TRIBUTES TO THE WALKERS

My friends who are a family to me whom we lost in a tragic car accident along the Princess  Highway at Kiah NSW.

KIAH

Kiah is a coastal locality on the Princes Highway in southeast New South Wales situated about 220km south-southeast of Canberra (show me) (the nearest capital city). Sydney (show me), the capital of New South Wales, is about 380km north-northeast of Kiah. Kiah is at an elevation of approximately 37m above sea level. Wikipedia 

TO THE ONES WHO STILL BELIEVE IN TENDERNESS

Lifted from Wild Grace Arising

“To the Ones Who Still Believe in Tenderness”

To the ones who still cry at sunsets…

Who hold old letters like relics.

Who light candles when the world feels too loud.

Who speak softly to animals,

and thank the moon just for showing up.

To the ones who love like it’s a prayer.

Not a performance.

Not a bargain.

But a living flame — steady, quiet, true.

To the ones who would rather sit in silence

than offer words that aren’t real.

Who choose kindness,

even when it isn’t returned.

Who show up, even when no one claps.

To you —

You are not too much.

You are not too soft.

You are not alone.

Your tenderness is not a flaw in a hardened world.

It is a light. A bridge. A blessing.

Please don’t dim it.

This world aches for the gentle.

And somewhere — quietly, maybe even now —

someone is praying to meet a heart like yours.

If this speaks to the soft within you,

you’re welcome to share what it stirred —

or simply carry it with you like a secret blessing.

— Wild Grace Arising 🤍🌸✨

© louisejanecarter 2025

LOVE SIMPLY GIVES

By Dostoevsky as created by Carazon

DOSTOEVSKY said

I never needed your love 

in return. 

All I ever wished was 

for your heart

to be at peace.

Because real love

It doesn't ask

It simply gives.

Loving you was never about 

holding on.

It was about feeling alive

in your presence,

About the way you lit up 

the darkest corners of me

without even trying.

You were a warmth 

I never knew I was missing. 

A moment that felt like 

forever 

even if it passed too soon.

You gave me something timeless,

the kind of joy that no goodbye 

can take away.

So even if we part, 

Know this:

I have loved,

I have felt,

and, because of you,

I will never be the same. 

MY WISH FOR YOU

By Ralph Waldo Emerson

This is my wish for you:
Comfort on difficult days,
smiles when sadness intrudes,
rainbows to follow the clouds,
laughter to kiss your lips,
sunsets to warm your heart,
hugs when spirits sag,
beauty for your eyes to see,
friendships to brighten your being,
faith so that you can believe,
confidence for when you doubt,
courage to know yourself,
patience to accept the truth,
Love to complete your life."

✍️ Ralph Waldo Emerson

LEAH DANCEL, GRACE IN MOTON

Composed by Rado Gatchalian

12 June 2025

Leah Dancel, light on the breeze,

A melody woven through whispering trees.

Her laughter dances on golden strings,

A symphony of joy the morning brings.

She moves with grace, both gentle and bold,

A story of kindness in whispers untold.

Her heart, a lantern in a world so wide,

Guiding lost souls with love as her guide.

In every step, a rhythm is spun,

A dance with the stars, a race with the sun.

Leah Dancel, yourspirit takes flight--

A beacon of hope in the softest of light.

DREAMING OF WINTER

By Don Luman-ag

DREAMING OF WINTER

Living in a country,

where it's only wet or dry

To experience snow,

is what I'm raring to try

I dream of a winter wonderland,

My oh my!

But I'm here in the tropics,

Why oh why?

While others get to enjoy,

all four seasons

Here, it's either rain or shine,

for scientific reasons

That's how things work,

it's been that way for eons

So we just content ourselves,

with the help of freons

© Don Luman-ag

5:20 AM, Thursday, 13 June 2024

Samal Island, Philippines

DEATH AND GRIEF

CTTO

INVICTUS

By William Ernest Henley

Invictus

By William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,

    Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

    For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

    I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

    My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

    Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

    Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

    How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

    I am the captain of my soul.

✍️

  🌟 Dive deeper into Victorian resilience! 

