Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.

Paul Engle

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The Colour Red

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Bright, mesmerizing, enchanting, Be it a bride’s dress,a lover’s heart or a lonely flower. Blazing beautifully everywhere, the color red you are. The day I was born Swapping down the uterus wall of my mother’s womb. You were the one who nourished me The colour of my mother’s blood, the colour red you were. When

Peace

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Looking down, a white silk trail rose just above the river. Meandering just as far as the eye could see. Thus setting the scene filling the start of the day with wonder and glee. Vaporized water rose from the forest below, holding another eerie glow. A silence, as early risers were still snuggled up. Where?

Desire

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Desire, an ever burning coal within us awaiting to be fuelled by a lover or fame or money for others An unquenchable thirst for touch and breathless acts of pleasure Desire, the dreams of devils and angels A driven force un-yeilding to so many pleas An urge that can tear us in half or simply

Lilypad

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Sitting by the river bank letting my thoughts float too. A frog hopped off a lilypad, sat beside me and said, “hello you” Me being polite I replied “Hi, Hello you too” “Release me from my bondage girl. Just a quick kiss will do. I will be your slave forever, and love you a little

Ashes To Ashes

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Oh, the leaves of green that exist no longer As the days grow cold and a little stronger My heart and the seasons intertwined The child dies; the man grows less kind Experience is the lesson hard earned Best of all was the companion spurned Yet from the ice cold ashes of the fire Turns

Fried Green Spinach

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Walking in the bush, late in the afternoon: Spring winding trails Among Plantae et Animalia. An independent world —Sort of realm of alien species Welcomes your senses with a storm of small flies (genus Drosophila) Which playfully floods the air, all of a sudden, humming Around and annoying each other like microscopic crazy drones. In

The Poetry Of Life

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I feel the tiredness of my years, those quiet times when breath appears in melting mosaic imagery, upon the mirrors of a sea that only calls so many names, through pious sunlit tortured flames that scrape themselves away from light, then wander off into a night of promises and empty eyes, the kind that used

Wasted Spring

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Walking bare footed on the turf of past With an unusual nonchalance for the changing season, Spring’s music echoed and died away so fast, But no songs or laments did reach this garden. Sweet fragrance of ripe fruits went unnoticed Wind wandered around with unheard whispers And the thunderstorms above just stared, troubled, Birds held

Himself A Poet

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Sitting in a cushioned chair in his living room, absurdly comfortable, while he reads Georg Trakl’s late poems, the old man, himself a poet, drifts into a shallow sleep. He is alone in that place of Being, where desire and dream reflect each other, interchange characteristics, assume their true amorphous dimensions, as they flow together,