What do poets do? We have often heard that they immortalise people in their verses. What else? Does the 'I' in poems say anything about the poet? For them the 'I' too has hints of retrospection. Nothing's personal to them. Nothing left behind else of words and memories as one day they wear their wings and fly to another world, another day, for forever. We grope their words in black silences we find them soft we find them hard, to accept, the poet is no more. Mirage is the word for thirst, the never ending thirst of how we could know more about the heart of the poets. Remembrance is water, reminiscence is the desert. Death is just...
In mirage, we are remembering two such poets who not only won people in their verses, they made incisions, they made imprints of their name with their kindness. It was a huge loss, a huge loss, when they left us..
-Jack Williams, known onsite as John Solomon, was a caring friend to all who knew him, as well as a loving son, brother, and uncle.
As a science minded poet, he came up with innovative concepts for his well rhymed pieces that were never before seen in the realm of poetry.
Jack was an altruistic humanitarian, who preferred to spend his time helping others, rather than in pursuit of material goods or monetary gain.
I had no idea when I met Jack onsite several years ago that he and I would become close friends and communicate daily; but aside from a mutual love for writing, we had a great many other things in common and we promoted positive thinking and we loved to laugh and joke around.
He also cared a great deal for my husband and kids and he always inquired about them and included them in his daily prayers.
Due to Jack's overall good health, I also had no idea that he would inexplicably make a sudden, shocking departure from this world, all too soon, while in the prime of his life.
That's exactly what happened though, and I still feel that loss regularly and miss him very much, but there is no doubt in my mind that Jack is happy and at peace, there amongst his beloved stars.
Jo really imbibed the name Joker in letter and spirit. He hid his pains behind that infectious humor of his. His words seemed to comfort the fellow writers who had troubles... He kept his posts hopeful and entertaining.
His words offered new perspectives and information and always he added to it his trademark comedy. His roasts became popular real quick and some sort of celebrity status was conferred on anyone who was roasted by him.
He spread positivity and cheer whenever he spill ink over paper and truly he became that crack ass comedian he aspired to be. He made a family out of strangers on a writing app, which still sticks together and that itself is an ode to his great persona.
The Contest - And Rules
We are announcing this yearly contest in memories of above two poets. Share your two flowers of love as we are asking submissions as-
TWO HAIKUS WRITTEN ON SOCIAL ISSUES
-Please post your submission before 30th of November.
I took myself out for a date , under the candy skies But poisoned days , for long I've been a languorous snail , with frizzy hair and not-pampered nails,
1 . The salt of waves , stacked on my lips, As a barrier to my sadistic talk, Blew up in a blink of eyes, My sand castle built so tall, For it all got me to think, Too much to build , Too little to sink;
2. The pine trees and bamboo stalks, Standing amidst the gravels coarse , Sheltering from the thoughts in winds, Rhyming but the little things ;
3. A table laid for brandy and malt, Freshly-out-of-plant rose, And chairs but two for lovers' halt, I placed my soul on other to propose /
I took me out for a little date, To know myself a bit more , Little did I know , I had so much love in store!
#vacation Presenting another crap Thanks for EC...!! _______________________________________________
I still long for the home while relishing my woebegone appearance on the creaking ligneous door frame of home. I remember sunbathing in soft roasted afternoons of winters while melting mulberry mushy clouds on the irregularities of my tongue with the succulent taste of childhood.
I remember metamorphosing into my mother's only moon and father's sun, which knows nothing but luminosity of life, i never postulated about existing as a void in the lap of inferiority complex and despair.
I remember spending 5 weeks vacations while painting equivocal figures on dwarf canvas with miscellaneous shades of gouache palette, unaware of my monochromatic persona and pale worth.
I remember reciting rhyming poems and blabbering blameless songs while eating sweetcorn and some exhaustion of joyous day, now I am womb of myriads of lamenting poetries and panic attacks I get twice a week.