Tag Archives: poetry

The Hardest Part of a Job

The hardest part of a job is to pretend you are working.
An hour seems a lifetime especially during Monday mornings.
Alt-Tab, to hide games and shows when the Boss is looking.
A mastery of the skill, good plan and luck and you’ll be succeeding. Continue reading The Hardest Part of a Job

She’s a traveler, a frustrated accountant. An artist and a writer at heart. Unpredictable and spontaneous. A little weird and a little mysterious. So chase her and run with her. You’ll never get bored and you’ll never regret it.

A Late Bloomer’s Thoughts

Sometimes,
When I can’t think of something to write,
I blame the hot weather on a cold December.
I heard every noise and distractions a night can offer.
I push myself up to the last thought,
but I’ll end spending hours staring on a blank paper,
thoughts wandering but nowhere to go.

When I can’t think of something to write,
I’ll invent stories;
stories with no ending, neither a beginning.
I’ll spend time chatting with characters I’ve made up,
forming their roles and making a mess with them.

I forced my poor mind to complete
even just one sentence that makes sense,
and unfortunately end up with nothing.
All words jammed together without a clear thought,
just like a blur.

When I can’t think of something that makes sense,
I blame the tiresome, long day,
for draining up my wit and strength.
I try to relax and unwind for a minute
but still, gained nothing but a yawn.

But my poor heart wants to say something to the world
yet my mind can’t decipher what the heart wants to say.
I try my best to hear my conscience—
if it can help me with something wonderful.
Alas, I can only hear my own voice singing a Carpenters’ song.
Even my conscience takes a break.

I read magazines and even the Bible for some inspirations,
but I only got make up tips
and ‘how to make him notice you’ information,
though helpful, I admit.
And oh, yes, the Bible says,
“Wisdom is in every thought of the intelligent people;
fools know nothing about wisdom”.

When I can’t think of something to write,
I blame my boring love life—-
Oh, I don’t even have a ‘love life’.
A woman in love can write a novel
about how she feels at exactly that moment,
expressing her love by thousand words.

I thought that’s why I can’t even write
one sentence that makes sense—
I’m not in love.

When inspiration doesn’t spend time with me,
sometimes even a fortnight,
I feel so empty.
A writer needs inspirations to write.
And when passion seems like taking a rest too,
like a fire in an open field,
trying to stay ablaze in a stormy weather—
there’s nothing poorer than that to a writer;
a broken glass; a wet book;
a withered plant.

When I can’t think of something to write,
I blame my pen and my notebook
for not keeping up with my mood.
And after a series of erasures and wasted, crumpled papers,
I forced myself again.

And soon, everything fits to place.
There’s no one to blame really,
not even myself.
Yes, blame is such a harsh word
because I realized, all these jammed words,
still made sense, indeed it makes sense —
even when I can’t think of something to write.

-jle120612 (Photo not mine)

 

 

My Bus Ride

11412223_10202958453200955_7770864128594790725_n

As I step inside the bus,
As it moves its wheels,
To somewhere, somewhere,
Wherever the road leads us, I wonder.

As the view from the window changes,
As the wind blew on my face,
We are far, far away,
Excitement fills the air, my eyes wander.

How sad it is for some,
That only thought of their destination,
Who can’t feel the anticipation,
The surprise that may come along the way.

As I sit inside the bus,
I wonder what stories I pass by.
I try to look at everything,
Though so fast, I’m trying.

Tough how many hours I must sit,
Even all I can see were just trees,
I enjoy every minute of it,
Oh, how the bus sings in its own beat.

And whenever the ride is finished,
Feels like I’m saying goodbye to an old friend.
Until next time,
I will travel,
I will travel,
And I will see each story I pass by,
Though so fast, I will.

Midnight

10888373_10202289861966592_6058532486172813185_n
The gate at midnight. Photo by Loleng.

Lights off,
the world is sleeping.
Dogs howl,
cricket’s watching.

The stream flows;
Soft whispers;
Rain falls,
it gives shivers.

A woman sleeps;
A man is naked.
Stars wink,
trees faded.

Curtains down;
Music is low.
Old man’s breathing,
a silent moan.

Painful cry;
Hurrying footsteps.
A knock on the door
Unveiling secrets.