DUST OF SNOW

By Robert Frost

THE OLD VIOLIN

By Myra Brooks Welch

''The old Violin ''

'Twas battered and scarred,

And the auctioneer thought it

hardly worth his while

To waste his time on the old violin,

but he held it up with a smile.

"What am I bid, good people", he cried,

"Who starts the bidding for me?"

"One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?"

"Two dollars, who makes it three?"

"Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three,"

But, No,

From the room far back a gray bearded man

Came forward and picked up the bow,

Then wiping the dust from the old violin

And tightening up the strings,

He played a melody, pure and sweet

As sweet as the angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer

With a voice that was quiet and low,

Said "What now am I bid for this old violin?"

As he held it aloft with its' bow.

"One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?"

"Two thousand, Who makes it three?"

"Three thousand once, three thousand twice,

Going and gone", said he.

The audience cheered,

But some of them cried,

"We just don't understand."

"What changed its' worth?"

Swift came the reply.

"The Touch of the Masters Hand."

"And many a man with life out of tune

All battered and bruised with hardship

Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd

Much like that old violin.

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,

A game and he travels on.

He is going once, he is going twice,

He is going and almost gone.

But the Master comes,

And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,

The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought

By the Touch of the Masters' Hand.

Source: FB

- 

MUM and DAD

Lifted from MISSING YOU MOM AND DAD

🕊️ To My Mom and Dad:

You didn’t just give me your name,

You built the soul from which I came.

You taught me love that doesn’t fade,

And strength in silence gently laid.

You showed up when the days were long,

You stood behind me, firm and strong.

No need for words to feel your grace—

Your love was always in its place.

I carry both of you each day,

In all I do, in what I say.

In how I give, in how I stand,

You’re still the ones who shaped my hands.

Though time has taken you from here,

Your presence still feels ever near.

I miss you more than I can say—

But I’ll love you both in every way.

Source: FB 1 June 2025

THE WAY THROUGHOUT

By Adam Murray

Credit to  Pam Bell

The Way Through

Walk slowly,

not as one chasing applause,

but as one who knows

where their hope is anchored.

Move with purpose,

but leave space for mercy...

for interruptions that look like people,

for detours that become divine appointments.

Speak only what builds.

Hold back the need

to always be right.

Let your words taste like grace...

seasoned, steady,

never sharp with ego.

Carry light,

not burdens that don’t belong to you.

And when the road grows steep,

lean hard into prayer...

not as a last resort,

but as your first breath.

Forgive often.

Not because it’s easy,

but because it’s freeing.

And love...

not just the ones who love you back,

but the ones who forgot how to receive it.

Stay rooted

when the world rushes past.

Be faithful in small things.

Do the unseen work

like it matters to God...

because it does.

And when the time comes

to speak truth,

do it in love...

not to win,

but to lift.

This is the way through life:

not in spotlight,

but in surrender.

Not by force,

but by faithfulness.

A RIPPLE OF BLESSINGS

By Jeffrey Cejero

12 May 2025

Foreword:

She is not weak. Her strength lies in her softness. She is a ripple of blessings. This poem is a tribute to our pure, beautiful and powerful mothers.

Happy Mother's Day!
 

*****

A Ripple of Blessings

jepoy

Her heart is not stone but water,

cool as a spring,

soft as mist,

flowing in silence,

mistakenly weak yet stronger than anything that breaks.

When the earth is cracked with loneliness,

she brings the gift of rain,

filling hollow places

so you remember you are not alone.

She carries weight like ocean depths,

letting go of pieces...

a warm cup, a gentle gaze,

your sorrow held in her soothing embrace

to make space for you.

She carves beauty with time, quenching thirst,

her touch cool as riverwater,

her presence like dawn's dew

as if it were a gift fallen from heaven.

In her stillness, you see yourself.

Her waves don't crash,

they kiss the shore, your feet, your fears.

She flows to guide and not to flee,

her voice a lullaby of leaves and rain.

She washes away tears, doubts, unspoken fears...

She is what we seek

when hearts run dry,

when our souls are tired,

when hopes and dreams are burned to ashes.

Just a drop of her is a ripple of blessings.

She is like water.

She is mother.

OH CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

Lifted from Bookish Literature 

O Captain! My Captain!

