A world without creativity

    Let us examine ourselves
    What is something that make us differ?
    Differ from others
    Differ from their opinions
    From their thoughts and attributes
    It is the level of creativity.
    Creativity, the fulcrum of life
    Without it, the world is grey
    Dark grey
    Creativity is the sun
    Shining its rays on us
    Boxed, our lives would have been
    Shattered our dreams
    Creativity as we know it
    Would have ceased to gleam.


    Death

    Life as she knew has gone away
    With the Almighty she is to stay
    Heavenly life enjoying anew
    Memories of her we all shall carry through
    For life passes away like a cloud's trace
    But memories are immortal, a phase


    Poetry is ...

    Poetry is the testimony of what is around us.
    It is the feeling of peace
    A moment of expression
    A slice of heaven
    It is the way God communicates
    A language which means nothing if you lack creativity
    Not sophisticated, but sincere
    Poetry is emotions
    Bundled in words and soaked in all the intangibles
    Not perishable, but just made up of different parts


    Wintery Train Days

    The gloomy dementors have covered the night sky
    with cold winds. The winter,
    has arrived upon us.
    Here I am, sitting in a train.
    From Britomart to Manukau.
    'Stopping at all stations' says the cold automated voice.
    The train stops, the conductor blows the whistle
    and away it goes. To a different station.
    I hear the sounds of the engine roaring.
    The wheels turning, as it strikes against the iron rails
    The sun has gone to bed, tucked in by the clouds
    The moon has not yet greeted the night sky.
    Just clouds. Dark grey clouds
    Invading the wintery night sky
    Giving clues of tomorrow's outcome.


    Winter

    I stood there shadowing the happening:
    The clouds, like lurking demons,
    About to strike like predators;
    Fields, streets covered in a white blanket.
    Casting my vision upon the lakes to find
    A glass coffin ... trapping water
    In quest of the noisy shadows beside the stream
    Where branches are thrown over the pool
    Branches swaying from side to side hence in the windy frozen wasteland
    Rocks beside the brook paved with coldness.
    Looking up I see birds in a V formation,
    Smoke like an outstretched arm reaching for the sky,
    Contaminating the air
    With gloom and despair.


    Time

    It takes no sides and has no enemies because it is just.
    Time.
    Has no
    friends and still
    hangs around with all.
    A river rushing reluctantly rigorously,
    time has no time to waste.
    Time is money some say, but never
    understand what they mean by this wonderful saying.
    Methods of time have changed but time itself has
    stayed the same. A little sleep and folding of hands
    and poverty hunts you down. Look at the ants, the creation
    of God. They have no chief or king, yet they work persistently.

    In Time they are able to gather according to what they will need
    and enough to last the whole winter season. Learn from them
    We must.


    Death

    What a sensation!
    The curtains are drawn and the show has finished.
    However, there is no audience. No applause.
    Life as you know it has ended.
    The bright, sunshine-filled day
    Is now a dark, silent graveyard.
    That this flesh should perish quite,
    And all of life's spring cease to flow.

    Thoughts cease, and immortality no longer
    Lingers in the mind lying in silence.
    The sands of time will not flow back.

    As it lies in the silent grave,
    Howling winds over the carcass,
    Nothing is heard of or done
    As it is wrapped in the ropes of flora.


    Dear Friend, From France

    Encapsulated in a wooden
    chrysalis by incommunicable depression,
    writing to you my first letter.
    Dying to listen to a "How are you?"
    like a wilted rose I have ceased to bloom.
    Like a starving animal I have decayed vigorously.
    Moments of delight have perished.
    Beaune has shown my past; how
    I sat and stared at the Yonne River.
    I am ever so unapparent now that
    I can hide my emotions.
    My mind is empty, but
    thoughts provokingly question my anxiousness.
    I can return to you and
    let my friendship be known.
    Yet this abyss cannot be bridged.
    Love

    Your Friend
    From Paris


    Who am I?

    The gusty, jagged blow upon the mast,
    Gratis howls of...