City lights so bright Alluring, fascinating sight Like earthly stars from afar A far away kingdom beyond par
City buildings so tall Their peaks cannot be seen at all Grand cold concrete structures Stand aloof as if part of nature
City people so many At night, too many to tally Pursuing every which way A release from the stress of the day
City streets so deserted Even as the last couple departed Now not a soul in sight Only neon lights like shining souls burn bright.
Poet’s Note: This poem tries to portray the bustle of a city at night during the peak hours and when the night life is over; it tries also to invoke the emotion of loneliness when one is alone and not part of the crowd.
From young, I have a love for the English Language and have been a voracious reader of novels, getting my fill from the British Council and later at the U.S.I.S. Clearly the writing style of UK and American authors is different.It is only about three years ago that I ventured into the world of poetry, and starting to pen my own poems. I find it gratifying and fulfilling to have an opportunity to put my thoughts, feelings and emotions into poems and haiku.
As I walked back to my house, i heard a stranger that passed me by mumbling numbly to himself about why a sidewalk will never unfold itself near the end of a routine and then become a fretwork of shadows.
It’s those sultry days that sooth my soul, In the searing heat, empty like after birth we would bath, Fear of appearing odd, the taste of the sweet waters, Oblivious of each other’s different destiny, Our foggy minds leading the
As the tram runs on the rails, Weather bitten houses emerge telling tales, Revolutionaries’ urge for freedom, Idealism in poetry and fiction, Reminiscent of immortal singers, Dancers in their grace, Tears trickle down in claustrophobia; yearning for a home which
Well and this Mountain that overlooks the Sea has always been my sanctuary…I love the bright lights of the harbor and the sounds of the waves at night makes me think now that we are many, many miles apart well
Burnt-out myths in the old city are stitching the lips of people. Pink walls smell like blood. Priest is dumb, hoisting the headless deity on throne. Marigolds are soaked in flowing tears. Innocent wheels riding against blast, stand still to