Just wrote this poem. Happy Earth Day!
Earth Soul
Fragile as glass
The mighty rock
Jasmine of the Universe
Spec of my soul.
If one day, departed my soul
I’d searched the heavens
Looking for home
Diamond in blue, heavenly song.
poem
Intellectual Filth
A poem.
Intellectual Filth
Hate, war, pestilence, blood, deceit …
The legacy of human beings.
Oh God, why create such intellectual filth?
Nature does not need this sickness within.
The more I think, the more I see,
Faith slowly morphs into pain, hopeless disbelief.
Thin needles slowly prick a cold blue heart,
Bleeding its love, ice melts divine.
Oh God, why save such impure hearts?
Isn’t Earth better without virus-man?
Why not clean Earth, wipe us all out?
Have you ever thought of taking us out?
With a heavy heart a true voice I heard,
Buried deep in ice, breaking through mind’s cares.
“Many times I thought of doing just that,
Then I saw the one carrying a just heart.”
“Oh Child, there I saw
My early gifts bestowed,
Love, peace, compassion, trust, hope…
The pain and desire for a better world.”
“Love thriving in one changed a multitudes fate,
Then the one I sent with divine intent.”
“Pure love made flesh, the ultimate gift,
Myself wrapped in him to wipe all the sin.”
Oh God, nothing changed, I still see the same.
Destruction, pain, and so much hate.
I close my eyes to not awake,
Hoping not to see another such day.
“Oh child of mine, your cares I see.
I see the pain, the heart within.”
“If only you would let Him in,
The love you need will pour right in.”
Oh God, you know the world is not me,
The love of one enough won’t be.
Maybe it is best to let me be,
I close my eyes; I rest in peace.
“Oh child of mine, did not I say,
That for the one my love remained?”
“The virus-man Love inoculates,
Today I listened, and you I heard.”
My Cloud
A poem.
Photo by M.A.D.
My Cloud
I saw my life in a cloud,
painful memories within.
Hurt and pain, erased filaments of the soul,
Locked up tightly without hope.
I saw my life in a cloud,
passing by so fast, remote.
I saw myself as a child,
The adult I have become.
I saw my name in a cloud,
called aloud by beauty, white.
Aloofness turning to trust,
Forgiveness gave in to Love.
I saw myself in a cloud,
years of pain turned upside down,
by a dream pristine so clear,
that I could believe was real.
I saw my life in a cloud,
Beginning, between, no end.
As white blanket dissipates,
Angel mine, at the end awaits.
Bovine Rant
Poetic rant.
Photo by M.A.D.
Bovine Rant
It was at times when I did not follow the herd that I was ignored.
At times when I walked to the beat of my tune that no one heard my voice.
When I painted my picture that eyes were shut.
When I opened my door that other shut theirs.
It was at times when I disagreed, that silence befell.
The rest of the time, the pasture was green.
It was the hardest lesson I understood,
Stepping into my journey did not make me bad,
And refusing to judge got me out of the barn.
Maria Antonia Diaz
The Day I Cried
A little piece of inspiration.
The Day I Cried
It was eight in the morning. It was Wednesday, or was it Tuesday? I grabbed a cup of coffee that was already half-empty, half-warm, and stared at it. I looked at the calendar and could not decide what day it was, was it Tuesday or Wednesday. I took a sip, and put the cup aside; who likes cold coffee? The day seemed to drag as usual, soon working hours, nothing out of the ordinary. Ordinary, orderly, order, who wants order every day? I looked outside and saw a leaf flying in the wind, or was it a piece of paper? One of those thin-weathered, annoying pieces of trash that seem to appear from another dimension when you least expect it. Was I expecting something? Who likes the unexpected? I turned around to grab a second cup of coffee. This time, I intended to drink it hot. I poured the sugarless black coffee on a new cup. I set it aside; something caught my eye. A black ant struggled by the windowsill; it had three legs, three legs. I watched it as it moved, as if performing a dance of pain where the only audience was a lonely observer. I thought of my coffee. As I went to grab the already warm cup, I collapse on my knees. The cup went flying in the air hitting the windowsill and almost sending a rain shower of warm coffee to the struggling ant. Shattered. I grabbed my chest; the pain I felt sent waves all over my body, chills down my spine converging in my head. I let myself go into the agony of crying as I felt the weight of the world crawling out of my heart, slowly, as a river of pain that floods the spirit and washes the soul. I lay on the floor, on one side, watching the struggling ant reach its destination – the flowerpot near the window. She was safe now. Images of war, revolts, disease, and technology zombies clouded my brain, revealing a dirty planet. I closed my eyes, as if wanting to shut the dams of the heart, only to find out that the more I squeezed them shut, the river grew bigger, and the sound of agony came out of my mouth, a symphony of despair, a song of hopeless cries that shoot into the heavens as hungry ravens in search of food and back. I opened my eyes; the ant wasn’t there, coffee all over the windowsill, a ray of light filtering through the cloudy glass, kissing my forehead. I sat up. The ravens flew away. The spilled coffee seemed as art in an ordinary day – orderly, order. Was it order what I felt? I wiped away the tears, and one by one, collected the pieces of an empty, shattered cup of coffee. There was art in the windowsill, and life in a flowerpot. There was life, after all.
