The Majesty of Life by Stefan Nicholson

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Nature’s jewel shines not only upon the finger ring but within each glance,
where we see everything that sways the senses,
calms the breath and feeds the inner soul from birth to death
with riches far beyond the tools of man – displayed within the beauty of a delicate plan.

Imagine a whale’s journey or the migration of wild herds,
for the majesty of life cannot be explained in simple words. 

Just compare Earth’s night sky with moon and sprinkled stars,
to the mountains and rivers, oceans deep and tree-lined bays with bars.
And see that a common hand has touched each one
with fresh palette, to follow once each season has almost gone.

It seems there is a cyclic spell, yet with random chance of change
to make sea and lake become cloud and rain – sand and fire to mountain range.  
Lands of greens and browns with sky and sea of different blues
perceived by using light and dark, combining waves of special hues. 

And for each breath we take from the very time we’re born,
we feel the trees return a breath refreshed, starting every early morn.

Rainy days, summer afternoons, winter nights and stormy seas,
misty rain breathing on faces like a cool light-hearted tease.
Resonance feeding between the physical and imagined thoughts
which we keenly perceive and cherish and keep safe within our forts.

All this splendour is a wonder from some far, far distant throne,
which we accept lightly far too often with blind familiarity, as if we’re all alone.

There is strength in idle thoughts like a daydream coming true,
making sense of an unknowing, providing firm belief on cue.  
Visualising both origin and destiny as like the random path of man
exposing seeds of calculation as part of this grand majestic plan.

So, rejoice each child who falters, yet gets up each time they fall,
for they will spend a lifetime learning secrets, to why there is majesty at all.

Red Balloon by Stefan Nicholson

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As a sleepy Moon yawns, “Good morning, Sun”,

The rising Sun whispers. “Good night, dear Moon”.

And Sally laughs, it seems such fun,

When Daddy sings his favourite tune

To Sally, she is Daddy’s daughter,

Watching clouds seek out the deep blue sea,

to gather drinking water.

And all of this in the month of June,

As I stare up high at their red balloon.

Before a gentle breeze sends them on their way

To a timeless land, where dreams do play.

And when I wake from my dreamland rest,

My pillow reveals, a hollow nest . . .

where thoughts and dreams did interplay

Once night had found out where I did lay,

Until daybreak. As slowly, gently, each one is brushed away

Like cobwebs.  Finite particles . . .

Fragments, from life’s infinite array.

Then throughout the day my mind is soothed,

as other memories come and go.

Of my little Sally, playing, only eight years old,

Too young to see, to young to know

Why her daddy would be gone to war,

Not with the armed forces, but to fight the law.

To provide a new life, for them all to share,

In a land where people really care.

For Sally plays in the dust and rubble, of the Arab sand,

Bombed daily, and in constant trouble,

as others fight for their land.

As her mother tends to her mental pain.

And her brothers and sisters cry out,

for these acts are insane.

Knowing Daddy promised a new life, away from it all.

She said she imagines me, speaking at the foreign podium,

Standing firm, proud and telling them all,

That his Sally is watching them,

to make their judicial call.

To let our family live, with hope, and peace.

And to make the constant mental anguish cease.

(In response to World Refugee Day prompt #3)