BY WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

                         But O heart! heart! heart!

                            O the bleeding drops of red,

                               Where on the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

                         Here Captain! dear father!

                            This arm beneath your head!

                               It is some dream that on the deck,

                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

                            But I with mournful tread,

                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

_______________________________________________________________

This poem is an elegy for President Abraham Lincoln, who was assassinated in 1865, shortly after the end of the American Civil War. The poem uses an extended metaphor of a ship returning to port after a perilous voyage, while the captain lies dead on the deck. 

The speaker, a sailor, mourns the loss of his captain and father figure, while the rest of the nation celebrates the victory and peace.

The poem was first published in 1865 in a collection called Sequel to Drum-Taps, which contained Whitman’s poems inspired by the events of the Civil War.

Later, it was included in the 1867 and subsequent editions of Leaves of Grass, Whitman’s most famous work. The poem is one of Whitman’s most conventional poems, as it follows a regular rhyme scheme and meter, unlike much of his other free verse poetry. 

The poem is also one of Whitman’s most popular and quoted poems, as it captures the mood of a nation in mourning and pays tribute to one of its greatest leaders.

IF TOMORROW STARTS WITHOUT ME

Lifted from English Literature

If Tomorrow Starts Without Me 

(Saddest Poem Ever)

When tomorrow starts without me,

And I'm not there to see,

If the sun should rise and find your eyes

all filled with tears for me,

I wish so much you wouldn't cry

The way you did today,

While thinking of the many things,

We didn't get to say.

I know how much you love me,

As much as I love you,

and each time that you think of me,

I know you'll miss me too.

But when tomorrow starts without me,

Please try to understand,

That an angel came and called my name,

And took me by the hand,

and said my place was ready,

In heaven far above,

And that I'd have to leave behind

All those I dearly love.

But as I turned to walk away,

A tear fell from my eye

For all my life, I'd always thought,

I didn't want to die.

I had so much to live for,

So much left yet to do,

It seemed almost impossible,

That I was leaving you.

I thought of all the yesterdays

The good ones and the bad,

I thought of all the love we shared,

and all the fun we had

If I could re-live yesterday

Just even for a while,

I'd say good-bye and kiss you

And maybe see you smile.

But then I fully realized,

That this could never be,

For emptiness and memories,

would take the place of me.

And when I thought of worldly things,

I might miss come tomorrow,

I thought of you, and when I did,

My heart was filled with sorrow.

But when I walked through heaven's gates,

I felt so much at home

When God looked down and smiled at me,

From His great golden throne.

He said, "This is eternity,

And all I've promised you."

Today your life on earth is past,

But here life starts anew

I promise no tomorrow,

But today will always last,

And since each day's the same way

There's no longing for the past.

You have been so faithful,

So trusting and so true.

Though there were times

You did some things

You knew you shouldn't do.

But you have been forgiven

And now at last you're free.

So won't you come and take my hand

And share my life with me?

So when tomorrow starts without me,

Don't think we're far apart,

For every time you think of me,

I'm right here, in your heart. 

Author believed to be

~ David Romano

{PS}

WHEN I'M GONE

CTTO

CHRISTINA'S ROSETTI

2 May 2025

MISS ME, BUT LET ME GO 

When I come to the end of the road

And the sun has set for me

I want no rites in a gloom filled room

Why cry for a soul set free?

Miss me a little, but not for long

And not with your head bowed low

Remember the love that once we shared

Miss me, but let me go.

For this is a journey we all must take

And each must go alone.

It's all part of the master plan

A step on the road to home.

When you are lonely and sick at heart

Go to the friends we know.

Laugh at all the things we used to do

Miss me, but let me go ..

Christina Rosetti ✨

Artist Credit : Jungsuk Lee

Source: Still Standing Magazine 

TOMORROW MIGHT NOT COME

By Estelle Cortes Pimentel

Please tell people you love them, 

life is so fragile. 

Don't wait to bring flowers to the graveyard, 

it wouldn't matter to the ones buried there. 

Give them flowers while they can still smell them, 

and marvel at their beauty.

Dance with them,

Hold their hands,

Sit with them in silence,

Do all that while you can,

Tomorrow might not come.

