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WITH A FINGER I’D WRITE VERSES
With a finger I’d write verses,
Coping down the earth’s pains.
The painful picture in my eyes,
Can’t be wiped out by bygone days.
Over my head the Sun is shining,
Around me the wind is blowing.
The Sun a Giant is blocking,
Alas, my body the wind is not touching.
My father, not earning enough in life,
His tears with his sleeves wiped.
Before the poverty he bended,
An unbending proud head he had.
With a finger I’d write verses,
Dipping it into my green heart.
Until the ink of the heart,
Pouring by God’s will, dries out.
Poems by Uktamkhon Kholdorova)
A Poem by Ernest Williamson III
Taken by Hand, Heart, and Storm
beneath the bed
between the sheets
in the camera hidden by the gray mirage of wedding pictures
in the cavern of woven leather
on the light brown
I reside in your supple hand
on your inveterate moments
as you remember
which were so important and silly
as the limelight of fame seeps
like acid into our bones
all of us who decry with the slates of stone
beyond the worldly noose
but never mind
anything I say
just make me
as I am trying to
to all of what makes you
like bad news
yet necessary and
don't do that
that thing you do is so painfully grand
especially when the sun
is laughing at me
shining only on me
and my pitiful make
poems by Ernest Williamson III)
One Poem by
Ohh Sleep! My sleep
We were always friends,
But what separated us is a mystery,
Dreams never happened again,
Nor did the winds pat my face innocent,
Eyes shut but are wide awake,
Groping in the dark of the night,
I want you to engulf me once again,
To the wonderland of my dreams,
Ohh Sleep! My Sleep! Please come back to me,
Without you I am no one, can't you see...?
poems by Arvind)
A Poem by Sergio Ortiz
Walking Over Shallow Waters Saw a dog barking at a lemon
mistaking it for the moon.
Cowardice is a thing of men,
not lovers. I have tasted evenings
in his embrace, gold and diamonds stitched
into instants. Does it matter if they say I am broken,
shattered of sun, moon, and lemon?
I'm a happy man and I want my dead to forgive
my happiness, just for today.
poems by Sergio Ortiz )
A Poem by
Together we achieve miles..
The minds are perplexed, the spirits are down,
The 'days' are fast approaching, the beautiful faces frown,
Thinks the mind, chose-we the wrong long way?
Enjoy or struggle should we everyday?
Wrapped you are in the blanket of darkness still,
As I suddenly realize everything is God's will,
'Impossibility', I realize isn't in me now,
Everything can be achieved, only fools would ask how.
Work is worship, dedication is a must,
If you aren't sincere, you would lick the dust.
Responsibility on young bare shoulders isn't really worse,
As it will bring you fame and fill your purse.
So wait not, let 'our' souls be lifted, let heads be held high,
Rise we brighter and brighter till we meet the sky;
Hurrah! life is now definitely going to be a very smooth ride,
As we achieve together miles of satisfaction and pride.
(More poems by
A Poem by
Could it be? )
That all's well the circle
of trivial invention traveling around
the manmade circumstances
covering all edges reality based,
dream weaved by the hands of sleep
invention, too. That cultivated
memories blanket baby memoirs
isolated folded neat into housed rooms
for visits of future uncovering. Corners
set into deliver beauty never fathomed
their own imagery to be worthy of wordless
description. Devotion towards suspense
suspends judgment building lamented
bridges catapulting emotions to that of healing
wide open wounds. Words woven with
specialized intent delineate moods spoken
across scraped anger, marble-smooth content.
( More Poems by Felino Soriano
A Poem by
Early dawn awakens
fragrance of mahua flower rejuvenates.
Alas ! I cannot collect
earn for myself.
My neighbours open the closed doors
I carve picture and share story
An emptiness within me
Destined to follow
more than half a century
husband and child
pride and dignity
sight and vision
Every child birth, a moment of cheer
I advise care and caution.
Let children play safe
motherhood be kept intact.
This visibility a precious gift
nobody to lose in flit.
This world is not for me
A silent melancholy
Almighty neither I denounce nor I upset.
I beg to clear path for death to salvation.
