Daily poems.
If I can't update for a day, I'm deeply sorry. Inspirations don't come everyday.
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Poems that capture daily life in a magical way.

Rays of warm spring sunshine illuminated her body gently, adding to her radiant beauty.
Having finished a poem, she put down her brush and turned over to look at the Dowager Duchess. It seemed as if there were fragments of light flowing about her clear, radiant eyes which glimmered brilliantly with every slight movement she made.
She stuck out her tongue. "Grandmother, I'm done writing, but I don't think I wrote it well. I hope you don't punish me," she said. 
Long Chi stared at her in a daze. He then squinted his eyes slightly. 
He had never known that this dimwitted girl had such stunning visuals! 
"This girl, you're afraid of being punished by me?" the Dowager Duchess bellowed. Nonetheless, the look on her face softened as she got up to head over to the front of Lu Liangwei's table, then proceeded to pick up the paper before her. 
She began reciting lightly, "On this very day last year at this very gate, faces and cherry blossoms both bloomed red. The faces are now in places unknown, yet the cherry blossoms still beam in the spring wind," she read. 
When she finished reciting, the courtyard fell silent. 
A moment later, the Dowager Duchess snapped out of her daze and stared at Lu Liangwei unblinkingly. "Girl, you composed this poem on your own?" she asked. 
Lu Yunshuang clutched the handkerchief in her hand tightly, a sophisticated look flashing across her eyes. 
How was it possible for this dimwitted girl to compose a poem when she could not even memorize a poem? 
Aunt Zheng had the exact same thoughts. This pathetic girl was used to behaving in a capricious manner since her youth due to how much the Lord doted on her. She did not even read many books, how did she know how to compose poems? 
In contrast to the scornful mother-daughter pair, Longchi took a few thoughtful glances toward Lu Liangwei. 
'The faces are now in places unknown, yet the cherry blossoms still beam in the spring wind?'
Assuming that he managed to grasp the connotations of Lu Liangwei's poem, slight contempt glinted in his eyes.
This woman had previously expressed that she did not want to become his concubine. However, it was obvious that she had not forgotten him. Otherwise, why would she compose such a poem?
Seeing the Dowager Duchess's eyes fill up with admiration, Lu Yunshuang was just about to expose Lu Liangwei when she started speaking. 
"Grandmother, you've really overestimated me. How would I know how to compose a poem? I saw this poem from a book I read in the past and memorized it as I found it to be quite good," she said. 
Hearing what she had to say, the corners of Lu Yunshuang's lips curved upward. At least this dimwitted girl had a clear understanding of her own abilities. 
Upon hearing this, the Dowager Duchess was slightly disappointed, but when she thought about it from another perspective, this granddaughter of hers had never liked studying. How could she become so highly skilled within a day's time? 
Thinking that way, she felt relieved and caressed Lu Liangwei's hair. "It is alright if you do not know how to compose poems. I am not demanding you to become a teacher. However, you must read more books daily as it'll definitely benefit you greatly," she said lovingly.
"Weiwei understands," Lu Liangwei responded while appearing extremely obedient.
The Dowager Duchess felt even more delighted upon seeing this. "Grandmother has read a few books before as well. However, how have I never come across this poem that you've written down? Which book is it from?" she asked. 
Lu Liangwei blinked. "I do not recall the book I saw it from, but if I do see it the next time, I'll definitely send it over to Grandmother," she said. 
"Alright," the Duchess Dowager nodded.
Dismal flitted across Lu Yunshuang's eyes. 
It was obvious that the poem she composed was way better than the poem Lu Liangwei copied from some unknown source. Nevertheless, in the eyes of the Dowager Duchess, there was only Lu Liangwei. 
Deep in her heart, this made her feel extremely uncomfortable. 
Turning around, she saw Long Chi staring at Lu Liangwei thoughtfully. Beyond shocked, she was instantly filled with jealousy. 　　
The Duchess Dowager was being like this, but even the Crown Prince had his attention on Lu Liangwei. 
Lu Yunshuang gave Lu Liangwei a fierce, ruthless glare. 
This dimwitted girl! 
Noon followed soon after. The kitchen had already prepared the dishes and drinks, so everyone remained in the Longevity Hall to have their meal. 
　


Lu Liangwei wakes up to find herself transmigrated as a supporting character in the novel she had been reading a few days ago. According to the novel, this character has everything—beauty, wealth, status—except brains. Before Liangwei had taken over, she even went as far as to hang herself for the male protagonist that she loved: the Crown Prince as well as her sister's lover. Now that she has become a "brand new" person, it is time for her to turn her life around with charm and wit! She will get everyone to fall in love with her, even the Crown Prince's uncle—the Emperor! Who needs a prince when you can become the Empress herself?

