instant raw poems aren’t worthless, i think


Fossane – Norway by gazi_selimhan

Sometime last May
I sprinkled my prose
with blue sands from above
and carved a couple of 
bright stars into my arms
Seven months has passed
all seasons of the land
have blown the sands far, 
far away, that when I look up
for auroras in the night
my mind could feel no cold
an essence has been inhabited 
by the warm acceptance 
of his words, and though 
there’s nothing to latch on to, 
everything goes down
deep and calm, and I’m alone
still alone in my realm
near a fading light
asking all along,
‘Had he ever been mine?’

 geena, 10dec2018

my own photo from winter 2017

December lyrics
from the sparks of november
has surrendered love
to soft words and silver dusk
crossing heaven in its dark.

– geena 05dec2018 tanka

my own photo

Thoughts lined-up in sky
sweet mix of your heart and mine

— geena 09nov2018 haiku

a much better poet no doubt

One or two of my major job problems have been somewhat solved so I’m feeling a bit relieved, kind of peaceful and ready to celebrate the coming festive season. In fact I’ve put up a few Christmas decors inside my workplace. At home, I continue the never-ending process of cleaning up, organizing, and discarding unneeded stuff. Yesterday while sorting out papers to throw away, I found a piece of paper my son had left four years ago — it contained a brief poem drafted by him, probably in high school (for class homework), as he wrote under its title “written by me.”

Relics and Remnants

Yes or No?
— a question
long unanswered
by the man who seeks
what has long been sought
by Judas on his death.
Is the Answer found
on the beach
where footprints are washed away
by the unstoppable ocean?
Or is it in the relics and remnants
caused by the reason
of the existence of the question?
The Answer will not
be found in the wronged,
but in the wrongdoer,
for the Answer lives,
on the relics and remnants
restored to their past glory?
crumbled to dust?
Yes or No?

Hm, I don’t want to dismiss my son’s composition as balderdash especially when I’m reminded of the fact I compelled him to read all the classics in the school’s library during his elementary years. Compared to me, he’s thousands of times more well-read and quite an excellent sophisticated writer. I wish this only child of mine had kept writing poems.

My nephew recently told me he’d seen my son’s active Linked In account and so I took a peek the night I learned about it. Yeah, it seems he still works in the same firm. He’s now the company’s product engineer, maybe a promotion from his previous role as senior design engineer. And he freelances as a technical writer, too. Big time. But he looks so so thin and frail in a group photo… I get worried but I try to stop myself from thinking and being concerned anymore. He has made his decision. To live his own life without me. So I’ll do the same for myself.

Meanwhile, there’s no time for me to hunt for worthwhile sites to read. I guess it means I should write more often — which is fine because writing gives me pleasure. I had really wanted a blog diary but I’d always fall by the wayside. Blog overhaul might be the answer.


apoetreflects: “ “There is some realm where feelings become birds and dark sky, and spirit is more solid than stone.” —John Gardner ”
I like the pic yet I’ve no record where I got it. Hope I won’t be sent to jail for this.

“There is some realm where feelings become birds and dark sky, and spirit is more solid than stone.”

—John Gardner

pearl in my verse

The other day I almost couldn’t stop thinking up of lines that could pass for a poem. Somebody has got to stop me 😀 . Sometimes the process is a strain, sometimes a breeze. I’m entertained nonetheless. Wherever I am, when words come up that match my inner mood I take out my pen and jot them down. Then I arrange them as soon as I find some free time. My consistent aim is self-expression. I reread my work the day after when the feeling has subsided — and I go “well what did I just write…” 🙂

image from czech the count, Tumbler

And it always comes down
to how I must unlove you
despite what my heart scribbles
over your arts in motion
that sense each sunrise, each sunset
glowing in their unfiltered light
colorful down your deepest desires.
it’s more than what I owe
more than I can handle,
when in your absence I rise
to wander, to see and feel
what’s been lost in the sky
has spread wide to the sea. 

– geena, 24nov2018

my own photo (europe winter 2017)
you define what’s never 
been understood
the layers of my longings
the sweetest metaphor
the pearl in my verse
an eternity I can believe in
from a dream that’s 
mine to cling to, mine to keep
no one have I kissed more deeply
in this silent field 
where I run by my feelings 
and nothing else.

– geena, 23nov2018

A Little Poetry Does Some Good

The past few days had me writing again. These were originally published on my Tumbler site. No need to reveal who had been on my mind when I scribbled them. Now you understand what I was talking about in my last post. I need to write something. And I’m not finished with my poetic attempts.

Let no sullen song uninspire me
my allegiance to art
needs no intervention
feelings fade, lyrics do not
there’s much to write 
about life, about love
I want light over darkness
dreams over sadness
illusions aren’t worthless
if they move spirits
from fragile to strength
timid to wild
Beyond convention
and proper fiction
my words are ready to fly. 

– geena, 26oct2018

Your light keeps drawing me to this place
I’d long decided to leave.
Somehow your journey remains my spark.
I wish I could kiss your loneliness away, I can’t.
I wish I could wipe away your apprehensions, I never can.
But I’ve pulled you into my arms
Embraced you in all your imperfections and uncertainties.
I look up to see the widening sky, growing brighter…
the entire heaven has nestled within my arms.

– geena 22oct2018

image- Source:

Needn’t Explain Myself Really

A long time ago, a bestfriend hinted that maybe I don’t know how to love. I was a bit hurt by that. But I made it my business neither to verify nor dwell on that notion about myself. There were more important things to do. Her remark has lingered to this day.

No wonder it would take another dimension for me to find a certain happiness I can’t fully explain. Where there’s love, care, and specific matters of the heart. Does it matter if it’s real or not? I’m here anyway and I’m being sustained by it all for a while.

Anything, anything that would spur me to fill up a few blank pages. No, not just anything or anyone. Something, somebody with some substance and merit — regardless that he’s a third-rate version of you talent-wise. And I can’t believe I said that. But I tell it like it is.

Explanation not necessary, I know. Something in me still feels like saying “sorry.” We’re not in the real world anyhow. I’ve learned to be convinced by that.

source image: patreon | print

…My one true love remains myself.—

Cassandra Clare, City of Bones

Happy Birthday, dearest one…

One of my biggest regrets in life — your very last birthday completely slid out of my mind because of my stupid work at the time. And when I visited you soon after, I said “Hi, papa,” your reply was something like “I don’t want you to be my child.” I kept failing you my whole life. I promise never to forget your birthday again. Yet you’re gone now. I am deeply deeply sorry.

How I wish you were still here, especially in these times when I’m certain I am not as strong as you were. But you hanged on for as long as you could. And I am determined to prove to you and myself I am indeed my father’s daughter.

I love you very much, Papa. I miss you so….