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April 2020

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Eva T. Khor was born in Tubungan, Iloilo, Philippines. A farmer’s daughter and as an apt pupil in the school of hard knocks, she learned the value of hard work early on in life. She lives by the motto, “If at first you don’t succeed, try and try again.”

She is an Accountant by profession and an Artist by avocation. She earned her Bachelor’s degree in Commerce, Accounting Major at the University of San Agustin, Iloilo City, Philippines, Cum Laude, class of 1973.

She has published two poetry books: Echoes From the Heart, 2004; and I Shot an Arrow INTO The Star, 2009. Her latter book received an Honorable Mention Award for poetry at the 2009 New York Book Festival. She has two International Second Place poems, two Editor’s Choice Awards from the International Society of Poets and Excellence in Poetry Award from UPLI. She is an established poet of Poems of the World.

She lives in West Creek, New Jersey with her Family.

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O lovely in repose thy frigid form!
Thy soft murmurings, hushed,
by winter’s harsh breaths.
Thy silver waves, now a nondescript
sculpture of glassy peaks.
From the arctic blast.
Where have all thy transient visitors gone?
That, in summer past,
White herons, Mallard ducks, wild geese,
waded in thy sandy shallows.
They swam, and fished and splashed,
In thy cedar-stained, blue-green pool,
tinged with a reddish hue.
The majestic swans, gliding gracefully.
And as they go, the reeds would bend.
There is a voice in the wind, I do not know.
Whose utterance, I cannot comprehend.
In a beauteous evening, calm and free,
And the broad sun is sinking down,
in its tranquility,
My spirit soars to where
these water-fowls had trod.
Breathless with adoration,
As I walk alone with God.

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I love you still! If love is such,
that grows in meadows and fields,
I will plant a heartful now. Some seeds
I sow in rich soil, may yield
a wide array of May flowers,
to adorn my heart’s bower.

I love you still! As you tarry along,
life’s garden walk, I am the lowly violet
waiting to be picked. But a lovely rose,
strikes your fancy. My only regret,
I am left to droop and die,
before we’ve even met.

Aroma fades, but lingering hope, lives on,
as a seed that sprouts in Springtime.
To bloom again in summer.
I go on forever.
I am the vibrant violet by the windowsill.
Discard me yet, but I love you still!

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My twilight years on whose last step I climb,
Humble voyager am I, down life’s stream.
Let me glide gently as through a quiet dream.
Seeking only some calm clime.

O Youth! For years, so many and so sweet.
‘Tis known that you and I were one.
I’ll think it but a fond conceit.
It cannot be that you were gone.

This drooping gait, this altered size.
And tears take sunshine from my eyes.
You were but an overstaying guest.
Outworn your welcome and rudely dismissed.

Sweet Youth’s long gone but seemed to whisper near.
Though we must part, no doubt, I felt no fear.
Kind Fates have laid aside their pruning shears.
And let me live perhaps a few more years?

What lessons have I learned? What’s the better age?
Though I’m indocile, the years have made me sage.
What lies before my feet, my thoughts shall engage.
I’ve braved Youth’s wanton wiles. Why dread the frost age?

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Oh, how dark, deep and cold, the current flows.
Unto the Shoreless Sea, where no wind blows.
Ceaselessly seeking the land which no one knows.

Sea wind’s plaintive song still comes and goes.
And the mingled wails of friends and foes
In sad refrain. Borne to this land of woes.

Hark! The Prophet of Doom, his trumpet blows.
And myriads go with him who goes
Alone. In the land which no one knows.

For all must go with him who goes
Unto the Shoreless Sea, where no wind blows.
None. None returns whence no one knows.

Oh Shoreless Deep, where no wind blows!
And peace at last to him who goes
Alone with God. His shadow shows.

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When fierce autumn winds pierced my solitude,
My thoughts go awandering in distant woods.
There, I beheld the sassy sparrow singing
On a tree-branch, where the last red leaf clings.

The liquid notes that float from her golden throat,
Lament the loss of the tree’s emerald coat.
Upon whose bosom, where once in comfort rests,
The little birds’ cradle, when the gentle breeze rocks her nest.

This is the forest primeval, where beneath it,
Hearts leap, when they hear your voice _blithe spirit.
Icy breaths weave through trees make them quiver.
And bow to your bludgeoning blows, Oh hear!

In my wanderings in distant woods,
Autumn winds pierce my solitude.
Its fierce caress makes the forest sigh.
With leaden heart and moistened eye,

I glanced upon the forest floor. And there aspread,
The fallen leaves asleep in their earthen bed.
Oh Death! Your blows are sharp but where’s your sting?
This last red leaf to a tree-branch still clings.

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The soul of man is larger than the sky.
Deeper than the ocean or the dark abyss.
At its core, pregnant forms in essence lie.
Odorous with love. Varied as breezes’ voices.

Note after note, scattered in the four winds.
Till every flower in earth’s bower
Hears the sound. Till the breaking buds unbind
In the dancing showers, in the vernal hours.

Yet so few there be who pipe so sweet and loud.
Rich melody that soothes the torn heart’s wail.
Like raining music from the darkest cloud.
The joyous strains that calm the fiercest gale.

Save for the lark and nightingale forlorn,
Poets’ songs fill up the silences of night and morn.

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