Good at nothing--truly speaking-
neither this or that
it was no wonder
I made my poor parents sad-

I saved a dollar
it was all I had
on a lottery I betted
overnight I was deliriously glad-

the prize I won was dollars ten million
I could scarcely count till I were dead
mum made me the pie I loved best
dad exclaimed: You've succeeded as you were well-bred!

I will not stay
I can't
here the ground
is sinking
like quicksand
only betrayal
and deceit is found

each word is connived
as though each speaker
within himself carries
a ready lethal knife

they said to me:
' just stay a while'
but I knew the storm
was brewing-  guile
wore an insidious smile

escape routes
they had planned
none had I---
where could I hide?

Postscript:

I left
my life I saved
I survived!

I'll leave you to lead
I have no desire to compete

The most important business
plainly speaking
is the business
of living

Art Weiss
• 1st
Freelance Graphic Designer / Art Director / Illustrator / University Professor Emeritus
8h • 8 hours ago

Abstract Painting “Crowded Colors”

Haiku


Rush of bright colours
mosaic of exquisiteness
anthem of beauty

Silent stays the day
it won't judge or speak
until the sun has set
with words that praise or make you sick.

That brand of  egoistic happiness I would never endorse or subscribe to.  It is dehumanising and maligned. Happiness is a gift of grace or conferred by fate and I'm blessed and also grateful to be the beneficiary. I could only do so much to bring myself to that state of realisation and no more as I'm never in control of the forces of and circumstances of life imposed on me. I am a fragile and brittle blade of grass in the immense field of the universes exposed to the wildest and most violent winds and storms. All that I can hope for is mild weather conditions such that I could exist, am secure and be content with my lot alongside the endless row of green mates.

True happiness is possible only if I am humble. It's not something to be talked about or displayed. I don't go around to parade my happiness as a victor would show the trophy he had won. We don't want to be admired for whatever happiness that has come our way. We hold it in silence and gratitude.
We don't beam with that measure of h ( abbreviated for happiness) before others as to hint some magnificence has entered our life. That's totally odious as it smacks of self-gratification and smugness.
And above all, we cause extreme discomfort and distress, especially to those who are in a state of misery.

I can't think of h in isolation. It's not about me, for me or for my own sake. I've to relate it to my family whom I love more than myself. For how could I be happy when they are not?
( to continue in next episode)

Let me grow

gently, quietly,

humbly, lovingly,

selflessly,  compassionately

More than life
that something intangible
which hovers over
the heart and mind-
the unnamable
not even love
nor beauty
nor success
nor joy
nor belief
nor religion
nor the sting of death

what's that something?

Life is misty dream
reality is deception
wrong is perception

Life should not be construed
as 'bad business'
it's not a merchant
nor a purveyor of happiness.

If love could
  recapture
  the first touch and kiss
  it would never lose its rapture

Human wisdom, at its highest point, tends toward the transcendental and spiritual as it can no longer contain, comprehend or define itself.
It then realises that it must be silent to imbibe the Ultimate Sublime.

Old library book
love-letter I found within
signed ' yours forever'

Monsoon
it will sweep through
there's no giving in-
for compromise
there's no room
nothing shall stay
in its way--it will uproot
discord and chaos
is its job--it's a callous brute--

I am caught
in the maelstrom
in total nakedness
there's no place
for shelter
it's untold gloom
all over I shiver--

who and what
shall deliver me
from this agony
that resides
and persists
in my heart?

The wound that's not yet bleeding

          is much worse than that which has bled

          it still exists in suspended suffering

          while the latter is free from that.

A constellation of memories
in the continuum of time
vague images and confused feelings
few moments were glorious and fewer, sublime

the sadness of the face--it's hard to hide
the past self oscillated between hope and despair
set-backs were far more than triumphs
the summation is wear and tear

give me the person without regret or remorse
even the saint and the sage doesn't dare such to declare
living is never a gift but a load-some baggage
fate is a mocker whether you are here or there

nothing hurts now and my lonely song I have sung  
I no longer plead for comfort, solace or favour
where's the wisdom, certainty and serenity?
what's left is the road sign that reads: 'Life is error'

Not that welcome sunlit day
but the moment in the darkest night
that defined what you were in the dead stillness
you blindly groped and nothing seemed right--

an eternity it did seem then
no help nor solace was in sight
put to the severest and most gruelling test
would you be able to emerge into the light?

