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DoodleScribbles

Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul

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religion

Their blanket is the sky

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Their blanket is the sky.

He listens to their  voices, whispering and laughing as they play with the shadows beneath the waxing moon. A girl, about four, stretches her hands. Her thumbs interlock to form a butterfly’s body, her fingers extend to form its wings. Arms high in the thin air, the shadow begins to flap. She is Haya and her brother, Alan, joins the fun.

“Yanam,” he shouts from a distance and the two dancing butterflies stopped. Colored mats cover the pavement. Linen bed sheets create a makeshift room in the dim space that is now a home. The children race towards their father, laugh as if they haven’t jumped over dead bodies during the day. As if they weren’t chased away and reduced to sleeping in the streets.

Their blanket is the sky.

In a parallel universe the night is undoubtedly romantic. In another world the moon and the stars are poetic. But this is reality. The asphalt still smell of blood. Life is still a ticking bomb. And his wife is still dead.

His lips curved into a weak smile at the thought of his wife. For the first time he was glad she picked their children’s names. Haya means “life” and Alan means “rock.” The woman must have seen it coming.

“Yanam,” he repeats and they all went to sleep.


For the months that I haven’t been blogging, I find myself immersed in the world news. Most specifically with the pains and pathos of Africa and the Middle East. What these people are going through is painful in its reality. It is disheartening in its truth.

I wrote this piece few weeks ago, inspired by an article about Syrian civilians fleeing Deraa. I was half-hearted then but decided now that I should go ahead and post it. Just as Banksy tries to make a voice with his art, this is my attempt with words.

Image source: Favim

Tired Souls Wait On Riverbanks

river

Tired Souls Wait On Riverbanks

Tired souls wait on riverbanks
Tired souls wait for a welcoming heart
Lost in a kudoclasm of what lies ahead—
A knot of fear in stomachs tighten.

Will there be sparrows singing songs of hope,
Or an ominous hymn from a murder of crows?
Will there be walls and deadbolts on homes?
As they somaticize grief—naked and cold.

© 2017 Maria. All Rights Reserved.

Painting by Ally Saunder


In response to dVerse’s Tuesday Poetics: Ally  Saunders – A Closer Look hosted by the lovely Mish and MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie’s Wordle #140 by Yves

I still can’t get the world’s distressing news out of my mind. The second I saw this particular painting, my heart immediately went out for the victims of war and the poor refugees. 😦  So here’s a little follow up to my previous post, Have we had enough? *Sigh*

Head over here to join the fun:

dverse

A Better Day

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A Better Day

She was sunshine personified. Every single day, her eyes beamed brighter than the sun’s rays and her smiles radiated warmth and grace. But beneath her sun-draped skin and rosy cheeks, she craved for the night to come. She ached for the last remnants of the day to roll in with the dusk so she could plunged into her bed faster that anyone could— for her soul was tired. Tired from trying too hard. Trying to paint a smile in this blood speckled  world. Trying to hold on to what is left of humanity yet they continued to slip away. Trying to rip off those labels that distorted mankind’s vision. Trying to break the walls that divided the people of the earth. Her soul was tired from all these needless “versuses”. Black versus white. Rich versus poor. Islam versus Christianity. America versus Europe versus Asia versus Middle East. Them versus us. You versus me. In the comfort of her bed, she curled herself the way crocuses tucked themselves at night and prayed for a better day.

© 2016 Maria. All Rights Reserved.

Photography by Anna O.


Today’s Filipino word prompt is “takipsilim” which refers to “twilight or dusk”.

Come on! Write a poem or a fiction
Snap a photo under the sun
A six-word tale or a long post, perhaps?
Let’s all get word-high this July!

