Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while maintaining the love I have already found.
I fall in love with scars, wrinkles,
redundancies and repetition,
items that people throw into the wind,
kick around and step upon.
I fall in love with my enemies,
one of life's hardest lessons to learn.
I find haters to be marvelous motivators.
Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while reinforcing the love I have already found.
The old man who sits in a rain-filled gutter,
seemingly oblivious to the water sluicing down the hill,
splashing against his clothes -
fists raised up to the heavens in fury
as he talks to an invisible audience
about how Apollo stole his dearly beloved wife....
....I fell in love with him too.
I fall in love with things that some people deem as insignificant,
ugly, morose, dirty and immoral.
The more I fall in love, the more I love each passing moment,
including the pain, torture and misery that may appear along the way.
If I write down treasonously treacherous words,
the reader could assume such words to be rooted in rage
or a cynical outlook. But the words are actually born out of love -
I love every single word in existence.
Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while still maintaining the love I have already found.
I fall in love with the woman
who is too shy to have a proper conversation with anyone,
because she believes herself to be very ugly,
when in fact, she is an exquisitely gorgeous woman.
I fall in love with broken daffodils, bent daisies,
a shattered seashell, the sweet stench of rotting seaweed on the shore,
the way her hair smells baking in the sun.
I fall in love with black and white photographs,
hypnotized by the essence the dead have left behind.
I fall in love with marbles, the feathers of mourning doves,
and with the stray cat who after watching the moving truck drive away,
slunk around the alley in search of scraps -
over the years, she has proven to be
a most respectful and loyal animal.
I fall in love with saints, villains, rusted watering cans,
the way sunlight bends into prisms when it shines
through the cracked antique windowpane
which I simply cannot find the presence to replace.
And as for the people who think that my love is a whole
different spectrum of emotions,
or how it is impossible for someone like myself
to fall in love with something new, every, single day....
....well, I love them too.
April 6th, 2012
and the porch light hums
the sound of another
Burnt up – crisp
aching new reaches
of the imagination turn
to the pungent shade
of dried blood on hands –
kissing corners of a mouth
Sweeping ‘cross in whispers
two thousand years
and more, come
words on the flat-line horizon,
like a red cat's eye marble
on a circular seesaw
that knows no bounds;
rolling infinitely back
and forth -
ringing through ears that were once
in that ago (can you hear it?)
hearing the coming of a storm
by another set of ears,
in some other when –
some other marble.
When, speaks the unspoken.
When, treads where none may tread.
When, grips the barren outcroppings of space –
playing the unending moments –
where no other question hence forth
Night sounds come in floods
and quiet apricot;
slicing through oceans,
where no ears hear.
The farm: echoing, lowing and fawning –
Trying to stay true
bleeds into the fibers of a dream
once lived –
recognizing its existence
through the act of a moment,
The girl turns to face
of all she has yet to hear upon
the brazen, blazing horizon;
she strips down to goose bumps
on the skin
that God gave her;
opening her mouth to hear all
that she is –
breathing in the dawn
as it breaks.
The farm notes this coming.
The sky knows;
The wind knows.
The earth knows - relaxing
at her feet
through her soles,
resounding through the mouth
of the un-kissed,
breathing through this land;
humming through porch lights,
spinning through atoms,
sifting though heavens,
recorded through lifetimes,
and through into another’s
© Kristin Reynolds 1/9/09
Trust not in the words: "In God We Trust", printed on currency,
for God and Money should be kept separate,
unless one desires to tempt fate with the Money-God,
tempt fate by not over-turning the money-lenders' tables,
although many might argue how this isn't good for business.
Why not know the value of life,
instead of focusing too hard on the prices of Idols.
People are bleating at the prospect of "God" being removed
from money, arguing that if God is removed from money,
the grazing grounds will become Godless.
With or without the words,
a Money-God is a God nonetheless.
There is at least one true God,
whether man-made or not;
an authority of control,
a God of profit margins.
Violence is a profit margin.
Hatred is a profit margin.
Bullets, Amendments, and Death, are all profit margins.
The war being waged upon children, is a profit margin.