Don't measure me
   others are more worthy

The hidden holds

a deeper mystery than the seen-

love that's unspoken

is the greatest beauty--the eternal evergreen

Tonight to myself
I'll say:
let reason be asleep
let thinking go away-

no longer shall I be caged
within any boundary
words trouble me with their insistence
testing me with their strange vocabulary-

I long for rest and sleep
my heart and soul are weary
the load of past experience oppresses
I'm struggling to be free--

shadows lurk in the night
they seem to be watching me
the winds that drift  by are whispering:
we know your sad story.

Does our mind
have an underground
where our innermost secrets
are hidden
immersed in murky waters
which we would never want
to revisit?
(the door to the key
we had flung into
some faraway sea
so long ago)

there's no darkness
that's gloomier
than this
our purgatory--

don't mention
Freud--he wouldn't know
even his own mind
he struggled to understand

the brain
is not the mind
and the mind
is not the brain
(grey matter is substance
thought has no form)

don't mention
the neuroscientist
he's but a machine-reader
and all machines
have faults
where's the dwelling place
of genius
and how are thoughts born?
(it's stupid to guess-
science and technology
are in their infancy)

if one knows not
what one's own mind is
how would others?

I would not go down
the path of thinking again
let me be a child
let me escape the prison
of my own making

give me
a fresh corner
(however small)
of a distant field
let me sow
new seeds
born of pain
and suffering
this time
I know
a new plant
would grow

sprouting
into the sky
seen by all
I would have nothing
to hide

and my underground
would go away
forgotten
and vanish
for evermore.

Better than other people?
myself I could not
I spare myself the trouble
by banishing this thought.

Join me in the dance

with fulness of soul and heart

to last beyond time

I had my chance
now it's too late
thr rain of time
has washed away
my footprints
'twas my fault
I can't blame fate--
the glory then
was mine--every inch-
all the way beauty  went
in search of my heart
but I stood apart
lost in binge*

and now left alone
with wrinkled ache
I could claim
nothing of my own
only regret
I have forgotten
the person I once was
in my pristine prime
when all was at my behest
the purest gems
sadly I did neglect
and what I have inherited
is but the meanest alms-

I don't wish
for a moment
to know my own name

self-pity embitters
and cries out in shame

What's that?
time the stalker
the busy-body
the schemer-

what's its next move?
the trouble-maker
hard to guess
the perpetual  disturber-

why can't it sit still?
why must it be the monitor?
too much time to ****?
couldn't find a lover?

this I'll conclude
now or never
when my last I breathe
you and I will sever!

The world is held in silence

              as sublime notes fill the air

             such resounding resonance

             only the rarest can compare-



             the heart of love wells in abundance

             such divine music vanquishes every human care

             centuries to come will still keep in remembrance

             where beauty dwells, there's no room for despair

              

Sunday, 3.15 pm, Melb time.  copyright

Faraway village

under misty autumn sky

pervading silence

A hero
can also be
a villain -
this is harsh reality

I've no right nor reason
to claim what I'm not
nor should I ever consider
I'm worthy to be well-thought
of.   For the world passes by
for everyone and I'm not even seen
lining up in an anxious queue--
staying away from the crowd
is my mantra.  Crying aloud
is not part of my agenda--

knowing what I am
and what I am not
makes me sober
and that I never forgot-

I'm in the sun
I'm in the rain
I don't seek pity
though I live in pain-

I'm in summer
I'm in winter
I'm where destiny leads
come whatever the weather

and this I do know
and hold dear
life has its misery
but also splendour

dreams and hopes
love in resplendent wonder
the heart has its own reasons
the endless adventurer

I've sailed the seas
traversed the wildest plain
I've walked in the thickest snow
given another chance, shall dare again

none does and never shall know my name
the night at its appointed time shall descend
under the patient watching stars I'll lay down to rest
in a faraway make-shift tent.

