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Creative Corner For sharing of poetry, artwork, verse and other creative things. |
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01-11-2018, 10:57 AM | #1 | ||
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About quality of experience and how every day, taken for granted activities can take on a ritualistic form that 'can' be to some rewarding. For example morning coffee, we can throw some freeze dried instant in a mug, add hot water and drink. Or we can grind the beans, get out the stove top Moka pot, boil the water, let it infuse and pour it into a favourite coffee cup (perhaps to the gentle sound of Chopin). The point is to derive as much pleasure as possible from a simple act. In this example one can smell the coffee more intensely, for longer, there is time to ponder ideas for a new poem, all is calmed and the more times such an act is performed the greater we derive pleasure from it.
I have lived well this day ignoring the hand offering me more time while it’s accomplice steals joy and experience in return. I seized the day ! But once in my grasp I cherished it, savouring it’s flavours, sensing every nuance, finding hidden treasures, gifts unwrapped, and it was glorious. Sonnet 19 That our today will so soon yester be does enrage those who prefer breeze to gale yet we who have weathered the savage sea fear not the Goodnight of a fading frail. We welcome the swift passage of the day and grasping the hours with a fervent hold live so fiercely that time enjoys no sway and the heavens smile at such burning bold. Choose not to wither slow upon the vine but blossom bright and reaching for the sky make demand that the sun will ever shine for those standing proud and yearning to fly. And when tired eyelids make that final meet our weary self will that sleep calmly greet. A long ago Boxing day midnight Sleet falls, revealed it’s glass tacks by the gleam of shop window lights, their passive hue, lying in wait, luring and taunting with their wares, their false promise of pleasure. Garbed in red flash heraldry stand plastic alabaster faces, lifeless, wearing the vacant stares of marketed beauty. Above, swing huge stars, ember dim, brazen under truth’s dark radiance, while santas cling to lamp posts as though nature itself is laughing at this, man’s frail crayon attempt to lift from the mire the concrete bland. Like a gutter metronome, a wine glass, rolls to and fro, smudges, ghosts of lips and fingers past, appear with each clink in a constant toast. Intact, it must have been carefully placed, yet stolen to drink in the street, now a monument to dichotomy. Half a cracker, hops and tumbles past, odd when not strewn among postprandial detritus. This empty crepe wrapped shell, in that moment, in that desolate street, symbolised all that Christmas had lost. |
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