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DoodleScribbles

Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul

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death

Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


I have been feeling a lot of pressure at work with our new quota for writeups and I found courage and inspiration in this piece. I know it is Dylan’s message to his dying father but we all have different kinds of death, right? We must also remind ourselves to rage against everyday challenges, knocking depression and more.

Yesterday, I listened to an awesome reading of this poem on loop. Please give it a try here — I promise it will be worth your time. Kudos to the man for giving it so much emotion and force.

P. S. Who would have thought it was also Dylan’s birthday, on this day, in 1914. Coincidence or fate? 🤗

Writer’s Quote Wednesday – The Great Perhaps

Featured quote for Writer's Quote Wednesday

“I go to seek a Great Perhaps.”

―François Rabelais

It is with heavy heart that I share this quote as I mourn for a colleague, a friend, and a kuya who is now off to seek his Great Perhaps. I cannot talk about life and death the way Albom or Coelho does, but I can wholeheartedly say the world lost another good man today. I could only wish he left us on a good time. Not during this cursed pandemic. But perhaps, God has far better plans. He may not be surrounded by the people whose lives he touched, but his soul will be surrounded by our love. 😦

When the Night Warrants Death

I have just spent a night among the trees, out in the cradle of the mountains. I thought I’d carry the memories of that fun night a little longer. I thought I could look at the moon with a smile. But not tonight.

Tonight, anger simmers in me at a constant roil. I want to wail and rail against the world. This heart feels as if it might break through my ribcage from an intense revolt. For the first time, I hated the night. Not because of an American post-apocalyptic horror film but because of something vile and real. They come in uniform with their hands of steel. Filling the night with a staccato of gunfire, leaving men half blown off, fatal wounds in the head or face. I hated the night for they come in it. And they warrant death.

This quiet is piercing. The night is orphaned from the sound of crickets. I wonder if they knew. I wonder if they are mourning too. I wonder if the crickets offer this brief silence to the stolen lives of the dead just as I do.

The night cries justice
A long pause from the crickets—
Can somebody hear?
MS


In response to dVerse’s Haibun Monday: The Sounds of Koorogi hosted by Victoria C. Slotto. This piece might be a bit digressing from the topic but I hope it counts.

Currently, my mind is in rigor from reading about the death of seven men from Antique. They were rebels, members of our local red fighters. The AFP came in the middle of the night to serve “arrest” warrant to two men but it ended with death instead. What really happened, only the crickets know. This shouldn’t be a shock, they say, for the body bags have been pilling up. But it still makes me sad and mad. Especially when I found that one of them goes by the pen name of Maya Daniel. I came across this poet last 2017. He writes poignant and painful poems, each is a cry for freedom, liberation and resistance from oppression. His death marks another voice silenced, another pen deprived of ink.

Head over here to join the fun!

dverse

Snippet: (Non)sensical ruminations

always, beautiful, beauty, boy, couple, forever, girl, hug, love, lovely, night, sky, stars, together

“Death might be life in prison”
I wonder what you’d say when I tell you this.

Last night, I carved a path out of this carnal flesh
Wanting to leave the world behind—
Thoughts, feelings
Images, emotions
Flickering like jeers from far-off constellations

Death, this world has too many body bags
And the irony that prison has become a safer place is a shame

Between us, I was the lesser WHY-person
And you were the one with the bigger questions
Transcending physics to the realm of extraordinary things
While I was lost in poetry and daydreams

Detached from the physical body
Passing through astral planes and realities
Talking about death and life
A skeptic and a believer at the same time—
This is how we’ll make love

“Death might be life in prison”
I wonder what you’d say when I tell you this, love.
MS

 

Arms

banksy

in a perfect world
arms are safe haven—
body parts
wrapped around your waist

they are not pieces of steel
sending you to hell
or to heaven
at point-blank range

in a perfect world…

arms bring bodies closer
not bodies enclosed in boxes
MS


In response to dVerse’s Quadrille #62: Thinkin’ Inside the Box  hosted by De Jackson.

For some reason, today’s prompt reminded me of the rampant killings in my country and the world as a whole. 😦 The image above, Soldier Flower Gun Boy, is another guerilla graffitti from Banksy that has stirred the minds of many with its irony and juxtaposition. The image speaks for itself.

Head over here to join the prompt!

dverse

Unceasing

photo-20170410154613229

Unceasing
A Realistic Fiction

A piano sits in the empty room where Amy used to play with her heart poured in every key, her fingers tapping to the tune of Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, and Debussy. But one accident and, in the blink of an eye, those days were gone.

“Do you know the first thing I did after I find out I have ALS?” A voice came from behind and she turned to find her mother’s weak smile. “I started swimming. I lived my life doing the thing I love the most. I swum rivers, beaches, and pools until this disease finally took away my strength. That morning, I felt like I died a thousand times and all those years of fight were pointless.””

Her mother paused, catching her breath. “But there are things that even death cannot take.” She walked slowly towards Amy, with eyes brimming with tears. “Love. My love for water never ceased… And so should your love for music, my child.”

Word Count: 162


Here is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt. This week’s photo prompt was taken from a hidden paradise near our place. It was not until last year that the locals discovered how beautiful this river was.

P.S. My deepest condolences to PJ and her family. You have my prayers and love. Please take care and stay strong PJ. ❤

Enjoy more stories here:

Have we had enough?

 

20160314_c5302_photo_en_641213

Have we had enough?

eyes fixed on his war-torn home—
a triptych of death, despair and doom
he breathed the air
tasted blood on his lips;
dread clawed out of his throat
and tears seared his skin

Have we had enough?

…words echoed as he waits for dawn

© 2017 Maria. All Rights Reserved.

Photo Credit: UNICEF IRAQ/DUHOK/2015/SCHERMBRUCKER via newswire.ca


In response to dVerse’s Quadrille: Dawn hosted by Bjorn.

In light of the unending chaos in the Middle East and madness in the US. Let there be peace.

Head over here to join the fun:

dverse

 

Buried Wealth

garden-of-death

In the middle of the night, like a thief,
fear came with a bending sickle

and so here lie
the untold stories,
unwritten poems,
unsung songs,
unfulfilled dreams , and
unrealized greatness

an immeasurable wealth buried six feet beneath.

© 2016 Maria. All Rights Reserved.


In response to Shapeshifting 13 #75 KICKOFF: GHOUL FESTIVAL! and Poets United Midweek Motif: Wealth

Visual Prompt: “Garden of Death” by Hugo Simberg; 1896; Watercolor and gouache

Audio Prompt: “Piano Sonata No 2 in B Flat Minor, Movement 3 (The Funeral March)” by Frederic Chopin

Cheating Death

photo-20160911080614556

Cheating Death

“Will you take it, child?” The old woman held out a crystal, her eyes shifted from shades of the blue sky into a deep sea.

Does she really want this? Is she really willing to give up her youth, her beauty, her future and half of her life for good? Beads of sweat trickled down Lisa’s forehead as her fingers touched the stone. Her eyes closed and images of the past swirled in her mind. She remembered his dark eyes, his laughter and his voice and the way he say her name. His touch.

Eyes flew open and she was filled with panic, fear and resolve. She wanted him back—alive and breathing by her side.

A while ago, it was her blood that dripped on a clear crystal and stained it pink. A while ago, her skin was beautifully fair. A while ago, the love of her life was dead.

But not anymore.

“It is done.” The old woman said and the last thing she saw was her malevolent smile.

Word Count: 170

© 2016 Maria. All Rights Reserved.


Here is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt. This week’s photo prompt is provided by my awesome friend, Jade. Thanks PJ for hosting another fun prompt. 😀

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