Poems by Moona

A Pebble On The Beach

Cleanliness kills creativity.

Happiness has no words.

Sorrow and grief sow the seeds

that make the mind fertile, creative.

I stopped writing when I saw

Everything as one.

My own pain has gone,

self-questioning has stopped.

I am observer now of other people's lives,

my husband's fight with death.

But it has not brought back

creativeness.

Today I unchained and consciously

fed my mind with thoughts and images.

I went to where the tourists go,

where art is displayed.

Art is play.

Let children be our teachers

and our eyes be filled with nature

was Pessoa's advice, let us play!

(more follows)

Let‘s be present to the pebble on the beach,

the cloud above the tree,

to the thought that emerges fully formed

when the mind is set free.

ends