In my Memories.. i carry inside of me, all the lessons learned; the times i got burned; the times i was loved, the times i rose above.. and in those memories i hold; i feel strong and bold; i remember when.. i remember when… i remember when.. before i got, old. D.D.Sonnenburg
THE INVISIBLE KEY
Behind a locked door, was the heart; protected by panes of invisible glass; reflections of experience evident, with just a glance. A heart, once unblemished and new; now hides each day, hidden away from use. But, what’s sadder all the more; is that the key to the invisible door; was seen by all, but the heart; for in its’ hand, unseen; held the invisible key! -DDSonnenburg(7-10-2000)
A PASSING MOON!
The night is dark, as morning moves in for its daily eventful promise of ascending light. The moon quickens its pace around the globe, offering spotlight to dancing stars, along the way. Billions of twinkling stars, in unison peek; through a wispy and clouded sky; for the beckoning sun and moon, dance at twilight.. always, right on time. There is warmth in the room, and a humid taste of filtered smells from the days cooking place, and a savoured moment, blesses my face; as an anticipating pang of hunger, finds its place. Blankets strewn upon the bed, showing that I tossed, any deep slumbering, was lost. As twilight exposes its first hint, of a dark, indigo blue; the birds sleep silent under another, passing moon. -DDSonnenburg(6-5-2005)
Poverty, is greed’s visible wound. -ddsonnenburg
Poverty’s Jagged Edge(also, Titled: The Beguiled)
- D.D.Sonnenburg, 2008
I am not here,
said the shadowy smile;
Can a Title, Define the Content?
The Dead End Lane: The Last, Long Road - BY: @dds/north(6-2012)
Poverty is:
Where tears evaporate, before they touch your cheek.
Where dreams you had lay dormant, upon sacred ground in memory; oblivious to the parting of time, as inconvenient abandonment?
Where love is never found, and perhaps then; can never be given?
Where echoes of laughter, sound hollow; across empty rooms of imaginary happiness.
Where strength breaks, and courage surrenders.
Where dreams, the last perpetual hope; evaporates over, and over again.. right in front of your heart.
Where carpets of layered hurts, rest abandoned, and adorned with healing scars; weighing heavily.. where new hurts, call for attentive minds to tend them.
Where a red, glass heart, once hidden; is now, put in a jar on a shelf, with cheap-coloured clear, blue and green oval stones of glass; to make color, for the imminent din of loneliness.
Where faded dreams, in sacred memory chambers; live.. ceiling to floor, caressing the walls; like woven, silky cloths dearly floating, with each breeze from a balcony window.. in my heart; where the view is inspired by romantic, imaginary happiness.
Am I alive, or am I dead, and the doubts, which gorge upon my soul, are actually maggots; worms of fear, found on low ground, in a clutch of darkness towards the “unknown abyss”..
on the last, long road.
From afar,
I look without the veil of words
and that look is vaster
than any thought of mine.
The desert is sparse and vast.
These words of ours are desert echoes.
What will be the call you hear?
A reflection, a glance,
one unguarded moment
and all is known.
Look up and out
away from the world of man.
Such looking out is looking in.
The trees and your mind
rest in the same clear, blue sky.
The body is leaving on its own,
swimming in a pool of silence
that swallows every protest.
Writing about this destination is ludicrous.
Dip your mind into the setting sun.
Leaving by such passing is closer to the truth.
While all words fail to convey depth,
the wind carries a pervading message:
Lose your place in line,
turn to face your mystery,
and open your denying arms.
The dream doors have collapsed
and empty air speaks silent volumes.
Love is no answer.
It already holds all in its grasp.
Your answer is beyond these dealings,
beyond thoughts and feelings,
and in the realm of seeing
all that is leaving—holding to no thing,
that does not last.
I am the space
between grasses blown by the wind.
Everything moves through me.
You turn to the world that beats at your door
because this body is tuned to life’s needs
and not your soul’s.
Where is your true life
among this fog of being?
Where is rest,
satisfaction,
solidity?
Only by remembering the possibilities,
wonder stolen by imagined consequences,
shuddering questions raised
by fanciful twilight moments,
and dreams of perfection,
will you close your door to this world,
then, later,
let it pass through your empty home.
by: Shawn Nevins
IF
If you can keep your head
when all about you are losing theirs
And blaming it on you.
If you can trust yourself
when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too.
If you can dream and not make dreams your master.
If you can think and not make thoughts your aim.
If you can meet with triumph and disaster.
And treat those two impostors just the same.
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken
And stoop and build’em up with worn out tools.
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch and toss
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss.
If you can force your heart, and nerve, and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone
And so “hold on” when there is nothing on you
except the will which says to them “hold on!”
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue
Or walk with kings, nor lose the common touch.
If neither foe nor loving friend can hurt you.
If all men count with you … but none too much.
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
with sixty seconds worth of distant run.
Yours is the earth, and everything that’s in it.
And which is more … You’ll be a Man, my son.
by Rudyard Kippling
HOW DID YOU DIE?
Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
with a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble’s a ton, or a trouble’s an ounce,
Or, a trouble is what you make it.
And it isn’t the fact that you’re hurt that counts,
But, only how did you take it?
You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what’s that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It’s nothing against you to fall down flat,
But, to lie there—that’s disgrace.
The harder you’re thrown, why the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn’t the fact you’re licked that counts;
It’s how did you fight and why?
And though you be done to death, what then?
If you battled the best you could;
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he’s slow or spry,
It isn’t the fact that you’re dead that counts,
But only, how did you die?
Author: Edmund Vance Cooke(1866-1932)
When you look at me; look past, the cover of my soul, and see me; because, when I look at you.. I see you, only as that way.
D.D. Sonnenburg
The Quiet One
I am the quiet one, the observer, the obscured beauty of nature; the life-source of my existence is love; thus, i feel the worlds pain - D.D. Sonnenburg 10 15-2009.