If I had been given the chance,
I would have tried my best to take him out,
morphed the vapours of my remaining hatred into bullets,
or torn him apart with my hands.
To stop innocents from losing their innocence.
There are lines drawn in minds,
that if crossed over, stretch beyond the bristle-board of rehabilitation.
Even Clockwork Orange bleeds into crimson spatters.
When a child survives a massacre,
runs across his school field to find safety from a stranger,
proclaiming to the stranger, "I can't go back to my school, it isn't safe there.
My teacher was killed, I don't have a teacher anymore.
All of my friends are dead."....
....then innocence has been lost, and the Money-God is empowered even more.
Lost innocence spreads like a disease through the minds of global villagers.
Fear breeds fear, breeds control and disintegration of the Stream-Mind.
If I had been given the chance,
I would have fought fire with fire,
fed the beast within,
taken him apart with a breath of hatred.
Breathed it out, pushed it out, purged it out.
Satan is a scapegoat used by people who are unwilling
to take accountability for their actions and sacred responsibilities.
The Beast is humanity -
not marked by a fairy-tale Devil,
but instead marked by the Money-God created in the image of man;
recreating the image of man through fear.
Some people might be intrigued by how many definitions of God there are.
Even if money is a necessity,
within our core there should reside a different Kingdom -
without and within, within and without.
If I had been given the chance -- past tense....
....if I am given the chance,
I will try my best to take him out,
smudge him out
with the remaining hatred in my heart.
Breathe it out, push it out, purge it out,
until all that's left is to love,
until all that's left is to love.
December 14th, 2012 - S.H.E.S: 28 - 2 = 26
January 7th, 2013
Color me white, or color me black. Color
me brown, or color me red. Color me
yellow, but color me to be just me.
Color me anyway you want. You are the
artist, you know what to do, just capture
my beauty and let it show through.
My beauty is not on the outside for everyone
to see. My beauty comes from within and
few people have seen.
Color me with the colors that you so much
love to use and when people see this painting,
they will see themselves in me.
The people will ask you - why did you put so
many colors on me and you will tell them - because
the beauty I did see.
The painting is now finished, the artist has done
his job. A painting of many colors, that he is very
The colors bring beauty to the painting on the
wall, but if we were all colored blind - we wouldn't
see any colors at all...
Copyright: written by
Lucilla M. Carrillo
I wrote this poem because through out life
I have seen a lot of injustice done, because
of who we are , or where we came from. We
did not choose to be who we are, or where
we came from. God chose that for us. I don't
think God made a mistake when He made us.
He had His reasons. We are who we are, that
can never be changed. We live in this world.
We are God's Race...
If my mind be painted in colors borrowed, would it be red?
Rusted in brown, or maybe instead, an indigo streak?
Depending upon the source of inspiration,
and the song on the radio at the time of connection...
I keep coming back to sea green,
or the blue of underwater murals at 3ft tall of childhood,
eyes wide in fickle, transient hazel
absorbing each moment, be it safe or unstable
categorizing each scent and each color
each love and each valor
each crisp Autumn, Summer
in vats of brain paint to be later unlidded
and splashed with insignias
of every person and place and event
that ever touched corneas innocent, bent
If my mind be painted, I think it be green
like the moment I'm lucid before I dip dreams
and hang them to dry in the gallery
and push to wake up to connect, signify
every sensory path that I've traveled before
to traipse them again and still come back for more.
I'm a stickler for art and with your canvas blank
my sweet innocent dear, with each word that you hear
you will brush stroke your way to uniqueness.
"When humanity becomes louder than love, stay out of its way. At times, it's better to be the lion in the distance, rather than the sheep losing their way...again."
This was the 1st time
I felt out of place.
Its impact mimicked abused parallelograms
Unto emptiness’ solution
I witness sliced wrists shedding bohemian smiles.
