V.P.T. Autumn Flowers and Poems V.P.T. Digital Paintings and Poems.

V.P.T. Autumn Flowers and Poems

V.P.T. Digital Paintings and Poems


Time’s Love

The sun Leaves minglewith the yellow,and stealsome light from itBut Time lovesfluffy sparrows,brings autumn in,frees leavesV.P.T.


Inside The SunlightHave you ever seen the sun when

it is dyingbehind the autumn branches

glowing whiteHave you been trapped in your

soul cryingHave you ever, for no reason,

criedHave you loved so much, so

honestly, so fullyHave you wanted to give yourself

awayHave you ever needed someone

reallyHave you ever trapped in sunlight

stayedV.P.T.


THE FALLING LEAF

In early winter, when the sunshine mist

goes thick, like is the fog on mornings next,

dense, as if life has scattered its most precious gist,

dispersed in sunlight, showing its very best

When people plunge into this sea,like into their condensed hopes

own,a leaf comes off an old treeand spirals down to the groundThis yellow, nonchalant leaf,descends into a good heart, givingcompassion, understanding,

feeling,and music for all poets living


…The heart sees beauty falling off,and yearns to help it, with

strength, upHeart’s lovely courtship’s humble

songis played in sounds stifled wiseThen, startled, the heart feels the

fall,accepts the danger of a break,be rid it will, but there rollsthe loveliest leaf which can’t

escapeIn the finale, scared, played,is that half-pitying, resigned partwhich lets the autumn shred its

wealthenlightenment leaving for the

heartV.P.T. 23.11.2003


Hiding

A swallow sleeks like an arrow,uncertain, chasing, on the skyThe sky is hiding from the

mountainits blue can’t match the sea’s by

rightIn it, the autumn felt is earlyBelow it, just rustling breezeNo tree crowns give a sign of

movingJust air cool hangs in betweenUpon the wet path, people

walking,All speaking in their own tongues


…The bared by the rains roots oldhide their reluctance to be stepsProfusion of grass, herbs, alongside,hide insects and the mole holesThe violet blooms on their tall stemsdon’t smell like mint, don’t prick like

thornsThe raspberry bushes hide the nettlethat stings the picking probing armThe sun’s behind a cloud pettyThe shades whiff off the coming nightA layer fresh of pebbles hidingwill run down with the first downpourThe pine trees, weary of green light,are drooping as if for support


…The bowing trees hide they are not keeping

the waterfall from the sunshine,and that their branches

overhangingare drinking from its moisture

fineA bridge is hiding its sighs

honestand lets the river active pass


…The river’s singing its songs, poems,

to hide it’s digging down cutsA mossy boulder dividingthe river into two streams hidesthe fact that both streams will be

findingeach other in the shortest whileA bend that promises rest,

stopping,is hiding the straightforward raceMoraines hide under waters

slidingtheir slippery unsoaked faceEveryone is hiding somethingV.P.T. 12.08.2006


Autumn

In a momentum of its inspiration,the Autumn Early dipped its

fingersin paints natural, still green,and splashed the slopes with the

figuresof trees and leafage on life keenThen with a brush which for

whitewashingwas used, it blurred the sky-clear

blue,then with its palm, the coming-

goingnew roads cleared for its routes


…In a momentum of its integration,

the Autumn Ripe whiffed at the sight,

made sunrays merge and mixed the colours,

sent cars and lorries on a driveThen Autumn Late came in the

pictureand made all take their opposite

hues,the negatives of blue and white,

green,the negatives of driving smoothThen Autumn Late was honoured,

chosen,to hand the world onto the springThe winter'll be somehow over,all winters rushed are, through,

unseenV.P.T.


The Indian SummerThe Indian summer’s now over,past last unthoughtful playful fitsMen’s heads are still upright,

though lowerThe Crazy, to her life, still speaksTo spy on time, her diary’s writtenTo prove its might, the sun bores

holesinside the leaf-shred autumn

willow,but cannot fight the birch in goldThe day can’t stand the thought of

cold,still fresh, but cool now in the windThe night is furious, an olddeceived, cheated, mate: a fiend


…They’ll reconcile: the light and darkness

They’ll get together through the frost

They’ll meet and, like with truthful partners,

from day to night, the city’ll crossA long, long time will pass in

sleepingor in adapting to a lossThe day and night will part

unheedinghow fussy is the Cold BossThe city’ll wake, the Crazy speakingto her life and to her next stepThe hopeful lot will be here livingexpecting Indian summers nextV.P.T.


