Life's balance

3 Comments

Tags:
  • Life
    • ummi
    • there is always a reason for things to happen the way it does, although we do not necessarily understand it ....

    Life's balance

    Life’s balance


    Standing alone against the wind,

    When the earth shakes its last tremors

    With such a force, break down a spin

    Grabbing our lives and all tresors.

     

    Who knows what is grumbling within?

    Mainly focusing on the exterior

    Then when comes the truth out of its skin

    No one comprehends the full power.

     

    It’s a matter of watching and learning

    The life in cycle repeats itself

    Giving a break … a pause…observing

    Tuning our sensors to more than one’s self.

     

    Life’s balance’s sensitive to touch

    An atom’s worth of excess or greed

    Would make it lose its grace as such

    Leaving us no provisions … no seeds.

     

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    vondamm commented on Life's balance

    10-30-2009

    this is ok but as you say this lifothing its a school my friend ce is not for nheck out the great illusion .com
    Reply to Comment

    laydbak1 commented on Life's balance

    08-11-2009

    I admit, I didn't make it past the first verse without having to stop and run to my dictionary for a reminder of a word Chaucer used for treasures... My poetic history is rusty at times... I could not have said this story of inter-dependence in the words you chose, but I'm glad that you did...
    Reply to Comment

    ummi

    08/13/2009

    I,very often observe and ponder about life, its meaning and the lessons to learn from the mistakes that we (humans) have inflicted to our host "the earth".... Thank you for your comment - Salam

    GentleT commented on Life's balance

    08-04-2009

    Nice job. Your words show the realization life is a chain in which we all are linked and depend upon one thing upon another.
    Reply to Comment

    ummi

    08/04/2009

    Thank you Gentle T. I knew somehow that you would understand the message I convey in my writing.

    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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