came to this place. I find it more sane here. At least, I can be myself.”
Then of a sudden he turned to me and he said, “But tell me, were you also driven to this place by education and good counsel?”
And I answered, “No, I am a visitor.”
And he answered, “Oh, you are one of those who live in the madhouse on the other side of the wall.”
(Kahlil Gibran: The Wanderer)
Bipedal steed awaits with nonchalant ease
Diurnal practice of the rider’s mount;
Fair distance has been growing by degrees,
The mileage on the speedo keeps account.
Of late the rider wears a trendy hat
Lest mishap should assail his hairless head,
His eyes demand protection ‘gainst the gnat
Who wanders willy-nilly, ’tis the dread.
The hour of the day when he appears
Is likely to be in the later morn,
Oft, duty casts their trysting in arrears
Their passionate encounter must adjourn!
Inclement climes despoil their fun-filled jaunt,
Though rider can be seen on stepping steel;
Foul weather resolution cannot daunt,
Long may well-being feed such zeal.
Eurythmic routine pleasures as it trains –
Our hearts, our bodies, spirits and our brains.
(From: New Ventures)
Posted in Fitness, Poetry
Where we are rooted;
Shelter from the storms of life –
Haven for the worn!
Lasting seeds are sown,
Wheat and tare grow side by side;
Winnow at harvest!
Wander far and wide,
Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter;
Home is in the heart!
(From: Autumn Ambles)