Soup & Chai

Here’s a new poem for your enjoyment! Nice and simple observational poem.



(credited to: Dreamstime)


(An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète.)


I’m sitting here, waiting,
Downing soup and chai tea
while revisiting the joint
I loved to visit while on campus.

I struggle to reminisce
in a moment of sun-snow bliss
about the course and choices
of my path with promising voices.

I see myself in these stressed students
solemnly rushing through points on campus.
I envy the naivety of not knowing
what’s coming past the path that’s winding.

The stresses of learning pressing on minds,
crippling thoughts of joys and others to find;
these are stresses of the modern western student
who struggles to thive by limiting what’s spent.

All the misfortunes past pale to what’s to come
in the cold beyond of a course capital world.
Sink or swim, you need the martial skills
to survive and navigate the cruel sea of our world.

I’m downing soup and chai tea,
fully conscious of the melancholy beyond me
that marches along, beyond these walls that I see
and through these streets so travelled by many.

The students that sit on the tables nearby
sip their teas while staring at their sheets
filled with the deadlines that tend to rush on by –
those stresses of classes that are hard to keep.

The couple that sits on their lunch date
talks the time away from vocational hates.
But the world of education is a solitary meditation
that challenges the notion of loving conciliation.

Feeling the fortunes of lingering fate,
I wondered on the state of old loving passions.
In the days that were, many could have been
but never shared the hearts they had been given.

These are the thoughts that occupy my mind
here, in the nexus of the learning nation.
The journeys that are and can be for all
aren’t bleak, should we will to stand tall

I sit in anticipation of the emancipation
of the youthful nation, and proclamation
of belief by us all, of these blissful possibilities –
a hope flowing endlessly, for you and for me.

Here, in this territory consecrated to higher learning
am I sitting calmly, on a quiet afternoon.
Along, I’m waiting, downing soup and chai tea,
while silently contemplating the hopes that will be.


Admittedly, this isn’t one of my best poems, but it’s more upfront than most. If you’re down on hard times, I hope that you’ll appreciate this message of hope.

You’re not alone! 🙂


(Credit: The Irish Examiner)
An original poem by 
Coeur d’un Poète.

These are the moments treasured that are gone by;
thine are the years somber that unsobered your soul.
You can’t let the darkness take hold ‘til you grow old,
for the world hasn’t seen you fly and soar high.
From your darkest corners, in the pitch black cold,
you’ve surrendered your soul to the depths of your fear.
Rise from your darkness, and banish the shame of old;
you’ll never be stranded, nor will you die here, alone.

Take my outstretched hand, come join me out here,
rise from the ground that bound you to your fear.
Show me your true self, to stand and face the noise;
rising together, we’ll find your one true voice.
There is nothing so evil, no pit that is ever too dark
no too damning temptation or dishonour so stark.
You are not alone on the path toward redemption,
So let loose the unearthing of prospective aspirations.

Open your binding prisons, end the blinding night
let the widening light shine on all that is right.
This is thine evolution, your ever joyous return, shown
through all the passed lessons that you’ve finally learned.
Soak in the hope that renews, and awakens like warm water
The clean slate that guarantees your own starting over.
Let life, in all its’ light, return to your existence
and make living certain, ingrained through persistence.

Whether faith is science-set or filled with the spirit,
whether strength is within or that of higher beings,
You must give yourself both love and some credit,
and see through your heart the height of your ceiling.
Don’t let the darkness steal far more than taken before,
Don’t let your blackest demons be the standard at your core.
You are stronger than the sum of the darkest you can be,
so fight for your life, and see the greater person within thee.

On Being

Suprise! Here’s a more existential poem. How’s this for poetic diversity? 🙂



An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète.
What does it mean, really, to live,
and to be alive?
I’ve pondered this question forever
and still can’t find an answer.

We struggle for resources against each other,
seeking to shape the fittest fighter.
We live to work until the day we grow older
and seldom aspire for stories far grander.

The material feels matterless
when living matters the most.
Where money rules, hollow is happiness
in the cradle of the cold, human host.

To be or not to be, he said,
this is the single, heaviest question.
The struggle of pondering, as weighty as lead,
short of brooding in such depressing fasion.

Why do we exist, if only to labour?
Surely, there is meaning beyond crunching numbers?
We live and struggle, only to return as specks of dust;
It’s a funny world in which we were thrust.