Autumn 1999 It's autumn, and the leaves have

grownmuch more in number: as if ageand colours different on showoutnumber passed in splendour daysIt's autumn, leaves of brown and yelloware fluttering inside the lightThe sun, descending, sends its glowto touch the carpet on the pathIt's autumn, fading with soft fingersthe dowry of the springThe river only, cold, lingersinside its bed, and its songs sings

V.P.T.


Afresh

A fresh trace here the autumn's left:a footprint on the yellow pathThe leaves have fallen in contestfor speed and colours: life-real, fastThe sun is scattered in lights denseof different sized and shaped sun-fractionsBehind the trees leaf-bared, braced,the lights are seen, but not the branchesDowntown, one tall pine tree's trappedin its hair set of weedy plants:as if the autumn's green, live, nethas dropped, to calm, its urgent heart


…Some strays, a pack, are squatting downinside the middle of the roadand barking, chasing, running roundthe cars selected by some codeAnd, slowly the sun descends

The day's now shorter as is usual

The strays have, with the time passed, changed

and are now guarding ‘their’ people

The people of a similar lot, drab in their dress and ragged

in prospects The pack of strays, unfed,

uncaught, at dawn, will start afresh their

contest V.P.T.


Seasons In The City‘How is your mother?’ he was then

asked‘I’m roaming in search for jobs’Nobody’d told him that, at life’s

dusk,all’s settling, and he matters notAt dawn, when growth’s on and

busy,their hearts will hope for a start:all people’s hearts, all, like his,

freezingwith desperation in sunlightThe season’d changed inside that

small streetThe trees had grown tall and strongThe leaves of autumn flew light,

easyNo season is forever longIt’s only then that people look upto see from where splendour comes


…The slight wind puffs the carpet living

The rustling music’s for the groundIn spring, no one will see leaves

growing,for people’ll aim to grow, tooThe ground’ll be all water-spottedto balance any hope-filled moodIn summer what will matter mostwill be the shade the trees can giveNo one will look up at their crownsHard-working people’ll flee and liveIn winter, branches white with snowwill be no comfort for those cold


…The street will be a track snow-covered

with frozen, and tramped-down, hope

‘How is your mother?’ he was then asked

‘I’m roaming in search for jobs’Nobody told him that, at life’s

dusk,nobody matters but life’s lotsV.P.T. 9.11.2003


A WHITE ROSE

The poem of a rose’s heartwas somewhere in the setting

sunA rose white, a tender budwas peering to drink love’s wineThe sentence first was of

importanceIt had the key words of a life:Your spring has definitely

options,your summer’s hot, your

autumn’s dryRose, love is something too

momentous,as unexpected as a gift


…Your winter, to your colour’s added

what no other flower needsThe poem of a rose’s heartwas somewhere in the setting

sunThe rose white, a tender bud,was peering to drink love’s wineIt blossomed, and the night

kissed itToo late it was, it was too earlyThe blossom, deep in its heart,

hidto write its most beautiful poemV.P.T. 9.10.2004


AUTUMN 2004The old tree’s log, again, is young,with blooms of mushrooms white

and fresh,as if its heart and its brain wisecan tell the story of its ageThe trees in colours and in heightreach up, for last, to kiss the blueand condescend to let their goldspread on the path in happy moodThe brook is clear over sandThe bridge is good and sleeping

dullThe birds that in the branches sanghave hidden in this season’s calm


…Nobody seeing the sun’s brightness

can guess the reasons for its shineThe path is taken, passed, and

outof every daily plan or lineThe autumn is confined in shynesswith limited donated means,with its own strangeness to its

quiet,with own mirrors for its deedsHow long it lasts, it doesn’t knowUntil its tired of itselfUntil it bends its cheers lowUntil, to winter, takes the bendV.P.T. 23.10.2004


Winter’s Mid-Season

Mid-season: time for a transitionfrom changes tough with strong

resultsto coming out- hushed, initial-from uniform, snow-covered sitesAll reasons get brushed as

belongingto the prosperity that hidin former wealth, to give new

longingfor claims on the spring-time fieldThe bridge between the toughest

seasons-the autumn and the spring that’s

next-now sees the year’s whole existencetossed over in mid-winter’s hands


…The winter’s luck is in possession

of time, of aims, ways- all bleakAt both ends stands the same

recessionand tucks the year underneathA heap of snow rises slowly-the cold needs to see the sun-and on the top, mid-season’s

showingthe very best of winter’s lovesMid-winter’s time- at its back

splendour,ahead- all hope, though youngBeneath the heap of snow melting,a whole new year gathers strengthV.P.T. 30.01.2005