~Estelle~

10172023

©️Estelle Cortes Pimentel

All Rights Reserved

Epitafio Antes de la Muerte

By Estelle Cortes Pimentel 

Epitafio Antes de la Muerte

There will be regrets

When I am gone,

When you can no longer

Hold my hand.

Don't shed a tear for me,

Don't cry for my name.

Don't say a prayer for me,

Nor put flowers on my grave.

I will have no need

For meaningless epitaphs,

Nor prayers for the dead,

I will face the Maker on my own.

I will lay bare my Soul,

The Maker have seen it all-

My deeds, my thoughts, my flaws.

I have no fear.

   Because I have loved and cried,

   I have pained and hoped, 

  God knows I tried.

  I gave my best to the people I love,

  I tried to do good

   be fair to others,

  And yes I love with passion-

   No in-betweens.

So save your words, 

Say what you have to say,

Your love, your hate for me,

Say it while I'm still here. 

Too late for apologies later.

~Estelle~

01212020

©️Estelle Cortes Pimentel

All Rights Reserved

FIFTY-THREE SUNSETS

By Melany Amante Mabao Maguindanao

26 April 2025

"Fifty-Three Sunsets"

Today,

the wind carries no candles,

no familiar voices calling out my name.

Just the hush of the boulevard

and the sun—

slowly bowing out of the day

like an old friend who knows when to leave quietly.

Fifty-three times the earth has circled the sun for me.

And here I am—

not at home,

but somehow, more at home

in the silence,

in the burning horizon,

in the sacred hush between what was and what might be.

I do not count the years anymore.

I count the courage it took to survive them.

I count the mornings I chose to rise

even when nothing called me beautiful.

But today, I will.

Today, I call myself beautiful—

Not for the way I look in the golden light,

but for all the times I kept going

when I could have faded

with the sun.

Lifted from Ringers From The T

25 April 2025

THE ANZAC ON THE WALL

I wandered thru a country town, 'cos I had some time to spare, 

And went into an antique shop to see what was in there.

Old Bikes and pumps and kero lamps, but hidden by it all, 

A photo of a soldier boy – an Anzac on the Wall.

 

'The Anzac have a name?' I asked. The old man answered 'No'.

The ones who could have told me mate, have passed on long ago. 

The old man kept on talking and, according to his tale, 

The photo was unwanted junk bought from a clearance sale.

'I asked around', the old man said, 'but no-one knows his face, 

He's been on that wall twenty years... Deserves a better place. 

For some-one must have loved him, so it seems a shame somehow.'

I nodded in agreement and then said, 'I'll take him now.' 

My nameless digger's photo, well it was a sorry sight 

A cracked glass pane and a broken frame - I had to make it right

To prise the photo from its frame I took care just in case, 

Cause only sticky paper held the cardboard back in place. 

I peeled away the faded screed and much to my surprise,

Two letters and a telegram appeared before my eyes

The first reveals my Anzac's name, and regiment of course 

John Mathew Francis Stuart - of Australia's own Light Horse.

This letter written from the front... My interest now was keen 

This note was dated August seventh 1917 

'Dear Mum, I'm at Khalasa Springs not far from the Red Sea

They say it's in the Bible - looks like a Billabong to me.  

'My Kathy wrote I'm in her prayers... she's still my bride to be 

I just can't wait to see you both, you're all the world to me.

And Mum you'll soon meet Bluey, last month they shipped him out 

I told him to call on you when he's up and about.' 

  

'That bluey is a larrikin, and we all thought it funny

He lobbed a Turkish hand grenade into the CO's dunny. 

I told you how he dragged me wounded, in from no man's land 

He stopped the bleeding, closed the wound, with only his bare hand.'

'Then he copped it at the front from some stray shrapnel blast 

It was my turn to drag him in and I thought he wouldn't last. 

He woke up in hospital, and nearly lost his mind

Cause out there on the battlefield he'd left one leg behind.' 

'He's been in a bad way Mum, he knows he'll ride no more 

Like me he loves a horse's back, he was a champ before.

So Please Mum can you take him in, he's been like my own brother 

Raised in a Queensland orphanage he' s never known a mother.' 

