Lorelle Tells It All
I am taking a new approach to posting entries from now on. From today I will be stating the things that inspired me in writing a corresponding entry, and reveals its intention when needed.
LOVES TO INTERACT?
Take a look at my other blog THE BOOK OF SALAMAT for interactive posts. Each day of the week offers distinctively different kind of interaction and prompt, which I hope are interesting and fun enough to trigger your zest and participation. To go there,CLICK HERE
As the night falls like a glossy drape of black
crepuscular muses forgather for a bath of neon
for like the evening their lives are fleeting.
Festive flapping, summoned by the streetlights;
minute dusts of silver fall like quiesced rain,
showcasing unknowingly such soundless marvel.
At the crest of their being beauty is spotlighted
before the day breaks its first light,
and their once sublime flight morphs into a dream.
Photography by Kokorokoko of the Philippines. Please click here to view the owner’s Flickr page. Thanks!
Hello! I'm back!
I'm so sorry for being passive for a few days. I've been hooked with developing a screenplay, and I thought I could get out of it as easily as I've started it, but it's seems more addictive that I thought it is. I've found myself engrossed with the rewriting, re-plotting, editing and polishing. I just hope that later on my pitching will somehow kindles hope and even pays off. Do you guys happen to know a place or a site or a person who takes movie scripts and actually review them? I've heard about Writers' Guild of America, and that they offer protection to amateur writers and veterans alike by registering their works there. And I'm going to register mine. If you happen to know a place where I could "toss" it, please let me know. I would truly appreciate it.
I know this is a wild idea coming out of me, but well, there's no harm in trying.
And btw, the poem I've posted below is actually a depiction of the story I am writing about. Well, it's more of like, the poetic expression of the story, summarizing the main issue into a log line. I can't stay long here for now, I got
limited internet access (grrr!).
Anyways, good day to you all!
I look for a place
Where the world spells life differently
But find a crossroad instead.
Shall I take the highway
Or shall I follow the biway?
Events are the outcome of one's choices
These roads before me
that'll take me there are empty
The clearing of whichever road befalls
only after my every step.
The distance is vaguer than mist
But the fog lifts up and clears
After it touches my breath ---
Only by then that the distance is seen
The distance's defined.
Blank routes yield no options
But choices for actions pave a route
And take me to where my heart envisions.
For there's no predestined me,
or a prearranged journey.
And so I don't choose ---
I make a road
NOTE: REGARDING THE PHOTOGRAPH USED FOR THIS POST, I WOULD LIKE TO EXTEND MY APOLOGY TO THE RESPECTIVE OWNER OF THE SAID ARTWORK FOR NOT DISPLAYING A BACKLINK TO HIS OR HER SITE. I'VE FOUND THIS IMAGE IN MY FILES, AND COULDN'T REMEMBER THE URL WHERE IT COME FROM. THIS IMAGE REALLY CONNECTS WITH MY POEM, AND I CAN'T FIND SOMETHING ELSE TO REPLACE IT. IF YOU HAPPEN TO VISIT MY SITE, PLEASE LET ME KNOW OF YOUR WEBSITE OR IF I HAVE TO REMOVE IT. THANKS.
In domestic violence and aggression, or in a family whose leaders are in the verge of divorce battles, it is most often that the children are the ones who are forbidden to get involved but are the ones left most shattered and devastated. Such destructive issues have become rampant nowadays that they come to slowly alter the ways of the world into something of its own, at least in the world of our children. We might ask, whatever happen if a home’s lamp and pillar come crushing down? The answer is everywhere now. With open eyes and awake soul, we can see them so easily.
From them he learns to voice his outcry
at such young age ---
he’s supposed to be playing!
Where forces of thralldom
make him find ways to stand alone;
Cupping hands over his ears,
his way of list’ning to his own songs;
Casting his eyes to familial exiguity
to such fragile relationship,
to the wails of many a depravity;
Though dark he still sees in them a buoy
where the glint sparks unwavering hope
of salvation, of his salvation.
Domestic tumult a cataract to his eyes
and the uprising of wounded soul,
the omen of phantom barricades ---
all blinding his youthful conviction
instilling fear, guilt and rebellion.
Drastic hands grasping tight the metal rails
for the hurting is pushing him to the edge,
the kindled future’s slipping down the ridge.
How soulless it is if they’d let him see them
walk away leaving him, forsaking him!
There must be a way to level the gorge
or he’ll be skidding fast and falling ---
from parental purlieu to bottomless perdition.
From his eyes dreams are escaping
his body shivers, not capable of losing;
At the threshold of their home
where the playground lies,
a crossfire is trapping him, crushing him.
Stand but not just wait, he tells himself
while all the others await
where the balance will go tilt,
Here he is tipping his head high
before this hostile, charred fair ---
Patch the shards, hush the screaming!
Curb my erosion, redress your err!
--- But nobody’s list’ning.
If he could just be much older,
perhaps they’d hear him.
Does he really has to first grow old?
Photograph from allcare.net. Please CLICK HERE to go there.
This poem was written after spending time alone contemplating on what could happen to me now that my chance of going and working back abroad is dim. It is my ultimate passion and dream ever since I was a child to go to faraway places, discover felicity and inner tranquility that I could otherwise not find close at home.
There is something in it that pacifies my spirituality and provides me inner smiles, and it is therefore my goal when I set my foot into a journey towards it. I've been to the first pace, and It felt so wonderful to be at the threshold of your dream. Just one more step and I'll be fully walking toward where the untrodden path is leading.
But then powerful forces pulled everything away from its place, forces beyond my power to control and change. And now I have to wait for it to subside, while finding ways to collect everything back into place for me to keep moving.
The distant light is still there, waiting. And so I have to keep walking...
land your feet
on the ground;
listen to the voice
of its sound;
even if it means
drifting from the world
for a while;
the distant light
is getting big.
let your dreams
pour from the creek;
see the stars shining down;
from the gouge;
and keep looking
Don’t turn back,
but remember the road behind.
Let yourself flow
to something you believe in
Teach your heart to listen to
the zephyr of your dreams.
Photograph by Cyril Breton. Please CLICK HERE to visit the owner's Flickr page.