Bow and Arrow

Surprise! Here’s another poem on bows and arrows! It’s a short one! Enjoy. 🙂

An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète.
Originally posted on Weekly Writing Prompts on March 12th, 2017.
He pulled a bow, arrow on the string,
following a target he’d been chasing for many weeks.
He almost lost it, for his losing often stings,
and this one’s a runner, elusive at it’s peaks.

His obsession goes beyond purest passion;
he relishes the hunt, the game that’s been played.
Accounting for the wind that thwarts his arrow’s blade,
he considers the distance that’s further than he fashions.

It was a singular chance to end his endless dance,
one that our man took, he who shot and missed.
The arrows bounced off, and never stood a chance
and the target glanced back, fully able to resist.

Therein, our archer failed, his target had escaped.
No measure of arms could ever ensure his hopes.
Any other would feel low, have surrendered to this fate,
but he stood tall, and knew he had it on the ropes.

What “Woman” means to me.

Suprise! Here’s a new poem in honor of International Women’s Day!

In case this wasn’t clear, this blog is pro-feminism and pro-choice. I hope this poem emulates this properly.

(credit: Summit Kids [])
An original poem by 
Coeur d’un poète.
Author’s noteHappy International Women’s Day! I hope you stand in solidarity with women across the world! Cherish them and defend their rights, because they are a big chunk of the world’s population, and we do need both genders of humanity to be strong to ensure global prosperity!”

A woman is not weak; she is strong.
She is the symbol of strength in endurance,
in the face of perpetual misogeny and patriarchy;
she is the present, and future, face of humanity.

So what does the word “woman” mean to me?
Absolutely not the absolution of a sexual essence,
but a being of choice whose voice carries weight
beyond the slander and sexism that sounds an imposition.

Beyond her skin, she’s a nation of personal choice,
that chooses when and where to lend her voice,
whose freedom is the key to common prosperity,
who defines her own self, and finds her own way.

She is the mother of life, the essence of wisdom,
that endures strife and spite to shine in her freedom.
For the world would be much less the greater
without her conviction that the world will be better.


(credit: Yoga Goddess).

To be a poet

It’s me again! I wrote this poem in response to a discussion I had with a friend a long time ago on how poems should be written.

I come from a background which studied romantic (not that kind, sorry) period poetry which was heavy, but dealt with many themes on humanity.

I believe that our poems should reflect the holistic nature of our existence – that is, that it should tell about the world in its’ entirety. Therefore, no subject should be scorned upon or labeled “too dark”. Authors only type – the words have their own life.





An original poem by Coeur d’un poète.


To be a poet is to write about the world
as a whole, in beauty as in darkness.
Life and death aren’t opposites, but perspectives
in the middle path between warm and cold.

Being a poet is about being both wrong and right,
to see life in all its light, both day and night.
It’ the holistic art of walking a fine line
and setting one’s sights in a mind beyond fine.

Darkness and light are perspectives, not endgames;
poems strive to present, far from those names.
What matters is the message that musters meaning
to the human that masters true meaningful wording.

To be a poet is to be the bard of balance,
bringing the brightness of equality to unity.
Whether light or dark, words must feel of justice,
tell signs of balance and share the depth of humanity.

What is love?

Suprise! Here is a poem on relationships – specifically, moments in a date when a hopeful guy like yours truly thinks about what the future can hold for himself and his date.

As I always believe, a poet needs to write about life in all its’ forms – not just the positive moments. So if this poem feels sad for you…well 1) I don’t think you’re not reading the poem properly, and 2) don’t shy away from things that make you uncomfortable.

Concept of love and coffee


An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète.

Is this a collision course
we’re on,
or just a near-miss?
I’ve burned myself so often
on love
when it had barely begun.
I’ve long seen my friends
sharing their hearts
while my ticker stayed whole.
All that time, the question
“what is love”
lingered through my soul.

Is this ambition for real,
or a fiction
inside my reserved mind?
In this fast-paced century,
am I really lost
in the length of a lonely journey?
I am only as capable
as the core
of the parts of my whole.
Yet love is so foreign
that I’d be mistaken
in acting of desperation.