But Struth, I miss Australia Mum, and in my mind each day

I am a mountain cattleman on high plains far away. 

I'm mustering white-faced cattle, with no camel's hump in sight 

And I waltz my Matilda by a campfire every night

I wonder who rides Billy, I heard the pub burnt down 

I'll always love you and please say hooroo to all in town'.  

The second letter I could see, was in a lady's hand

An answer to her soldier son there in a foreign land. 

Her copperplate was perfect, the pages neat and clean 

It bore the date, November 3rd 1917.

'T'was hard enough to lose your Dad, without you at the war 

I'd hoped you would be home by now - each day I miss you more' 

'Your Kathy calls around a lot since you have been away

To share with me her hopes and dreams about your wedding day. 

And Bluey has arrived - and what a godsend he has been 

We talked and laughed for days about the things you've done and seen'

'He really is a comfort, and works hard around the farm, 

I read the same hope in his eyes that you won't come to harm. 

McConnell's kids rode Billy, but suddenly that changed.

We had a violent lightning storm, and it was really strange.' 

'Last Wednesday, just on midnight, not a single cloud in sight, 

It raged for several minutes, it gave us all a fright.

It really spooked your Billy - and he screamed and bucked and reared 

And then he rushed the sliprail fence, which by a foot he cleared' 

'They brought him back next afternoon, but something's changed I fear

It's like the day you brought him home, for no one can get near. 

Remember when you caught him with his black and flowing mane? 

Now Horse breakers fear the beast that only you can tame,'

'That's why we need you home son' - then the flow of ink went dry- 

This letter was unfinished, and I couldn't work out why. 

Until I started reading, the letter number three

A yellow telegram delivered news of tragedy,

Her son killed in action - oh - what pain that must have been 

The same date as her letter - 3rd November 1917 

This letter which was never sent, became then one of three

She sealed behind the photo's face - the face she longed to see. 

And John's home town's old timers - children when he went to war 

Would say no greater cattleman had left the town before.

They knew his widowed mother well - and with respect did tell 

How when she lost her only boy she lost her mind as well. 

She could not face the awful truth, to strangers she would speak

'My Johnny's at the war you know, he's coming home next week.' 

They all remembered Bluey he stayed on to the end. 

A younger man with wooden leg became her closest friend.

And he would go and find her when she wandered old and weak 

And always softly say 'yes dear - John will be home next week.' 

Then when she died Bluey moved on, to Queensland some did say.

I tried to find out where he went, but don't know to this day.

And Kathy never wed - a lonely spinster some found odd. 

She wouldn't set foot in a church - she'd turned her back on God.

John's mother left no Will I learned on my detective trail. 

This explains my photo's journey, of that clearance sale.

So I continued digging, cause I wanted to know more.

I found John's name with thousands, in the records of the war. 

His last ride proved his courage - a ride you will acclaim 

The Light Horse Charge at Beersheba of everlasting fame.

That last day in October, back in 1917 

At 4pm our brave boys fell - that sad fact I did glean.

That's when John's life was sacrificed, the record's crystal clear

But 4pm in Beersheba is midnight over here......  

So as John's gallant spirit rose to cross the great divide, 

Were lightning bolts back home, a signal from the other side?

Is that why Billy bolted and went racing as in pain? 

Because he'd never feel his master on his back again? 

Was it coincidental? same time - same day - same date?

Some proof of numerology, or just a quirk of fate?

I think it's more than that you know, as I've heard wiser men, 

Acknowledge there are many things that go beyond our ken

Where craggy peaks guard secrets 'neath dark skies torn asunder, 

Where hoof-beats are companions to the rolling waves of thunder 

Where lightning cracks like 303's and ricochets again

Where howling moaning gusts of wind sound just like dying men. 

Some Mountain cattlemen have sworn on lonely alpine track, 

They've glimpsed a huge black stallion - Light Horseman on his back.

Yes Sceptics say, it's swirling clouds just forming apparitions 

Oh no, my friend you can't dismiss all this as superstition.  

The desert of Beersheba - or windswept Aussie range,

John Stuart rides on forever there - Now I don't find that strange.  

Now some gaze upon this photo, and they often question me  

And I tell them a small white lie, and say he's family.

