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Tag Archives: waiting

Rose teardrops


Teardrops... ©copyright2014owpp

Teardrops…
©copyright2014owpp

Bleeding beauty
Seasonal & moody
Oblivious to the
Comfort you bring
To Winter’s needy

I thought a bit of color in this season might bring all of you some comfort. I played around with color. I wonder which is your favorite?
Wishing you a wonderful weekend 🙂

In its original color ©copyright2014owpp

In its original color
©copyright2014owpp

Offering to the needy ©copyright2014owpp

Offering to the needy
©copyright2014owpp

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We, your mirror and a flash of kindness-September 1992 –Adjusted January 2013


©copyright2013owpp

©copyright2013owpp

We, your mirror and a flash of kindness
———————————————–

Omitting love, kindness and patience from our lives, we are empty barks.
That sees without eyes, walks without feet, hears without ears, feels without a soul and appreciates
but ones pampered ego.

How much does it cost to make another feel welcome with an unexpected call, if only for a few
seconds. Greet them with a genuine smile, a warm Hello?

Just love, kindness and a flash of patience. And by this gesture comes…

A hint of sunshine.
A warm spot for the day.
Zeal in our step.
Wrinkles brushed off a forehead.
Pride in a demeanor.
Back bent under indifference, straightened.
Monotony of a cluttered day and clattered mind, alleviated…

For him, for her, for us.

Next time we go through such a day, remember…
There is someone with a heart wrinkled by the monotony of daily indifference, waiting for that spot of warmth…

Me, you, our fellow, our shadows…

WE.

What is poetry to you?


William Shakespeare

William Shakespeare

Poetry to me is the elegance of a moment transmitted from the mind, to the marvel of entwined
words choreographed by the master, called inspiration.

Poetry is a way to let out all the bottled up emotional energy. It’s grabbing that second, hour,
week or month and signing it up for immortality.

Poetry is throwing out there, a heritage of love for the generations to come. It is pausing in
anticipation of auspicious times.

Poetry is letting the words find their place. It is giving them the opportunity to discover
each other in a sentence, blend or stand out in its sublimity.

Without poetry, we would not know where to put it all. It is a gift ( like many others ) to
treasure and keep alive. It is to be shared, for without giving it over, it dies. It lies in a
dark draw, in wait of the admiring glance. For cognizance in a family gathering or a wider
public.

Its viability depends on it. We don’t do it any favor to keep it possessively from the strangers
eyes.

Poetry is the essence, the core of what makes us free spirits. Deprived of it, we would have
felt as prisoners, hands tied behind our backs.

This is what poetry means to me.

What does poetry do to you?