Image source: Pixabay
Oh my loss! I found gardenia
In a narrow turn.
The cloud hovers, no more sunshine
And now I wait till summer burn.
The wind came in a hipful gown
I never knew it would go down so
But then I’m glad we are shaded brown
For then we are alike, so much in soul.
The silence was drawn, but not my will
I tried my best to speak out still
I thought you heard by other chords
But I was wrong, no myth so forth.
I call you gardenia, I call you rose
I call you by any name a sweet flower smells
As now you live like a poet’s verse
On open lines yet few can tell.
M. V. Echa
Author’s Note: To confound a poet, ask him to choose between love and poetry. He would rather die than make that choice. He would rather die than betray the bliss of his existence.
Poetry is what is given back after an intake of experience; and to make poetry without soul is to make music on a broken chord. Poetry is more than rhymes and rhythms, it is soul music.
Poetry is a long search for something golden; it is a spiritual experience and a temple duty. One word here another there like flowers they garnish our world.