Tag: Poetry
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Love
loveit leaks a part of you stored away and forgotten the joy of finding that spillageis like seeing money in a pocket of an old trouseron a day you’re very broke everyone in your world becomes a strangerwhose strange language of caution is unintelligible love is a button that when pressed, momentarily pauses your inclination…
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Only if
the wind lashes through the lush unkempt hairof the conductor of the rickety bussending shock waves of foul odoracross noses of passengers packed to the brimnoses curl in silent protestbeside the road in the scotch morning heatare two pupilsa little girl and her brotherholding handsdesperate to get through the traffic to schoolthree loud bangs on…
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salty guilt
she leansagainst the wallhands at her back, face downsalty guilt eroding hermake-up layers of sadnessarranged like a cascade hookher drooping shoulders
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opening the cage
my departure time approachesmy heart pulsates with anticipationit all seems like an unbelievable dream and the sight oftravelers verifying ticketsarriving taxis offloading luggagefinely dressed passengers finishing off goodbye messages to onlookers who came to see them off sends gentle shock waves of excitement throughout my body as varieties of whiffs of sweet-scented perfumes whisk past…
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Retracing the steps – 5
For a long time, I kept turning down girls who were interested in me. I thought their expressions of love were immoral. That was what my Christian upbringing made me believe. In my little head and small mind, all I saw was me waiting for that day when I had my own apartment, a secure…
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a day at the circus
i find my pearls tramped and mixed in miredamn! what looked like a giant chest was in fact a small stythe swine! and their foul snouts!the clowns are not to blame https://wp.me/p2Uccu-fvC
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inferior
a foot in its bellyhands feeling its tips and sidesthe tweaking foot pausesseems a fitlots and lots of hagglingand counting of what looked like crumpled sweat-softened notesfinally, off the shelf and into a polybaggoing through twists and turns blindfoldedthen into a new home, unto a new shelfnights and days pass bythen the familiar feet returntheir…
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They sit unsung
we’llneverknow the fearsand hurts you hideyour deeds, like diamonds,sit unsung in shadowsof ingratitude and prideyou forged underdogs into starswith sacrifices of love, Mother,we’ll never know the shed tears and hurts you hide
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a howling wasteland
tied to a treewas the kidnapped queenwincing at the mirage of advancing horsesmirage of a rescue teamdaunting reality of massive losses her chief magician chantshis voice echoing in the howling wastelanda figure in a picture enlarges into a real beinglike a fast-forwarded movieon rewind to a slow motion scene wearing her crown of planetsthe great…
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Isn’t a struggle a story ?
I stare at the picture,wondering what to write,noticing my first lines do not rhyme and have no consistent metre I question my motives.To express, or impress ?Maybe I digressto thoughts with no themes. Isn’t a struggle a story?Shouldn’t this writers’ blockbe time to pause,to see beauty even in what seems sordid? https://wp.me/paf3ao-n9y
Diary of a Wanderer 