'You must be proud of him.' they say - I tell them, one and all, 

That's why he takes - the pride of place - my Anzac on the Wall.

By Jm Brown.

LIFE, DEATH AND BEYOND

By Jeffrey Cejero

Life, Death and Beyond

jepoy

Life and death 

These two are the grand mysteries in the tapestry of the cosmos

Intertwine from each other

But what is the meaning of life and death, and beyond?

Death is not the eternal blanket of darkness 

Wrapping the mortal body that once had the breath of life

Nor the soul that ceases to be one with the flesh

Nor the spirit that fails to persevere the trials brought by the road of life.

 

For we live on in hearts that once beat as one

In memories of love, laughter, tears, pain

Of yesterdays where our essence still remains

We survive in recollections of joy and suffering

Of love's warm touch, of hatred's lingering stain

Of hope's resilient spark, of desperation's struggles

Echoes that linger, never truly saying goodbye.

Life's thread is severed not by mortal breath

But when memory fades,

When the last person whom we've touched 

Can no longer remember our name, our story

Lost beyond them all

Then flowers stop visiting our forgotten stone

Our flesh, bones, love and emotions 

Life including death are reduced to timeless dusts of nothingness

Carried away by the sad whistling of the wind

Until it will be swept away by eternity's river of time

Leaving nothing but silence, where memory was once... resided.

 

Before death comes...

Let us cultivate the flowers of love

Harvest and share the honey of smiles and the fruits of labor

And if we have more, extend the rain of blessings

Offer the umbrella of kindness to those suffering from the storms of life.

Give the touch of healing, and hugs of comfort and compassion.

 

Live to love, to give joy and to be kind

Live to accept, not to judge someone

Live with a purpose to shine the goodness of life

It's the only way to live eternally, 

Leaving a legacy of love, kindness and compassion.

WHISPERING STARS

18 April 2025

By Jeffrey Cejero

Whispering Stars

jepoy

Star dreams rise lifting soul freely,

Filling heart with ecstasy,

Bringing joy to you and me.

Star dreams rise lifting soul freely.

Whispering stars, shining so bright,

Filling life with pure delight,

Bringing hope to darkest night,

Whispering stars, shining so bright.

Dreams ignite, a soul with light,

Filling spirit with warm delight,

Whispering stars guiding at night,

Dreams ignite a soul with light.

Raindrops glow like star soft sight,

Filling heart with gentle might,

Reflecting whispers of morning light,

Raindrops glow like star soft sight.

Star dreams rise lifting soul freely,

Filling heart with ecstasy,

Bringing joy to you and me.

Star dreams rise lifting soul freely.

ABOU BEN ADHEM

ABOU BEN ADHEM 

(1834)

By Leigh Hunt 

(1784 - 1859)

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw, within the moonlight in his room,

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

An angel writing in a book of gold:—

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,

And with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,

Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blest,

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

Overview

"Abou Ben Adhem" is a poem written in 1834 by the English critic, essayist and poet Leigh Hunt. It concerns a pious Middle Eastern sheikh who finds the 'love of God' to have blessed him. The poem has been praised for its non-stereotypical depiction of an Arab. 

Wikipedia

Faith, Love, and Humanity

“Abou Ben Adhem” is a short, fable-like poem that suggests people can best express love for God by simply loving their fellow human beings. Compassion and empathy are presented as the true principles of religion, above the need to pay lip service to a jealous or attention-hungry God.

Source: Literature 

Information. This is an illustration of a poem of the same name by Leigh Hunt (1784-1859), the poet, essayist and journalist. The poem describes the moment when Abou Ben Adhem awakes to find an angel in his room, writing the names of those who love God 'in a book of gold. ' Ben Adhem requests that his name be included. 

Source: Liverpool Museum 

POETRY: ESSAY and CONCLUSION

By Jeffrey Cejero

Writing journey LEVEL UP! Poetry with a counterpart of creative essay and a conclusion! 

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Unbroken Spirit Blooms

jepoy

In forest depths, a fierce storm did sway,

A tree once stood, with roots so deep in gray.

Fell to the ground, its future asleep,

Crushed by wild winds, its branches did creep.

