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instruth · 2 years ago

Text

I have written several poem variations on this title - I shall now share the original long version of 09 June 2017.

A DESOLATE WALK

The distant times return, riding on a freight train,

projecting images onto the screen of my mind.

My soul weeps and bleeds, wounded by the sharp blade of a painful memory.

I walk past the ruined castle, beyond the broken brick walls -

where once the smiling garden greeted the dawning of day, where sprawling blossoms lined the narrow pathways,

and cheering creepers roofed over

the comfy benches on the sidewalks.

I tip toe to near the edge of a past forgotten recluse, where there still stands that platform of a comforting ritual,

for viewing the distant horizon across the vastness of the sea,

to receive an inspired thought - even stir up a miraculous healing or two.

The hand-carved bench of oak is still there, though now worn and broken,

and oh good heavens! -that weather-designed couch of rock for two,

on which young lovers once reposedly made their pledges in sweet whisperings

and older couples revisited to renew their matrimonial promises with a tender loving kiss.

Alas! These compassionate whisperings and tender promises are no more

They have been replaced, contracted rigidly and guarded lovelessly on paper, no longer freely written on the heart.

Beyond this viewing gallery and below, the deserted shore looks more like a cemetery plot in the shadows,

lined with the scarred trunks of palm trees, exhibited as figures with long scraggy hairs and heads hung low.

A walk down the stone-steps, moist and mossed, leads to the place where once

was a peopled beach, with the scented cooling of fanning palm leaves,

waving and grinning to the assembled crowd.

The pompous and celebrated event too has vanished;

Lifelessness and desolation capture a melancholic scene,

with eerie chantings echoing from the morbid graves.

A faint hope of activity sprouts meagerly on the ground but a closer look reveals it is just an invasion of ants set upon a decaying prey.

Looking up to the castle for consolation only amplifies the cries of the dullards, the insensitive and the selfish.

What a measly task!

What magic is there to recreate the living voice of music - the whispering of a gentle breeze, soothing sound of water tripping over the stones, and the addictive laughter of children at play?

Lifelessness and desolation capture a melancholic scene

Up yonder mountains -

skirted by bare trees with peeled barks,

where no more the singing robins build their nests, ground carpeted by blackened and crumpled foliage -

and overlooking the valleys,

the picture of sloping green meadows comes into view,

spreading out in dotting spots of white, weaving a tapestry of a gentle grazing task,

pleasing to the eyes and easing many a troubled mind.

The deathly silence arouses and stimulates a need to restore life,

through the grace of imagination ... ... ...

presenting as the bowing of the swaying willows beside the brook,

like ballerinas dancing to the symphony of whistling wind,

before a captivated audience of long, wild grass on the opposite bank,

dangling over the glassy water, clapping softly before dipping into the gentle stream,

sending ripples of appreciation across for an encore.

A passing breeze comes to oblige every call for a repeat performance.

Such beauty and bliss, a sanctuary missed.

Evening heralds the cold embrace of a misty night.

The clouded moon tries to hide its solitary frown;

the distant stars blinked weakly in utter confusion.

The night lingers and delays the approach of dawn.

I stumble - many times, but I am not lost for I am still searching.

I persevere, bear the pain and carry my cross. I shall not let it break me. Then I know I will find what I am looking for.

I return to the gallery, peering at the dark horizon,

awaiting the moment of glory to catch a glimpse of the distant flickering glow of dawn, rising from under the far horizon.

From whence the sun will surely rise again.

a memory weaves

a colorful tapestry

in silent prayer

©Johnny J P Lee

11 June 2022

Haibun (prose / haiku 5-7-5)

Arts Credit Christina Chin

Photo: J. P. Lee

#instruth #instruthpoems #poetryportal #13cupsofteareblog #writerscreeds #smittenbypoetry #writtenconsiderstions #acrobat888 #the subservient human

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instruth · 4 years ago

Text

Hi Friends,

I composed my first long imaginary poem many years ago. Some of you may have read it, but you may not know the historical events behind it.

I met a schoolmate from St Joseph’s, Kuching on chat group a few years ago. His name is Andrew Yeo. Through him I met his wife, also from Kuching. Her name is Christina Chin.

She is my fellow Hakka dialect clan whom I later discovered, surprisingly, was a neighbor of my maternal grandparents (also Hakka clans). She and I recollected many pleasant memories of our childhood days. I left Kuching for my studies in Singapore. She married Andrew and moved to Kuala Lumpur.

