Ink on Pink

Never mind the title. Can't find a suitable title and since this post should've been a part of the previous post, that's just a tribute for the bluish-violet ink on my pink(ish) nail.

I am currently my usual self: wandering.

That's figuratively speaking, mind you.

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Been reading Bo's blog. Found these stories:

One day, a man was in Paris and attended Mass. After communion, he went to the altar to light some candles. He was surprised to see a golden telephone on the altar, and with this message: “$10,000 per minute”. He shook his head, shocked at how expensive it was. He asked the priest in the Church why it was so expensive, and the cleric said, “Because that’s a call directly to God.”
“Wow,” the man gushed and went on his way.

The man went to Germany, England, Spain, Portugal, etc., and was fascinated to see exactly the same golden telephone in all the churches, all of them charging the same $10,000 per minute for a phone call to God.

But finally, when he went to a church in Rome, he saw the same golden telephone on the altar, but with a different message: “50 cents per minute.” Shocked, he asked the priest, “Father, why is it cheap here? All over Europe, it was $10,000 per minute? Why is yours only fifty cents per minute?”

The priest smiled, “Son, you’re in Rome. It’s a local call.”

-0-

One day, a tourist with a camera visited a monastery—and saw how austere the room of a monk was. He could only see a single bed that looked more like a bench, an old table and a wooden chair that wasn’t very comfortable. Nothing else.

When a monk came by, he asked him, “Father, how could you live this way? Where are your things? Your computer? Your refrigerator? Your stereo?”

The monk smiled at him and asked, “Where are your things, my friend?”

The tourist said, “My things? I’m just passing by here. I don’t have my stuff with me. It’s at home.”

The monk said: “So am I. I’m also passing by here. My stuff is at home as well.”

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.:Beware of poeticisms ahead:.

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Still on romantic frantics:

The purpose of a relationship is not to have someone who might complete you. But to have someone whom you might share your incompleteness with.

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Joined PinoyPoets last month and dabbled into their discussion and poetry. Felt disheartened when some commented on one of my poem's emotional tone esp. with a striking quote from Oscar Wilde:

All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.

Simply stated, it hurt like hell. Poetry has been my comfort, my breath. However I challenged myself to go beyond the criticism and lifted it to a positive level.

Don't ever let someone tell you, you can't do something. Not even me.

Remember that? Of course, it's from "The Pursuit of Happyness." And I mean me when it said "Not even me." Most of the time, we don't do something because we limit ourselves in the box we seem fit for us. Don't.

So I researched further on Wilde's wild remark and found the complete quote from his work, Intentions:

All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling. To be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic.

It did sound sane so I reflected on how I could improve my work.
After some time I got the courage to post a new work of mine, readying myself for criticism:

A Kiss
05/08/2007

These lips are longing for

... A dewdrop mist
covering the leaves
in the morning light

... A sweet roll of candy
dipped in honey-coated film
engraved on a child's dreams

... A fresh breeze of rainpour
on parched, thirsted ground
with the colours of the rainbow

... A drizzle of chocolate
on ice cream coned out
embracing the cold and warmth

... A kiss, more than ever
of love, life and joy
of happily ever after

Got some useful comments and revised it to a more different theme but something better (I hope). Well, I'm actually happy how it turned out to be. Here's my exact post:

Rewritten with a new concept. I was just playing with the topic till a different story formed, for the better I hope. Thanks to Jonar for the suggestions and, again, to Rachel esp. for the anticipation. :)

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A Kiss
by Nerissa De Castro
05/15/2007 Rev2

As a dewdrop mist
in the delicate morning light
succulently covers the leaves;
I sought refuge in
the softness of your moist lips,
a refreshing embrace of dampness.

As a fresh drop from rainpour
on parched thirsted ground
reflects the colours of the rainbow;
Your exploring tongue discovers
my tainted mouth, unleashing
a tender passion I've let go once.

As a light touch from a wistful breeze
on a glassy window pane
embraces the cold and warmth;
I freely accept your fiery lips
into my own loneliness
despite our soon goodbye.