Sanat, Sanat !! I yelled , " how many times I have to call you… can't you hear?" He gave an indifferent look and said, " You called? I didn't noticed…. I mean really …". And then he smiled and that used to irritated me more.

Sanat is always in his own world. He was very creative at heart and always busy in his own thoughts. He rarely shared his feelings with anyone. He was of very silent nature . He was shy, introvert but had a magic in his hands. All his paintings were result of his excellent power of imagination. He has limited friends and best part in our relationship was that I was his best friend. I always used to tell him that he should mingle with people and make more friends but he was different yet unique. Exactly like Lord Brahma who is less popular compared to other two counterparts in Trimurtis, Sanat was less famous in our circle. But this never bothered him. He was happy and contented in his small and beautiful universe of paintings and creativity.

I share a special bonding with Sanat because he is the first male of my life who understood my highs and lows even before I noticed. He can make out my mood fluctuations by reading my face. I always felt that this rare quality belongs to women because my mother and my sister are very good in that. My mother and my sister can read minds and judge the hidden face of people. I would end up writing a novel if I had to describe the attributes of both of them. And I feel I know the person from whom Sanat has inherited this special ability. To sum up, I would always end up saying, "Sanat is just unique".

Sanat and I enjoy indulging in philosophical discussions. He sometimes supplements me by flow of thoughts and sometimes open a new window of looking at a same issue in different angle. Whenever we discuss about the type of lifestyle one choose, he says " Be simple like a child, and you will find that all your problems resolved.

Sanat was true and I realised that when I went to The Santa Kids, a famous preschool, to meet my old friend. I was waiting at the corridor when I saw few cute, lovely kids running here and there holding hands and with lots of innocence in their heart and mind. 

I took out my diary and jot down few thoughts. The poem got published in 'Momspresso- The Daily Hunt' poem column.

"Why there is frown on faces"
Poem 4

Waiting at the corridor of nursery classes
With mind full of worries and tensions..
When a cute kid jumped to me
With few of his innocent questions....

Why there is frown on faces
When smiling is so easy...
Why everyone is so tired
When it's fun to be full-time busy....

Why you are running all alone
When we hold hands to every destination....
Why you meet human values in books only
While we practice daily love and affection...

Why to pose like someone else
When it's so simple to be just you...
Why you all can't trust your own words
Whereas we believe in fairy tales too....

Why to dream so big and high
When small wishes makes us merry...
Why you nurture hatred for so long
When our fight last for few seconds only...

While I was struggling with the answers
Walked away the kid, playing with his toy...
Will our hearts ever regain that happiness
With same freshness, innocence and joy....

"Kids are the real teachers of innocence because they have a clear heart like the whiteboard. They scribble lots of things on that board but they do it with a temporary marker pen which is rubbed out and rewritten.

But we use the permanent marker and keeps holding all the bitter feelings without even trying to erase the old and unwanted ones. And in this act of scribbling again and again on the board, we forget that it is our heart which is getting dirtier and dirtier.

Lets borrow that magical pen from our kids & try to practice 'forgive and forget'. We will then realise that our heart and mind becomes much cleaner place to dwell in. We cannot stop the ill feelings like hatred , jealousy, anger from entering our heart and mind but we can surely erase it and rewrite few words of love, care and happiness."

By Adishakti Iyer.

And the story revolves around a lady and her love for three men whom she compares with the Trimurti of Hindu mythology....

III. Maya's Favor for Secrecy 

In weekdays inside the house, it felt like I have all the time in the world during 8 o'clock until 12. But of course, it was an exaggeration; for me, it just felt like it. In abstract sense, time feels forever — like an extended period beyond numbers — whenever I find myself alone in our abode. Hypothetically, I believe I could commit serious crimes (be it robbery, identify theft, or murder), without bothering to worry about anyone sniffing my back. That is, in specificity, what I meant by having all the time in world. Since during those hours, exactly four, I was all by myself with my wandering thoughts— thinking of the things I could do, but would never really do. 

Yesterday was Thursday, so the day today remained a weekday. Friday. 

Considering my age, in addition of my three-year old retirement, personally I didn't have to worry much about commitments. My obligations had short-lengthened; the people I often communicated with before had decreased into almost zero, and for this reason I got plenty of time pondering the past, my old memories. I was at the point where, dutifully and financially speaking, I could slack off and I wouldn't miss a thing. Retired. 

Why was I alone? Why, of course it was a weekday, and during weekday mornings I usually am. Simply because, first of all, my wife and daughter themselves had tasks to do in the community. Unlike me, who kind of let go of most obligations already involving jobs, clients, strangers and acquaintances, my family had a pattern to follow. 