It was many years of being separated in different countries, with forgotten memories of our childhood days.

Heavens! We could not even recognized each other. We reflected on times gone by, including the now abandoned railway track, along which was a tuck shop canteen operated by Christina’s family, that I frequented often as a child, for local cakes, all kinds of soft drinks, ice ‘kachang’, and ‘kantong’ (local ice delicacies).

It was Christina who helped me join a poetry group on Facebook about five years ago.

I shared my imaginary long poem with her. And she produced two digital arts, based on my poem, that was later published in my poetry book, Poetry By Experience.

I like to share this poem here with my friends, together with Christina’s beautiful digital arts.

I hope you like them.

Enjoy.

DESOLATE WALK - by J. P. Lee

The distant times return, riding on a freight train,

projecting images onto the screen of my mind.

My spirit weeps, my soul thus bleeds,

wounded by the sharp blade of a painful memory.

I walk past the ruined castle, lo beyond the broken brick walls,

where once the smiling garden greeted the dawning of day,

where sprawling blossoms lined the narrow pathways,

and cheering creepers roofing over

the wooden benches on the sidewalks.

I tip toe to near the edge of a past forgotten recluse,

where there still stands that platform with a comforting ritual,

for viewing the distant horizon across the vastness of the sea,

to receive an inspiring thought - even stir up a miraculous healing or two.

The hand-carved bench of oak is still there, though now worn and broken,

and, oh good heavens! - See!

That weather-designed couch of rock for two, on which young lovers once reposedly made their pledges in sweet whisperings;

and older couples revisited to renew their matrimonial promises with a tender loving kiss.

Alas!

These compassionate whisperings and tender promises are no more.

They have been replaced, contracted rigidly and guarded lovelessly on paper, no longer freely written upon the heart.

Beyond this viewing gallery and below, the deserted shore looks more like a cemetery plot in the shadows,

lined with the scarred trunks of palm trees, exhibited as figures with long scraggy hairs and with heads hung low.

A walk down the stone-steps, moist and mossed, leads to the place where once was a peopled beach, with the scented cooling of fanning palm leaves,

waving and grinning to the assembled crowd.

This pompous and celebrated event too has vanished.

Lifelessness and desolation capture a melancholic scene,

with eerie chantings echoing from the morbid graves.

A faint hope of activity sprouts meagerly on the ground but a closer look reveals it is just an invasion of ants set upon a decaying prey.

Looking up to the castle for consolation only amplifies the cries of the dullards,

the insensitive and the selfish,

with a score to settle, for the sinner still has his sins to answer for.

What a measly task!

What magic is there to recreate the living voice of music - the whispering of a gentle breeze, soothing sound of water tripping over the stones, and the addictive laughter of children at play?

Up yonder mountains -

skirted by bare trees with peeled barks, where no more the singing robins build their nests, ground carpeted by blackened and crumpled foliage.

And overlooking the valleys,

the picture of sloping green meadows comes into view,

spreading out in dotting spots of white, weaving a tapestry of a gentle grazing task, pleasing to the eyes and easing many a troubled mind.

The deathly silence arouses and stimulates a need to restore life through the grace of imagination

- presenting as the bowing of the swaying willows beside the brook,

like ballerinas dancing to the symphony of whistling wind,

before a captivated audience of long, wild grass on the opposite bank,

dangling over the glassy water,

clapping softly before dipping into the gentle stream,

sending ripples of appreciation across for an encore.

A passing breeze comes to oblige every call for a repeat performance.

Such beauty and bliss, a sanctuary missed.

Evening heralds the cold embrace of a misty night.

The clouded moon tries to hide its solitary frown;

the distant stars blinked weakly in utter confusion.

The night lingers and delays the approach of dawn.

I stumble - many times,

but I am not lost for I am still searching.

I persevere, bear the pain and carry my cross. I shall not let it break me.

Then I know I will find what I am looking for.

I return to the gallery, peering at the dark horizon,

awaiting the moment of glory to catch a glimpse of the distant flickering glow of dawn,

rising from under the far horizon.

From whence the sun will surely rise again!

a memory weaves

a colorful tapestry

in silent prayer

19 February 2021

Haibun (prose / haiku 5-7-5)

Digital Arts Credit, Christina Chin

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