IllusionsThe bridge which leads across the

riveris silent on this fact- it spansone stream that, with its partner, split

up,and only half has done of plansA table lonely, worth compassion,made of the halved of felled trees,is in between two wooden benches-no matter who comes, he will leaveThe river running, running downis white with light, with bubbles, gleeSomewhere further, somewhere

round,it will be just more water cleanA fletching young, stepped on its long

legs,with beige and brown on breast frail,is pewing its call to the forest-the sound evens head to tail


…The slope is a perfect mountof light green beeches, dark pine trees-the ridge is dark, the tops touch cloudswhich seem they can, but can’t be

reachedA birch is almost on the sun’s face-a tree so tall, a tree so strong,its stem so bare of old branchesthat had to dry, and had to fallSome tiny yellow leaves are flying-unique upon a summer daySome weeks, and in the autumn coming,all leaves will, under trees bare, layAn opening, wild with its beauty,and with its blossoms, and its greenA bee is working hard and cutelyfor someone else to eat its mealIllusions fine on days of plenty,forever in the mountain’s viewIllusions shattered hourly, dailyforever old and forever newV.P.T. 23.08.2006


AUTUMN 2006

The summer’s tempers were a good fillof heat exasperating to plans, feelingsNow autumn’s here- hurried, skilledin catching- in its moods- the cityThe last of summer’s wish to growwas given out in free treats-its alms of coins small paved roadsthat recognized achievements, featsThose who stayed in the summer’s city,all through the sunlight and the storms,are now hurrying, have no pityfor their aims unreached and oldThose who took rest, were somewhere

out,are looking for new linksThe time and weather of the summersigh, scooped in autumn’s cool and

brinks


…On sidewalks, cyclists cautious wind through,

pedestrians compete for land,suppliers carry ladders long, tramps brood,and mothers push their babies’ pramsThe street is blocked by cars and work trucksThe crossroads’ lights blink green or redThe movement is upon the sidewalksThe still is on the road’s faceThe quarters of the new old city-for their people growing, longing-attracts cars, trucks, and tempers, feelingswhile teaching patience and belongingThe wave of change- felt, feared, promised,is sweeping its length and its depthThe city, which can’t travel bodily,welcomes now next, more hustled, daysThe first of autumn’s treat is offered-the herald yellow leaves join windsThe winds heap them to help the sweepers,and carry off what sweepers heapThe autumn new, impatient, skilled, willed,is catching- in its moods- the cityThe summer’s tempers were the fillof heat exasperating to plans, feelingsV.P.T. 1.09.2006


A WONDERFUL DAY

The day is ripe with autumn’s quiet,and sunny with the aging summerA Sunday restful for the towns,and full of guests fuss for the countryExtremes are sticking to jobs, spots-some to the light upon the fields,some to the shades in their homes,some are to balance with their needsSome hearts yearn for a little change,but their minds warn of conditions,and they go on to see the endfrom which on choice has no limitsExtremes are sticking to their plots-some to trips fine, some to restrictionsTheir hearts yearn for a change, a

swap,but minds warn of confirmed positions


….Extremes are sticking to old scores-

to victory, or to defeat’s prideOf change of luck, their hearts do

warn,but their minds yearn of their next

flightsA wonderful day, charming, freeNo chance to have a like-it dayThose who have no place in itare missing nothing of the playThe day is ripe with autumn’s

quiet,and sunny with the aging summerA Sunday restful for the towns,and full of guests fuss for the

countryV.P.T. 3.09.2006


THE SEASONS OF THE DAY

The sun is conquering the night and its own morning-

a separate identity huge on the roofsThe city’s taking shifts in moods, in fates, and

traffic-like its own birds is flocking in its broodsThe sky is spotless, misty, daintyThe combers of bins team in their art-one’s emptying the contents upon the

pavement,one guards to fight off the remarksThe buildings facing east are gloriousThose facing west- in hope, praying, waitThe sun’s rays- visible, like in a forestThe sun’s face- dark and glow-framedThe golden leaves have gathered under their

treesThe grass is frost-glazed; seeded dandelions

loomThe mountain beyond, like a white iceberg,

half-seenand half snow-free, like a shadow of night’s

roomThe brighter the day gets, the further the sun

goes,the clearer the sky’s in blue


….Soon, as the sun withdraws like children punished,

the day accepts a season newThe grass gets lush and green, a

spring’s grass,consuming autumn’s melting charmThe day is half-way on its short

path,and tired of its own frownsSome dandelions yellow blossom

pretty,the old ripe white heads bend in

seekThe crows shun the midday cityand sweep, in groups, from tree to

treeThe sky’s remote; white clouds

hangingto separate the people downfrom the eternity defendingthe notion of a heaven fine


