Poem# 1
Life is a
block of wood; a carver models it into the best but at an old age-when one
becomes perfectly experienced. Every drill and grill is a tick of torment to
life. It gashes to a perfectly imperfect time of life. And we start over again
in the next life.
A carver lost in chiseling the wood;
Modeling it into the finest,
He, himself carefully carves into.
As I look at him,
And my life rolls down:
The creaks of sculpting a block
While removing jarring angles
Etch a torment.
Are those pains impass of life?
Life mills to live,
It’s a fume out of crumble and
splinter.
Every bit a loss and gain!
This act recurs,
And flusters like the hollow wood resonant.
On a course;
There is no sojourn to emotive and
bodily fidgets.
Often, the disquiet chronic writ
large on the mark;
The happiness or silence-hung grim
all around
They were free of beginnings or ends,
They unfold in myriad ways,
One likes to live a life, careless
and free,
But the player lot is on the line;
Come to clutches with it, be a slave
of it.
These forms to befit a good mortal
Like the crafter fits the pieces
Yet, this good human is qualified
When at old age is unqualified,
And ends very near like a child,
Then falls bodily asleep.
How many times do we hear creaks?
How many times do we crumble and
splinter?
How many times are we milled?
To hope for?
We never are finest how many times?
As novice new voyages embark
And get down to chiseling all over
again,
To slice life in the life of a new beginning!