(This is the story of Tuni Bai(name changed) a sixty year old
Gond tribal woman of village Kurri, Bhanupratappur block, Kanker
district, Chhattisgarh, India who is visually impaired)
( More Poems by Basanta Kumar)
A Poem by
I walk down the road, reading the shop names
To A Friend
In the tune humming in my mind,
Suddenly a name pops up
And I log on to your thoughts.
Not that I have forgotten you really
But the mundane chores
Have quoted a layer of dust.
Your very name brings in a whiff of freshness
Pumping more adrenalin into my blood.
A sudden smile slivers my lips
And a glint assumes my casual countenance.
The visuals afore transport me into the past
And play a stream of videos before mind's eye;
The Amygdala replays the emotions
So mythical, so real and so illusory
Lay buried in mind's archives...
Faces and names, places and events
Tantalizingly surface and disappear
Playing hide and seek...blending into a
Sweet aroma of nebulous notions
Leaving a tang stronger and romantic than before.
As the dynamics of life take over...
With the honking of a horn,
Ruefully, I reconcile
Waiting for another sojourn to your memory bank
A Poem by Christopher Barnes
You dream of an unpopped nest,
A cloned silhouette
Shot-up from gravity-bounced atoms,
Infusing clots –
The personality scaffolding
Of someone else’s arterial body map.
Sex cell chaff
In the innards’ sack –
From a clock-face of antennas.
( More poems
by Christopher Barnes )
poem by Vijendra
Autonomy of Colors
There is poetry in the autonomy
Of colours too
Colours! colours!coloursoh '
The eternity of colours.
They are five shapes of
'The world around us
Its name! ha6itation and direction
They arrest me
Like the tones of music.
Colours are like metaphors
Which vi6rate on canvas.
They vary from each other
For their specific identity
yet animated with harmonious tones
They alone are the graceful speech
Of the texture in painting.
'The thr0bbing of the ether
Creates thrill in colours
Which affect my heart
'To give me pain or pleasure.
'Discord in colours make the eyes
Free to choose to love them '
For. their beauty!
Different on the canvas
O,colours-you give me
A kind of poetic harmony
Creating a visual horizon
'Where I may feel
High and low notes
Of my soul's music.
( More poems by
A mother poem by "Rati Saxena
Return Journey of
Mother is sleeping in
hands on chest
ready for purification in fire
Behind the glass cover
her closed eyes are
two butterflies sleeping
We feel as if they will flutter
at any moment
and forget to cry
Geeta takes us
After the fourteenth chapter
Mother's bed is empty
Where is she?
Under the glass?
Or sitting here
listening to the Geeta
which she asked me to read
long long ago
We are not able to cry
Not even smile
But cannot be quiet
She comes in our talk
In our tears
And sometime in a smile
We feel her presence everywhere
Forty-eight hours passed
on the iced bed
She had arthritis
Is this not too much cold for her?
Today she must go
Not by walking, she has forgotten how to walk for years
Not with the support of that stick she never liked
But on four shoulders
as she came in palaki after marriage
Mother is taking a bath
but why on the bed?
Mother is wearing clothes
Mother is getting ready
on the wooden structure
“You still have swelling on your right foot
how will you climb so many steps”?
Asks her daughter
She didn’t stop
She started her journey to make
fire more pious
Don’t cry mother asked us
This time rain came early
Sky did not know perhaps
in the lap of Geeta
old and crumbled
falls down as soon as
someone touches the paper
Every daughter has her own experience
And her own smell of memories
I am trying to peep in the corners
which are broken down
and find the life she lost
Knots are open
Pot is broken
Wood is laid around
Grandson has given his offering to her fire
“May the doors of heaven”
elder daughter asked her god
Youngest one cried for
her lost nest
“Mother of daughter
is a queen”
Father's saying became
Mother liked the river
and its banks
the boats on banks
the swing of boats
a bath in river
and her own Krishna deity
Mother who is hidden in a small bag
was so happy to meet her friend river
There came a moon shadow
and then a bubble
Life is over
She was the story
which is finished
She was power
which is diminished
She was moonlight
which went back
She was a chapter
which is closed