Is the sum of courage
enough to win
you over to my side?
In this day and age,
so shallow is faith
in the health of human hearts.
What’s this ideal of love
if not the fear
of crushing solitude?
Are you the one heir
to my heart, the
start of an awesome pair ?

Desert Exile

Here is a poem about the desert, and it’s duality in regards to progress. Fill your boots (not with sand, though)!


(Photo Credit: Declan McCullagh Photography –


(This is the first segment of the poem.)


Once again, the exodus has begun.
I march through the desert,
straight into the unending sea
of sand, heat and sweat.

It is a cycle the world runs through
from year to the next, town through towns,
a constant stream of peaks and falls
and sand flowing, filling bodies in drought.

This time, my host cast me far and out,
my views not obeying the trend of doubt,
of renewing hostility to the one true progress,
all hell breaking loose to match with this madness.

I march through this hapless desert a dire outcast
with strong sentiments of brotherhoods that last.
My progress is the source of modestless division
in this cycle of cruel, renewed racial scrutiny.

See here, I march alone, in search of my home
more permanent, prevailing through time everlasting,
in a sea of dry heat, filled in constant duress
where men’s hopes and dreams are all but useless.

I’m an ideal of the people’s endless potential
and I  cultivate growth on solemn, barren lands.
But through the endless strife and clearless direction
I failed to found the brightest men’s ambitions.

The fears of the day fostered gross eradication,
people’s base passions festered and unleashed.
They chose the status quo of violent somberness;
and I vagabond on, filled of hope so fully besieged.

I now travel around, from town to town
looking for permanence, for a prosperous home.
I am a refugee, forced from my people,
unfortunate victim of an unbearable cycle.

Suspicion and divide are the talk of the land
where I march on, resolute in my progress.
This sahara of a desert is the soul of the void
where evil’s essence would have me destroyed.

This is the struggle that I brave to master
in the hopes of finding the greener pastures.
In a world where the past keeps rising far faster,
I dream of tomorrow, a prosperous future.

People are my temple in the sand withstanding.
Without them, my temple is all but nothing.
I am nameless, an ideal with no face,
a faith that alone, knows not it’s own place.

(End of part 1)

Of Life and living.

One of my favourite original poems written to the style of poets of old. I hope you enjoy this latest addition. 🙂


Credit: NOAA

An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète.


Herein lies the unsung truth of life
I have learned, and impart unto you –
that life, like plants, withers without substance
as living in action is like water and sun.
Without nourishment, the soul cannot but wither,
shrink and weaken, like a spiritual winter.
Living is to life as walking to a toddler –
the key of growth and path to prosper.

The being impervious to life is a hardened shell
who rings hollow of wisdom or knowledge.
They are widowed ones, once married to lives,
now bereft of passion or discharged of ambition.
Their gifts are fruitless, and hollow as night
when the lively ones are but radiant light.
Life, like these gifts, is a contrast of substance
but neither is never, nor ever shall it last.

Seize the day that is, not that was,
nor one that may never come to be.
This grand anthem of opportunity, for you and me
must never go unsung, and never not passed on.
Herein lie the unsung truths of life
I have learned, and imparted unto you.
Let the echo of action sound the anthem of ambition
and live the life you were born to be living.


I wrote this one a few years back when I was feeling a little more down and doubtful about my place in the world. It is our responsibility to constantly revisit the dark corners of our minds and accept who we were, who we are. While these thoughts are not mine now, I had serious doubts when I wrote this.

This poem is inspired by the classic poem “Do not go gentle into that good night” by Dylan Thomas, which was featured in the Christopher Nolan movie “Interstellar”. I hope you enjoy this poem, but remember: don’t let the darkness within yourself grab a hold of you.


Artist: Rockwell Kent, 1926. ©deYoung.


Is this the end?
Have I reached my twilight,
my silent good night?

The clock struck midnight
in utter void of life
and suddent end of all light.

Is this the edge
of the cliff,
the end of the
shortened script –
the gap between
my time and the space?

I seem to have gone
as far as I
could possibly go
on this winding road
to the edge
of the night.

Is this all there is
to what is my journey
where no more time is given?

This is the judging night
before the unlikely sun sight,
a wrong that shades a right.

Is this the end,
that feared edge –
is this all there is?
The clock strikes midnight.
Have I reached my twilight,
my silent good night?


An original poem by Coeur d’un poète.