Hope you enjoyed it.
The Gift
Wishing all a Happy Holiday Season. I will be back on January. In the meantime, I leave you with this Christmas poem I just wrote. I hope you enjoy it.
The Gift
A snowflake shimmers
Falling down to Earth
A blanket of purity
Awaiting a birth.
Far away a star twinkles bright the night,
Diamonds on velvet
The firmament shines,
Announcing King, Child.
The hay in the manger
Keeps Majesty warm,
While chorus of Angels
Sing quiet nearby.
A mother and father
Observe with delight,
A Savior from heaven,
Their innocent child.
Whenever you see a snowflake, a star
Or nested the Earth in the eyes of a child,
Think of Heaven’s Love
For you, wrapped up on that night.
Love,
Inkspeare
Photo by M.A.D.
Eternal Fibers of the Soul
I am an observer of life by nature. Even as a child, I spent hours in solitude observing and thinking (according to my mom). While going to my physical therapy sessions, I have been able to meet and observe many of the people working very hard to heal their body. This experience inspired this poem.
Eternal Fibers of the Soul
Broken promises, broken dreams
Broken bones, broken links.
Stretched fibers of the soul,
Ligaments of faith, wisdom, and hope.
Pieces coming together,
Bits of healing, bits of pain,
Bursts of living, crying, hustling
Not in vain.
Crooked steps,
Blind hope turns to faith,
Reviewed, renewed, redone,
Outstretched but not undone.
Eternal soul
Fibers of humanity
Flesh and bones
All in one, one in all.
On Faith and Writing
When I read poetry I notice one thing, the poem is sad/dark, almost as if it bleeds through the page, or on the other hand, it celebrates life, is an exaltation of nature or love, or whatever the subject seems to be, therefore transmitting a peaceful or joyful vibe through the page. It seems as if a tormented soul or a happy one wrote the lines, although that is not necessarily true.
Ernest Hemingway once said,”There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Maybe he was right, but what comes out of your veins? What do you bleed? I have found that for me, inspiration may come from nowhere, unexpected, and sometimes, it is directly influenced by my mood. I’ve noticed that when my faith dwindles, so does my writing. It is when my faith is up that I do my best writing, whether I may be going through a difficult situation or not. By faith I don’t mean religion, but my disposition to believe and trust. That said, I can predict when my motivation will suffer, and when my writing will lack. How to prevent this?
The answer is not so much to prevent, because life is full of ups and downs – it is human life’s nature. Instead, maintaining a conscious positive and high disposition (with effort and despite the circumstances) is what seems to help. I must keep up a high level of trust and frequency to support the flow of my writing, otherwise, it becomes forced, superficial, and dense. So my writing seems to be tied to my faith.
“I learned never to empty the well of my writing, but always to stop when there was still something there in the deep part of the well, and let it refill at night from the springs that fed it.” Ernest Hemingway
Best Wishes
I get excited when a new year approaches, because I see it as a box full of surprises, and the opportunity for much more. I have good news, and it is that I am three chapters away from finishing the first draft of The Book of Sharon, so it looks like I will meet my goal before the deadline of December 31st. I will work on those today and tomorrow.
I send you my best wishes for the new year and a happy and healthy holiday season. I will be away from this blog until January 2nd, so I will see you then. In the meantime, and since I celebrate Christmas, I leave you with this little poem I just wrote.
Hope in the Manger
Hope lay in the manger
for centuries on,
a mother and father
giving up their son.
The most precious gift
of Love and above,
so pure and so just
so faithful behold.
In the stillness of night
and the new light of dawn,
let the babe in the manger
overcome you with Hope.
***
I will see you all soon, and I consider myself blessed to be able to share with this awesome WordPress community.
The Closet
Linen Closet (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
A bit different from what I usually write, maybe dark and creepy, but inspiration comes in all colors, and sometimes, unexpected 🙂
The Closet
Hanging by a thread,
Pinky lets go of the rope,
Fighting to grab thin air,
I began to fall, deep dark hole.
Nails screeching the atmosphere,
Long way down the depth of soul,
The slow fall, miles of hope,
Pretending the bottom never touch.
The closet calls, inviting
A safe haven of obscurity
Knowing truth, I avoid the call
For if I go in, I will never be back.
Not lost of body,
Not lost of soul,
But of the mind,
Long lost, lone gone.
Inkspeare 