Want to join the fun? Find the prompt words HERE! Don’t forget to pingback & use the tag WordHighJuly. Mazel tov! 😉

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Alone

If I should walk the path alone
Face the unknown
Brave the abyss
In clenching fists

I would walk with faith in my heart
Beam as I start
Follow your will
Let go and kneel

For you alone are my savior
You are my cure
The one healer
My redeemer


I am trying out a new form of poetry called Minute Poetry. The Minute Poem is a rhyming verse form consisting of 12 lines of 60 syllables written in strict iambic meter. The poem is formatted into 3 stanzas of 8, 4, 4, 4; 8, 4, 4, 4; 8, 4, 4, 4 syllables. The rhyme scheme is as follows: aabb, ccdd, eeff

Here’s for Raja’s Inspiration Call. Have a blessed day, everyone. 🙂

The Bop: Valar Morghulis, Valar Dohaeris

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My heart bleeds for the lost men
Who died on a crisp autumn air
Like leaves falling from their trees
Bared against the wind and cold
Unthinking that their end must dawn
Was their final look, a smile or a frown?

Valar Morghulis. Valar Dohaeris.

Of diverse culture and different races
Each deemed ahead of the other
Of varied belief and religion
Each believed to hold the perpetual truth
Lost in the void of eternal darkness
7.3 billion; the number persist to climb
Believing in our own seven heavens
Condemning each to our own seven hells

Valar Morghulis. Valar Dohaeris.

These religious-borne chauvinism and
Culture-biased prejudice and bigotry
Should not be the core of all our actions
For when spring comes after every autumn
And frozen rivers start to flow—
All men must die, all men must serve.

Valar Morghulis. Valar Dohaeris.


In response to Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie’s prompt and B&P Shadorma & Beyond hosted by Bastet.

Today we’re going to look into a fairly recently created poetic form called The Bop.  It was created by poet Afaa Michael Weaver, an American poet (born in 1951, author of several collections of poems and a full length play) during a summer retreat of the African-American poetry organization Cave Canem.

It’s not totally dissimilar to a sonnet … it consists of three un-rhymed stanzas with a repeated refrain after each stanza.

The first stanza is dedicated to the statement of a problem and it is 6 lines long.
The second stanza is dedicated to the elaboration of the problem and it is 8 lines long.
The third stanza is dedicated to the possible solution of the problem and it is also 6 lines long.

And I’d like to add three words to be used inside the poem:  lost – men – crisp.

Lenten contemplations

Starry Night - Vincent Van Gogh (Source: Google)
Starry Night – Vincent Van Gogh (Source: commons.wikimedia.org)

“We all want to be certain, we all want proof, but the kind of proof we tend to want-scientifically or philosophically demonstrable proof that would silence all doubts once and for all-would not in the long run, I think, answer the fearful depths of our need at all. For what we need to know, of course, is not just that God exists, not just that beyond the steely brightness of the stars there is a cosmic intelligence of some kind that keeps the whole show going, but that there is a God right here in the thick of our day-by-day lives who may not be writing messages about himself in the stars but who in one way or another is trying to get messages through our blindness as we move around down here knee-deep in the fragrant muck and misery and marvel of the world. It is not objective proof of God’s existence that we want but, whether we use religious language for it or not, the experience of God’s presence. That is the miracle that we are really after. And that is also, I think, the miracle that we really get.”

This has always been one of my favorite quotations from renowned author / storyteller Frederick Buechner. For such a powerful message crafted to embody a huge amount of truth not just to non-believers but to devotees alike, I can’t even start to amplify. There is one simple truth, in my point of view, though that I have always tried to live by day by day. That in the midst of happiness, confusion, fear, and emptiness, along with everything that happens in between, God is always with us, within us. That in the midst of the unending battle between science and faith, between the word of God and science theories, there is something that goes beyond reason. That at the end of the day if we really try to let go of everything and just stare at the stars, look deeper into our feelings, maybe just maybe, we’ll experience the miracle we’ve always wanted. Not the miracle that we see or touch but something that we feel within us. A feeling that would makes us smile at the starry night for a reason that goes beyond words and paragraphs. A feeling that would make the silence seems so loud.

God bless you!

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