Doorstep Poems

I stand at my doorstep, Eyes straining on the very path you walked by… I wait to hear those footsteps retreating, back to me, you in my arms again… I shut the door, sighing. I then hear a soft knock;

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

A sparkling path was chosen by one, providing mature wines for the cultured, elegant polished restaurants, operas of critical acclaim, endless parties for the ordained elite, cars which navigated and spoke, manicured sprawling homes, and… Shoes… closets and closets of

Our father left us while we were young We could not clean our own stable And we did not know how to But we knew how to protect our color. Our mother separated us for the reason You had to

If you find no poem on your doorstep in the morning, no paper, no knock on your door, your life poorly edited but no broken dashes or injured meter- If you do not wear white satin dresses late in life

Do you deem it courage? Or is it a kind of outrage Sparking off the blood-hued flares Igniting all particles of wrath present in the air Curses etched on the strips of little paper Nailed into the cloth flesh of

I walk down the bridge Whispering to my restless mind About your last night’s talk And those unfeeling hands of innocence The night eglantine smiles In its usual way At my timid inexpressive desire And the love filled eyes of

Running punctuality and just enough, under loyalty, The way the northern winds blew my skirts was seen by a youthful sun, mouthing expletives, It was under that noon, I met thee. Racing against cold blankets from afar, and fighting cocooned

Confused , lost , bloodshot eyes , A wanderer insomniac driven premise , Supreme anxiety , thumping palpitations, Pointless life dictated inhibitions , I Came at your doorstep, A depressed human being , A lifeless soul, Devoid of objectives ,

This is the road that leads to my father’s home It is old and dusty with bullock-carts creaking, Carrying the heavy weight of the freshly cut sugar-cane To the mills nearby for our sugar laden tables, Piled in our court-yards

One summer’s eve in Spain, I fled through an open window, Butterflies aflight In the very pit of me, And I tramped the streets, My heart abrim With such a love, But a love now long gone. With my final

Poems are reveries that call you by name. Like all true loves they arrive in spite of who you are, at your doorstep. Nothing needs to be done except to stay with your longing. They are miracles of compassion; they

In the arms of love, A beautiful untold story A loud silence that broke every barrier, The askance of the heart and its myriad worry Sojourning the barren mirth to make life merrier. Love’s wings summoned the romantist from Canada

He sat on the floor of his old room, his back Against the wall – everything was gone And the room said nothing though it had heard everything He’d ever said or thought, declared or mumbled under his breath The

It was afternoon hot on summer mid And the sky was blazing with unspeakable boiling, But still was graced with pound of clouds Which bore timid promises to overcome the summer damages. Then it was coming of rain like an

though moo cho yars older, i (bovine cuddly name = hay4four at aol dot com), could feign 2b a frat house bro by undergoing a facial augmentation – despite lacking dough unlike the multimillionaires here in lower merion, where a

Roses are red and violets are blue, I’ve run out of violets, for the violets were you. Since the roses turned black the flowers have died, You left me on my doorstep, you saw that I cried. But lilies turn

When the bloodshed starts at the doorstep of solemn silence, give me a lone engagement with the invisible to unchain the split heart. I will take away the pain from home and come back in failing light when a star

It’s not just you, it’s also me. Why ‘s the all world tired of me? I’m not certain of my attitude, That’s the reason for distortion of my gratitude. I’m more random than a dice. It’s just six faced ,

We sure did love the lollipops, the cracker jacks, the Holloway candy sticks, the chocolate coated ice cream bars, and those tootsie rolls. We simply could not get enough of the pop sickles, the cool aids, and the soda pops.

Behind the surface of reality Are the hands of fantasy With illusions of time That is stimulating my brain As time does pass You are in my memories Engraved in my heart There you will stay You may grasp my

Search not for me in sepia tinted hues, Seek me not in memories when you have the blues. I was someone who dwelt in your domain And yet a soul uncaptured, free of rein. Remember me not in belongings I

She cares for me too much, Her love is difficult to comprehend. But, when I ask her about it, She says, I’m just a friend. She comes with me whenever I call, Though sometimes, she’ll pretend. But, when I try

I care not if I can succeed Since my goal is high and far I just focus on my journey to reach even though there are a lot of setbacks I care not if I can reap romance Since roses

Most difficult one to create around.. all you need is a little change.. No change in situation.. No change in fate.. each one has a softer side.. each one has a kid inside.. each one has a special smile.. Get

Like swapping your face for a tormentor. Stop the rains. I am going home, after a hard choice of peace in sunlight. Give me back my memory. I want to take a flight. Scanning the midnight sun on blue lake.

The dry leaves cover the ground, soon the snow will fall , In the Winter of my life, I know I am there, Everything is so bleak, but I just don’t care. People killing others, for no reason at all,

My name has been written in a piece of letter, waiting for me to come for a warm conversation. I was lost… I was swimming into the imagination of the melancholy. Leaves were embraced in the street. It was autumn.

You pass through the prism of the Time, Thy life is a segment of it. Amid the dense woods, elder bushes and high pines You constantly strive to exist. Your feathers are odd among others – They’re lucent and white,

Where are you time? Infront of us Or behind us Walking with us. Or you make us walk. To him you brought it. They saw his body melt, Day by day bit by bit And then one day you had

How brave, in reality, is a ‘brave face’? A facade shared, it would seem, by the majority of the human race. Beneath the flaking paint of a painted mask lies a truth too long and painful to explain no matter

The wind whirled, turning at a point, The bamboo leaves sounded cracking after being bent- With the “U-turn” of winding blow- There is no way to know- When the wind will change its phase- Turning to east or west? Only

When insects were crawling dreams had contradictions, a sudden drop in temperature brought the quantum touch. Ending of the grief or grief of ending rejected every intact truth and death was trailing behind the candle. Fear and agony were following

“What is truth? said jesting pilate, and would not stay for an answer.” Bacon, my greetings I report, of his greatness though, he couldn’t be the cleanser” Man never understands and accepts the sense revealed to him beforehand, Experience, they

It took until I was a mature man for me to understand your ways, actions I didn’t respect you when you were alive because I was blindly following my own ego, narcissism But now as I sit and ponder the

Meaninglessly traversing into the havoc of vanity With a fake logic justified, Leaving the players into the deathly chasm. A Blue bottle game denying the soul of life! Two and two they say ten, And it is their game playing

Teddy Bear’s Picnic From out of the mist high in the alpine, a massive mother black bear leading three magnificent cubs. Mother’s coat has a glistening golden hue, rippling as she ambles out across a variegated moss carpeted meadow.With three

Sea breeze salty and warm Dark clouds brewing up a storm Sea spray all over my face Worries long gone, without a trace Homeward bound on a ferry Childhood memories I carry Now the island is in sight Heart beating

There was a man, Old, cold, sold, To his condition. Stood outside the temple, Waiting, hating, hesitating. And people passed by, Dinging, dangling, giggling. Nobody could see him there, Lazy, hazy, crazy. Now he is there no more, Sink, blink,

Once my husband brought a pair of white pigeons, Very beautiful with red eyes and lush red beaks. Extremely gorgeous with glorious visions, In our mother tongue we call it Laqa-kabootar. A special species of sweet white pigeons, In golden

Like monasteries of old, you, lie perched on a hillside near the village You are mysterious, somber & silent yet there are no huge carved Wooden doors flung open wide to welcome weary travelers, And you offer no bowl of