…. Cold light, smoke, mist, form a compound

which drives inside the city homesLoud-silent time ticks in the soulsof men’s and women’s job-set lotsThe day is short, but balanced too

well-like elegant, intelligent, good-

mannered, artSo perfect is the day with all its

seasonsthat it repels and keeps apartLast night’s sun- sliding, red, and

ripened,is past, but memories see it


…The dusk, last night, was light, warm-hearted,

with doors of light and life in itTonight the city must find shelterThe rain will fall until the dawnThe season next will come and

settle-seen on the frosty mountain topsThe day will sleep in slumber oldMen’s heels will sleek in women’s

mood,and women’s will drum on the

stoneslike marching soldiers over dewV.P.T. 11-12.11.2006


What Winds Do

When life applies its common zealto teach the people their places,what people have, is what they feel,what others have, is dreams and lacesWhat people see, they shun, admireWhat poets feel, is poems’ morningsBefore the winter conquers, dire,the autumn winds come in with

warningsA window high looks far all round,and knows that the world is hugeA window nearest to groundwill watch the seasons, and will chooseThe window tall will feel the weather,will judge the misty mountain’s

heights,will drip with rain, with fear tremble,will bake inside the sun and light


…The window humble will watch the winds

that shake off leaves and fruit ungathered,

will wonder, and the distance meetto reach the branches overhangingThe early wind before the autumnwill groom the trees, will dust their

products,will rough the seas green-blue, remote,will whirl life’s bits to litter cornersWhat one can see, one is describingImagination’s webby storesare elegantly waiting, trappinglife’s views against its whitewashed

wallsThe wind of time is blowing round,the vine’s grapes ripen for the birds,the distant waves are huge and proud,the autumn’s sending warnings firstV.P.T. 5.09.2007


A Pessimist

The moon is still there, full and smiling,to welcome, glowing, the sunriseIn windows three, the sun’s face’s shiningStill more and more burn in cold lightOf its own moisture, the sky is riddingand formulating its excessSmall clouds hang upon the city:

a threat at this view fine addressedThe city humps, gloomed by the clouds,by rain it’s washed, by winds it’s driedA star peeps in, a seeing eye; nowit measures its place and its timeBetween the grey hair of complianceand the eyed-haired street extreme,

between defeat and its reluctance,and angry hatred: men’s live stream


…What if, upon a sudden notion,some growing heart decides to build,a chance to give to work and caution,to make high walls of stone and brickThe higher up the building goesto see beyond the streets and men,the further round the strict watchmansees from the top of this fine placeWhat if the heart, upon its notion,decides to beat its best love tune,instead of echoing alone,to ask in all the hearts and groans

For need to see, some windows open then doors to enter and to leave,

guards to fend off unasked intruders,then fences, gardens, rooms and feed

Those who cannot give some good praisesto heart’s love tune or its home finecan go to some different placesand try there to beat, or to chime


….The people airing achievement,afraid the lazy will assesshow many lag or have false feelings,and who dares say he’s failed tests,meet people changing good environmentor searching for chance to succeed,they pass those whose choice is ‘enjoy life’and even men content they meetOn holidays, men seen are wanderingto see if groups are organized,some seen are all alert and probingfor trouble from the groups despised


….Some say that men, like frogs, have own pools,

and rules spread to the whole bog,

in seas there are some different rules,but then we’d be fish, and not frogsA pessimist has found his treasure,involved, involving, hate and fright,he instigates the scenes adventurous,and books pathetic, inexhaustibly, writes


….A boy there watches a poet writingexhilarated with the trees

Thrown stones shorten gaps dividing

the mystery of dreams from meansA girl has caught an autumn

butterfly,its wings shown to her granny and

aunt,her granny’s singing an old song’s

line,her aunt is picking her nose plumpSome men are climbing, show their

body strength,afraid the top is only oneSome are returning, all the slope’s

length,unwilling to let others climb


…The pessimist is there watching,

describing, in convenience, lifeThe written words are cruelly

cautiousand hit the weakest in the strifeWhat must men do as a priority:one is to fear, one to liveThe pessimist is there watching,and always right, all pessimistsThe moon is still there, full and

smilingto welcome, glowing, the sunriseMen’s lives reflect life’s face and,

shining,divert to interests all shades and

lightV.P.T.

V.P.T. Autumn Flowers and Poems V.P.T. Digital Paintings and Poems.

Documents

Transcript of V.P.T. Autumn Flowers and Poems V.P.T. Digital Paintings and Poems.