Its branches crawled, across the earth,

Drinking sunlight of new birth.

Roots revived, with strength renewed,

A phoenix rising, its spirit imbued.

Through seasons dark, and winters cold,

It persevered, young life to hold.

Years went by, like falling rain,

Nourishing growth, easing pain.

At last it stood, upright and tall,

Bearing fruits, for one and all.

Juicy sweet, with seeds inside,

A testament to perseverance's pride.

Courage renewed, with every fall,

Rising again, standing tall.

For when we fall, like this tree laid low,

Perseverance yields success, as fruits start to grow.

*****************

Perseverance Yields Success: The Unyielding Spirit of a Fallen Tree

In the heart of a dense forest, a mighty tree once stood tall, its branches stretching towards the sky, drinking in the sunlight and rainfall. However, fate had other plans, and one silent night, a fierce storm swept through, knocking the tree to the ground. Its trunk lay broken, its branches were almost shattered, its roots exposed, and its future seemingly doomed. Yet, this fallen tree refused to surrender, embodying the powerful spirit of perseverance that yields success.

At first glance, the tree's situation appeared hopeless. Its vertical stance was reduced to a horizontal struggle, leaves withered, and bark cracked. Its friends- the birds and the insects were all crying in pain for they might lost their friend, protector and home. But beneath the surface, a spark within remained ignited. The tree began to adapt, its roots slowly creeping outward, grasping for sustenance in the soil. Its former proud branches, once reaching for the sky, now sprawled sideways, humbly drinking in sunlight filtered through nearby foliage.

Seasons passed, and the tree endured extreme temperatures, rainfall, and droughts. Still, it persevered, nourishing its damaged core. Inner strength revived outer beauty; new leaves budded, and fresh bark formed. The fallen tree transformed into a struggling to survive, then crawling creature of sorts until it finally stood upright again, albeit differently.

Years went by, and the tree flourished. Its unique shape iis a testament of its resilience, attracting more birds to nest and more insects to thrive on its bark. Most remarkably, it produced fruits – sweet and juicy – a testament to perseverance yielding success. Passersby would pluck and taste, marveling at the tree's capacity to overcome adversity and bloom.

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Lesson:

The fallen tree's inspiring story teaches us that perseverance yields success. Like this unyielding tree, we must embrace our own struggles, adapt, preserve inner strength, and push forward – for it is in overcoming adversity that we discover our true potential and produce the sweet fruits of triumph.

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Thanks to my daughter- Jema, for the illustration.

DANCE

Lifted from Rumi

We all dance through the grand hall of life, never knowing when the music will fade. Yet, one thing is certain...it won’t play forever. Every step we take, every twirl we make, is singular, never to be repeated.

So make each dance meaningful.

Find joy in the simple moments.

Be kind, generous, and thoughtful.

Let love be the rhythm that guides your every move.

Forgive swiftly, love deeply.

Recognize the impact you leave on the world and on those around you.

Though the dance may be fleeting, it can be filled with grace and purpose. Live each day with passion, and ensure your final dance is a celebration of a life beautifully lived. 

~Unknown 

Beautiful Art via Pinterest

LIFE IS A CHESSBOARD

Lifted from Melany

As a chess enthusiast, I’ve always been captivated by the game’s wisdom and how its lessons extend far beyond the board. Each piece, with its unique power and purpose, mirrors the complexities of life, teaching us strategy, patience, and the beauty of thoughtful actions. Inspired by this, I’ve written the following poem to reflect on life’s parallels with the game I love.

Life is a Chessboard

By Melany Amante Mabao Maguindanao 

Pawn moves slow, its steps are small,

Yet persistence leads to standing tall.

From humble roots, great things arise,

Dreams transform before our eyes.

The knight leaps wide, unbound by line,

It finds new paths where stars align.

Creative minds will always see,

A way through life’s complexity.

The bishop glides with focused aim,

A visionary in life’s great game.

With clarity, its reach expands,

Shaping futures with steady hands.

The rook stands firm, a pillar strong,

Its steadfast path both sure and long.

Reliability builds the trust,

A solid foundation a must.

The queen commands, a leader true,

Balancing roles, both bold and new.

With strategy and heart combined,

Guides the way with a brilliant mind.

