art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
A love letter to pain
Love letter to pain I have always talked about the nuances of love and beautiful warm fuzzy feelings about love, . But today I want to dive deep into the crux of love, the shades of grey behind the shiny and lustery surface of love . Falling in love is easy, but living with it forever is a constant battle. I am painstakingly and very candidly saying that, loving someone is the most beautiful yet the most hurtful thing. Because when you love someone, they knowingly or unknowingly will hurt you.
By Hridya Sharma2 years ago in Poets
THE BEAT OF THE DRUM.
In the heart of the village, where the sun dips low, Casting golden hues on the faces of the elders, The drum begins to speak, its voice deep and resonant, A heartbeat that echoes through the earth, through the soul, A call to gather, to listen, to remember. The beat of the drum carries stories, ancient and new, Tales of creation, of gods and spirits, Of ancestors who walked this land, who loved, Who fought, who dreamed, who left their mark In the whispers of the wind, in the rustle of the leaves, In the songs of the birds that greet the dawn. Each beat, a pulse of history, of identity, A reminder of the roots that run deep, That anchor us to this land, to this culture, To the traditions passed down from generation to generation, Carried in the rhythm of the drum, in the dance of life. In the rhythm, I hear the footsteps of the Maasai, Their tall, proud figures silhouetted against the horizon, Warriors and herders, keepers of ancient wisdom, Their lives intertwined with the land, with the seasons, With the cycles of birth and death, of abundance and scarcity. The drumbeat shifts, a new story unfolds, Of the Zulu, fierce and unyielding, their spears Gleaming in the sunlight, their hearts Beating with the rhythm of the hunt, of the battle, Of the dance that celebrates victory, that honors the fallen, That connects them to the spirit world, to their ancestors. The drum speaks of the Ashanti, of their golden stools, Symbols of unity, of authority, of a culture rich With art, with music, with a history Written in the fabric of their cloth, in the patterns That tell stories of love, of power, of a people Resilient, resourceful, rooted in their traditions. In the beat of the drum, I feel the heartbeat Of the Yoruba, their rituals, their ceremonies, A dance of life and death, of the divine and the mortal, Of gods who walk among us, who guide and protect, Who demand respect, reverence, in the rhythm Of the drum, in the cadence of the chant, in the movement Of the dance that connects the living and the dead. The drumbeat softens, a lullaby of the Himba, Nomads of the desert, their lives A delicate balance with the harshness of the land, Their skin covered in ochre, a symbol Of beauty, of connection to the earth, to the ancestors Whose spirits dwell in the stones, in the dust, In the whisper of the wind across the dunes. In the rhythm of the drum, I hear the laughter Of children playing in the fields, the songs Of women pounding grain, their voices Rising in harmony, a symphony of work, of life, Of the everyday moments that weave the tapestry Of a culture, of a community, of a people united In the rhythm of the drum, in the beat of the heart. The drumbeat rises, a call to celebration, To the festivals that mark the passage of time, The harvest, the rains, the births and the weddings, The moments of joy, of community, of shared Laughter, of shared tears, of the bonds That hold us together, that make us strong, That root us in the past, that carry us into the future. In the beat of the drum, I feel the pulse Of the Griot, the storyteller, the keeper of history, Their words a bridge between past and present, Their tales a thread that weaves through time, Connecting us to the ancestors, to the spirits, To the lessons learned, to the wisdom gained, To the dreams yet to be realized. The drumbeat slows, a meditation, a reflection, A moment of quiet in the noise of life, A space to breathe, to listen, to feel The connection to the earth, to the ancestors, To the rhythm of the drum, to the heartbeat Of a culture rich with history, with tradition, With the stories that define us, that shape us, That guide us on our journey through this life. In the rhythm of the drum, I find my roots, My identity, my connection to the past, To the land, to the people who came before, Who walked this earth, who loved, who dreamed, Who left their mark in the stories, in the songs, In the beat of the drum, in the rhythm of life. The drumbeat fades, but its echo remains, A constant reminder of who we are, of where we come from, Of the culture that shapes us, that holds us, That gives us strength, that gives us hope, That connects us to each other, to the earth, To the rhythm of the drum, to the heartbeat of life. In the beat of the drum, I hear the future, A rhythm that carries us forward, that guides us, That reminds us of our roots, of our traditions, Of the stories that define us, that shape us, That connect us to the past, to the present, To the future, to the rhythm of the drum, To the heartbeat of African culture. The drumbeat begins anew, a cycle unbroken, A rhythm that flows through time, through space, A constant pulse, a heartbeat that connects us all, In the dance of life, in the song of existence, In the beat of the drum, in the rhythm of the soul. And as the sun sets, casting its golden light On the horizon, painting the sky With hues of red and orange, I feel The beat of the drum, the rhythm of life, The heartbeat of African culture, a reflection Of the beauty, the strength, the resilience Of a people, of a history, of a future Rooted in the past, guided by the present, Moving forward with the beat of the drum, With the rhythm of the soul, with the heartbeat Of African cultural reflections.
By Johnpaul Okwudili 2 years ago in Poets
