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
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.
Like us on Facebook to get regular updates on new poetry published everyday!
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?
Myth has it that the riches of the rich are good for all the people And such a fable has got so many performances that it’s easy To be swayed into thinking that it’s just the truth. But when I see the eyes of the poor, aloof in their bare poverty, And I compare their
Good morning! with half-closed eyes you can see your life running like a fairy at the window shaking cherry flowers from her hair raising the train of her dress between her fingers it would have been unusual not to fall in love not to see among clouds swans in pairs, white hearts in pairs, dissolving
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
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
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
I once met a frog Whose name was Fred He hopped around And bounced on his bed. He hopped to the pond And went for a swim He called for his friends And they all joined in At night he loved To relax and knit He wanted a scarf That would snugly fit Around his
I seek the Black night. To be born and have eternal life. To open a window of heaven and walk around the stars. To look into his eyes, see his beauty, feel his heart. Only death can bring joy to my sorrow empty heart. Lord, my king, let me be by your side. Awake me
You can lose a penny, or a special letter. A bill for the gas, or your red setter. Even where you placed your car, or the dog you tied to a forgotten gate. But to lose your mind, now that is a sin. Even the small portion that makes you laugh and grin. Or how
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
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
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
Sinners hurt. While moonlight cracks open like a walnut, spreads soft light across open sky, they dart to alleyways, bury themselves behind their own trails shaking fists at the sky; hiding their nasty nonsense in shame, city buildings rattle their bricks, mortar loose at their rib cage. All men think they are sword men, daggers
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,