The king moves slow, yet holds the key,

Protecting purpose, our "why" to be.

For in its heart, life’s meaning lies,

The core we cherish beneath the skies.

Each piece a role, each move a part,

A lesson in life, a work of art.

On the chessboard of life, we learn and grow,

Strategic steps in the paths we sow.

DAYBREAK DRIZZLE

8 January 2025

Daybreak Drizzle

by Melany Amante Mabao Maguindanao 

Everyone I know is fading away,

This heart bends under sorrow’s sway.

The pitter-patter upon the roof,

Mourns a rhythm stark and aloof.

The cold seeps deep, an unyielding toll,

Creeping from the depths of my soul.

Is this the burden of time’s cruel art,

To feel every absence tear at the heart?

Perhaps it’s not just age that I find,

But the shadow of loss etched in my mind.

The fleeting moments, so fragile, so rare,

Now linger as ghosts in the thinning air.

The rain, like tears, descends in despair,

A dirge for the love no longer there.

Through the storm’s lament, one truth remains,

Grief is the echo where love sustains.

In the quiet hours before the dawn,

I sit with my coffee, alone but drawn,

To the silence of thoughts, tangled and free,

Allowing myself to get lost in me.

A cig burns, and the world stands still,

As I drift in the quiet, lost at will."

Admin.

Fleeting and flowing. The rhymes are perfect with excellent threads weave in eloquence. Let me just admire your enchanting penchant for words so effortless to come forth from your well of bottomless knowledge and wisdom. Thank you Mel. I am in awe of your special gift.

DON'T WAIT TILL I'M GONE

3 January 2025

"Don’t wait til I’m gone

And then stand up to speak

About all the things 

That you loved about me

Don’t sing all my praises

Through all of your tears

When I am no longer 

Beside you to hear

Don’t leave all that love

Like a secret unsaid

But tell me tomorrow

Or right now instead

And I’ll tell you too

Of the things I admire

About who you are

And how much you inspire

I’ll speak from my heart

Whilst you’re still here to know

“You are” not “you were”

Or “it used to be so”

I’ll speak of your light

Whilst you’ll still hear the words

And not leave that love

In the darkness, unheard

So tell me tomorrow

Or right now - don’t wait

Because we don’t know 

When it might be too late

Because we don’t know

When our time might be up

And we need to hear - while we are here -

How we’re loved....."

@Becky Hemsley Poetry 

Artist: Bettina Baldassari - BettiPigna

AREN'T WE FORGETFUL?

3 January 2025

Aren't We Forgetful?

By Melany Amante Mabao Maguindanao 

Beneath the sky, a garden lay,

Where dreams were sown in earth and clay.

By hands of old, its roots took hold,

A haven green, a tale retold.

Seedlings sprouted, tended with care,

A promise of plenty, a future to share.

But greed crept in, with careless stride,

Shadows fell where hope once thrived.

The caretaker’s hands, they thought gentle and pure,

Turned selfish, blind, to wealth's allure.

He stripped the soil, he drained the streams,

He shattered, generations' dreams.

Workers murmured, their voices low,

As fear took root where flowers grow.

“The garden fades,” their whispers said,

“The fruits now rot, the earth lies dead.”

Corruption thrived in seasons past,

Its shadow long, its lessons vast.

Remember the father brought soil to grief,

Yet, now his offspring leads as the chief.

The Senior has long been dead,

Though whispers of ruin and shame still spread.

Son vows to mend, yet shadows remain,

For history repeats, and lessons wane.

Yet gardens live when love is sown,

Not greed that claims it for its own.

It takes a spark, a voice, a stand,

To heal the scars upon the land.

Shall they bow to despair’s cruel art,

Or rise as guardians, strong of heart?

Together, they could tend and mend,

The garden’s tale need not yet end.

For every leaf, for every bloom,

Chase away the creeping gloom.

A single spark can light the way,

And turn the night to brightest day.

So will they fight for roots and shade,

Or let the garden's glory fade?

The answer lives in every hand,

To guard the soil, reclaim the land.

Admin's Note:

Epic and sad saga applicable to the recent times and events. Humans are just a cycle of how it was in ancient days.