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
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!
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.