Mind and Soul

I don't really know where it comes from,

as I click keyboards and pour out thoughts,

There were days when I captured colours,

as in beautiful paintings but translated in pure writings,

I never test and gauge my proses and poems

on a scale known by most literary circles

because my writings are all short and sketchy

but as far as I am concerned, I put all down

Most of my writings are instantaneous

whatever first appear within a click of time

I will focus on central issue, and start writing

as I continue, I ensure it stays in tune.

At times, I read the older posts of my own blog,

to understand what's going through my mind,

and as much as I value others judging me,

I do learn on personal pursuit to understand myself.

Sometimes I am laughing at my own writing skills

as I read the mind of a man locked in a child

through the journey of life, within the periphery of sanity

also as I am trying to hold and brace myself, 

There are writings in here, that I thought are superb

at least on my own understanding of scale and appropriateness

and as I read, I can sense the changes in me

of  cyclic nature of happiness and sadness.

Whatever I wrote here

came from mind and soul

some are funny, some are serious

as I continuously add pages to my own diary

a very personal one.
mostly delicate......
iterating the essence of both
mine and hers.
separate and combined.

 dienn.............................

Water: on, in and under

something which should have started years ago.
I cant offer any reason for delaying it
and for the nakedness in me
failing to float and glide
whereas it is effortless with you

and I cant help laughing
as I in the depth of sea water
painfully trying to look handsome
getting myself submerged doing snorkeling.

The water is waist level.....
off the little island in Filipina.

truth

Gwendolyn Brooks,

And if sun comes

How shall we greet him?

Shall we not dread him,

Shall we not fear him

After so lengthy a

Session with shade?

Though we have wept for him,

Though we have prayed

All through the night-years—

What if we wake one shimmering morning to

Hear the fierce hammering

Of his firm knuckles

Hard on the door?

Shall we not shudder?—

Shall we not flee

Into the shelter, the dear thick shelter

Of the familiar

Propitious haze?

Sweet is it, sweet is it

To sleep in the coolness

Of snug unawareness.

The dark hangs heavily

Over the eyes.