Kiki, as an elementary student, had to attend school. My daughter was at the point of her life where she explores the elements found and seen on the social aspect. She had to meet new people her age. Know them. Befriend them even, and make memories with them that'd be reminisced in the future. At school, academically, Kiki had been told by her mother to participate in class recitations; to answer correctly the questions on quizzes, on exams; to take down notes the chalk-written words from the blackboard; and later — after everything — to meet me in the school's gateway so I could pick her up, and return her home. 

On the other hand, my wife, Annalise, as an architect under a well-known firm, had to take bus and jeepney and tricycle towards her job. Comparing to Kiki, Annalise was at the point of her life where she already realized the functions of the social— how to ethically act around people; how to be reasonable with them alike. Perhaps because of her busyness at most times, I think she was trying to figure out where she belonged To generativity, or to stagnation? Serving as Senior Architect, it's given she had to communicate with her co-workers, her boss, her inferiors, and their clients altogether. In spite of all the effort, of the labor she puts in for the quality of the firm, afterwork she'd commute back home with a take-out meal for us to consume. Meaning, at the end of the day we remained a family — always a complete one — eating at the dining table together, with our morning and afternoon stories. 

So far, those were our daily routines. As a family of three. 

I, however, had the most alone time among the three. Unlike years ago when I was still an employee, a manager, what I do now every morning don't actually stay the same. I could be watching the television for four hours straight on Mondays, and take an unbent shower on Tuesdays and Fridays. Yes, sometimes I'd just watch shows until it's time to pick my daughter from school at 12:30 o'clock. Other times, I'd read whatever books or magazines I could find in the bookshelf. And other, other times I'd feel so creative I could write something personal, or something mind-blowing on a piece of paper. 

For instance, this Friday I wrote an indigenous type of Filipino poem called tanaga. I began working on it at 9:30 in the morning, and later finished the piece by 11 PM. No need to mention it took me longer to finish than expected. 

As a matter of fact, at first I couldn't think of anything to write about. I knew I had to write, I just didn't know what subject should I emphasize. My mind was blank. Worse than blank and empty, my mind was in decline. Despite the fact that I was on my favorite spot — sitting on the moving chair, on the balcony — I couldn't write. For half an hour I felt wordless and incapable of writing a single passage with meaning. It was that hard and bleeding. Perhaps, if I'd exclude the sun's heat haze, the beauty of nature in front of me might be the main cause of this distraction: the numerous moving clouds, the little waves crashing on the far seashore's edges, and the lenient wind passing by my face. All distracting, but at the same time calming. 

It was hard to write. 

Even so, at 11 o'clock, here went my piece of tanaga: 



Liwanag
'Sang ilaw na kay hirap
Limutin't usisain—
Sa aking bawat padyak,
Siya ang tanging mithiin.



Once finished I read it over, and over again. Though I myself admitted that I'm not a good poet, I believe this poem is something value-embedded. True enough, sometimes I'd just scribble words on a notebook or any paper I could find laying here. I could write thousands of words, fill hundreds of pages, create tens of short stories, and still disregard myself as a good writer. In practice, I'm not as witty as William Shakespeare; especially, not as psychologically in-depth as Fyodor Dostoevsky. Moreover, I'm not a great poet as Robert Frost who wrote one of my favorite poems, The Road Not Taken. But nevertheless, whether a writer considers himself outstanding or awfully inferior, as a whole, personally, writing is one of the best ways to open up your heart and keep the time passing. 

Today, somehow, I found my short piece of poem in between downcast and euphoric. 

To anyone, perhaps to most people, who would gain a chance to read my poem, they might see this piece of tanaga as average. Nothing but a standard Filipino poem following a certain requirement: seven syllabic rhymes, all packed in four lines, and nothing new to it. 

But be that as it may, whatever people would think of this can't change the fact of how it affected my sentiment and sensibility. That as I read it again, and again, to me it seemed like I found something accidental yet worth the search in the abyss of my existence— something hiding deeply inside me, buried dozens of meters deep in the ground. Almost forgotten. 

By then it came to surface, of which this poem I wrote is bag and baggage about a certain friend. My old, lady friend whom I had been thinking about, in truth, for a couple of weeks straight at present. Been kind of a long time since I told my daughter the Midnight Carnival story; been weeks since I promised to buy her a new video game cartridge, that one afternoon, in exchange for her ears and attention. 

Ever since that day, Maya never left my thoughts for a moment long-interval. In my everyday life, in my aloneness, she stood appearing as a spirit walking in the depths of my longing. She remained here within the hardness of my skull, that even in dreams I sometimes I see her and re-experience a bygone time. Probably, twice in a single week. 