Sentient is
the voice
of the poet
not sententious

his heart
is heavy-laden
with
the pain
of the world

his words
are tears-filled

life's sufferings
can't be thwarted
neither by prayer
or deed

poetry stands apart
as the lone chronicler
of the heart of man
an equal weeper

when someone
anywhere
is in pain
that mysteriously
filters through
the blood-stream
of a sentient poem.

If that we wished for
we have had
we'd seek more
and still aren't glad-

our desires-- how they wax and never abate
we wake up only when our present joys have fled
time too soon sweeps us away from our treasured gate
it would then be futile for us to weep or regret

..... but wits don't make a person complete
     it's character that I desire to meet
     William had shaken the whole world-sphere
     each has their wisdom-- his wits we needn't fear!

It's most worrying

when words begin

to betray or distort

the mind's intended meaning

Don't ring a friend during meal-time
  he might choke to death (not unlikely as you guess)
  don't ring him at midnight--never, never, never
  he might be making love and suffer a coitus interruptus!

To realise life's brevity makes us more alive to the life that's before us.  Death is sure but the in-between is what matters

I have returned to myself
this natural home of mine
which I left in ignorance and folly
and having then  lost my sunshine

now as I look around
my mind-scape one again
is  a lush green field and a rosy garden-
ah,  the coming-home, the end of my pain!

My heart doesn't wander
in careless search of love
but I've never been
a love-smotherer

solitude I hug
like none other
while love vacillates
my aloneness survives every weather.

Santa Claus was impatient
wanted in a hury to descend to earth
in a hot-balloon but half-way it burst
poor Santa said: Christmas is really absurd!

The in-between of time
our common angst
the past on our left
the future on our right
(the endless tug-of-war
  but I can't take either side)
with the self in the centre
  as the silent on-looker

  how could I myself divide
  into distinct parts or fragments
  and lose my own individuality
  and identity?

   the past insists
   on telling its story
   the future cares not
   it is impatient
   it is not content
    to be listed second
     superiority it claims

    but my love
    my reason to be
    we choose to be free
     unbounded by
     the time in-between
      every moment
      we create our own glory

       destiny
        is what we make
        of our life together
        
         love heals and does redeem
         it gags the voice of time
          which we'll deem
          but an overused metaphor

           love puts every hour
           to rest. Our love
           has spoken
           it could never be
           an error.

I've enough of myself
silent I'll be:
no more self-talking
beyond joy or misery

Don't ever be contemptuous
of routine and banality
it's more valuable than philosophy
it's the core of health and sanity.

Before my eyes
I finally shut
this line I'll write:
ah, poetry is the GREATEST*  art!

Let's not quarrel
you do what you may
I'll do mine--that's fair
I should say-

never mind our differences
none should insist on their way
the world is made of 7.7 billion faces
imagine the number of transactions that mark the day!

Wishing won't make you rich
it merely exacerbates your itch.

The voyage once taken
in fullest harness
with burning flames
of desire should be enough
in retrospect

youth has outgrown itself
for even Ulysses had felt
the gnaws of desolation
and alienation-- time
changes the entire complexion
of every experience and event-
there's rest in respite
to conquer is to surrender
to unrest and discontent
every quest must find
a peaceful and self-accepting end--

early I started when
my every breath
was an inspiration
the world it seemed then
to belong to me
in my exultation
as a hymn of self- salvation
I sang--too sure was my conviction-

vox clamantis in deserto....

I set sail,  quite long ago
I went, I saw, not even an inch
I managed to conquer
not a hair-pin wiser

and now as the years
have stood apart
and seen me in my tears
my boat I have burnt
every part of it I have blown
by the unknown shore alone
I witnessed the last dying ambers
while from some strange nowhere
came the cry of  wild birds' lamenting moan.

Mother holding child
afternoon walk in the park
baby's hat blown off

The heart that loves truly
         has a foretaste of eternity
         beyond the pale of the earthly
         it dwells in untold bliss and beauty

Every word of yours
has the imprint of  ineradicable ink
it makes the heart pause
to wonder and think

Not love but patience
       does conquer all
       the avaricious in impatience
       face the greatest downfall.