All in all. 

Notwithstanding, tomorrow I'd finally fulfill my promise to my daughter. And it took long, I know, only well because after a month or two, the three of us agreed again to go to the supermall, as a family. Wherein fact I seemed not to recall our last hangout there, so there lingered a feeling in ourselves that we had to create new memories. Thankfully, yesterday night we decided to plan eating at my wife's favorite restaurant once more. To walk, to shop, and to hangout in the supermall— ultimately, to buy Kiki a new cartridge in the Game Station. 

Tomorrow, only even for a little while, we'd have the time to run away from our daily lives. Saturday. Just the three of us. 

Returning to the present, as I waited for the clock to hit 12 PM, I spent my remaining half-an-hour by looking at the heavenly sceneries ahead. I watched the clouds, the little waves, the flocks of birds soaring through air. I watched everything I could see. 

However, I noticed the view from the moving chair didn't give me enough contentment. I felt the need for more. And so, to satisfy myself, I had to make my sight of the landscape even wider. I stood from the chair where I usually sat — leaving the notebook containing my piece of poem there — and stepped forward to the balcony's line of edge. I decided to place my elbows on the wooden material, the linear barrier. I raised my chin, I placed vision a little higher, as both of my eyes focused on what the nature could offer. Of what it could present to me as for the moment. 

———

It is what it is.
Literary. Magic Realism.

Days passed and the living doll my parents took home from some unknown place called hospital nearly captured my home. Especially her cries in the middle of the night threw me in utter annoyance. Many times I asked my dad how long she is going to live with us and my dad always just smiled in response and I somehow managed to tolerate everything and accepted the fact that she's going nowhere, at least not in the near future.
So I just decided to ignore her presence even when she's messing up with my favourite toys, I just pretended to see nothing, but that little demon was so hungry for attention that she almost tried everything to get me angry. She one day crossed all the limits and tore my favourite colourful rhymes book. I was so mad that I almost lose control but as she was so favourite to my parents, my hands were tied. I couldn't do anything for her but I decided to leave my house.
And I did, I walked and walked until the roads became unknown and an unfamiliar fear crossed my mind but I couldn't just go back coz that's about self-respect.
So I sat near the pond and started crying and sat there until my mom came and fetch me home.
And fortunately, my dad brought a pair of beautiful rhyme books for me so I gave up the grudge.
One day it was raining heavily and my mom was so busy in her daily household chores and I was reciting a poem I already remember sitting beside the bed where my newborn baby sister was lying.
I don't know what was wrong with her but she was crying badly and breaking my concentration. I was getting so irritated and just to continue my peaceful recitation I looked for my mother and couldn't find her so I just tried to calm the little girl crying so badly.
As I moved closer to her she stopped her crying for a while and looked at me as if she wants to say something but she was not elder enough to say something, and then again continued to cry even more than before... I couldn't just ignore her and I made up mind to calm her no matter what.
I started reciting my poem like a song and to my surprise, she stopped crying and hold my hand with her tender little fingers.
I felt like winning a war, and so proud.. I then tried to take back my hand to continue my way but she again started crying as soon as I stopped singing.
With no option left I started singing again until she fell asleep and I still continued in the fear that if I'd stop singing she might get wake and continue her unfinished cry. And looking at her innocent sleeping face I felt like keep on singing.
I don't know how long I sang but I eventually fell asleep.
And from that day an inevitable bond just came out of nowhere and I acknowledged her to be my sister. My sister for life, a little version of anger and innocence.My lovely sister.

The fun filled journey of a young caterpillar to beautiful butterfly and her perspective to see the world around her... If you want to relax and read this fun novel...
no release schedule cuz it depends..

Drowning in Depression
Poem by Sara Marsano Bouchard 

Do you know what drowning
Feels like? I do. 
Everyday I can feel the current
Of people, and worries, 
And the smallest 
of tasks pull me down
Towards the rocky bed below. 

The chatters of daily life flood
Into my ears, and the light
From the sun taunts 
Me overhead. I plead, and I kick, 
And I reach for surface. 
For the overwhelming
Duties of life to let me go. 

My chest screams out in pain
And all I want is to breathe
Again. The river
Tosses and twists
Me as plans fall 
apart and tribulations pour
Around me. Help. 

Just as the darkness 
Of the deep
Greets me, and I face my fate
That this is surely the end, 
I break through
The top of the water.
I will not die today. 

For just a moment life settles 
As the air fills my lungs. 
For just a moment
I can see the serenity 
Of my dreams 
Along the river bank. 
The current pulls me under again.

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