Latching onto anchors of invalid mo(u)rning
There was no sunrise to be found,
Because humanity kept making love to silhouetted blinders
I was surrounded by shovels
For the sake of digging louder messages’ trench
Caress incipient wings
And half-full Windex bottles
Just to keep perception from clouding my lyrics
Because nobody wants to see eye to eye…
…cataract-laced speeches permeate tainted whispers
Of an innocent breath
For B-rated serendipity
Oh, this was the 1st time
I felt out of place.
Turning away from windowed afflictions
To step towards gratitude’s breath
No longer looking in
How good it feels.
Yet, I still miss my friends.
©Drake J. Eszes
Some folks live in a box,
a box of their own making.
They're comfortable there
like the old woman in a shoe.
A box can be great protection
from the weather, from strange things
and occurrences. But life
was not meant to be lived in
a box … man was given the world.
Some folks swear, they know the Lamb of God.
[In times of old, no mere man would utter
the name of God > even if they knew it.]
Yet, now a days [At least since men, gathered,
and sorted, and pared, the writings of the ancients ... ]
people go about shouting the name of the Lamb, Jesus.
[Letting Him out-of-the-box … so to speak,
the box of man’s mind and heart.]
Now God [The one with the capital G]
never did like being called … So be very, careful
when you let Jesus out of the box
that you don’t put your words in His mouth.
I’d say Jesus has been out of
a box since the stone rolled away from the crypt.
[Lucky for some of us, unlucky for others.]
*The Anapora devise [repeated word or phrase] within the poem is [box]
What are we but vibrant green leaves in the foliage of the tree of life, soon to be turned brown and fall before others take their place?
What are we but fast moving waves on the surface of the ocean of humanity, heading towards the shores of oblivion where they break up and die?
What are we but wandering clouds, chased across the sky of existence by the winds of necessity and consumed by the sun of voracious time?
Let us ponder for a while, my loving friends
Let us try to give an answer to this:
How sensible is it, to waste our ephemeral life by
Hurting one another?
Wouldn't it preferable be, more holy and more wise,
Only love to harbor in our hearts and
© Demetrios Trifiatis
20 OCTOBER 2014
Where Have All The Pretty Poets Gone?
A real poet are you, charismatic over everything you serve
Showcasing, a rainbow that folds the perfect world wide perspective
I'm talking about flawless literature at its best no typos, no muss
Just a page full of boredom and rust
Thank you for having Lunesta all up in my head
It's like reading a poetry lesson, from the extras of The Walking Dead
An image frozen cold, waiting for inspiration to hit like Al Capone
I'm bored of your flora flamboyant language rocking me like stones
A psychedelic trip, into the odyssey of a blind man's tale
A home where I am pushed to open a dictionary & thesaurus with braille
Wondering what you just said, --Hakuna Matata, what a wonderful day!
The best rocket pen poet in the USA Today,
Launching words like no tomorrow, a fool of wordplay and sorrow
A godlike guinea-pig genius, delegating poetry politician style
Perhaps, one day you will become a famous writer
Burning books, like a cigarette lighter
Until then, enjoy pushing your pen as if it was cocaine,
Snorting up and cutting up the food chain in vain
Patronizing and ignoring those, for better or worse
A solo cup stuck up another cup, -won't even look my way
Correct me if you will, it's no big deal
Just don't forget to give me the same respect I offer you
Until then my pretty poetic friend, I kneel before no one
The sting of shattered trust
fills his veins with toxic spite,
contaminating his heart.
He finds solace in a bottle,
quenching his resentment,
slurring forth caustic fumes;
nauseating his liver.
Until he spits her treachery up
with a sickening heave,
in the shallow, murky gutter
of a jaded man's reprieve.
This girl, she's crying inside,
But all everyone sees is smiles,
This girl, she's hurting inside,
She's lived like this for quite a while,
Always holding her pain inside,
She won't ruin everyone's time,
This girl, she's breaking down inside,
But all she does is smile,
Those deep eyes,
Hold a lot world of misery,
Playing pictures from her mind,
Showing her past, her history,
She doesn't want to remember,
But the memories continue to play,
Every night she prays,
Wishing them away,
But this girl lies with her laugh,
And hides behind a mask,
So that no-one can see her pain,
Her past, her denials,
This girl, she's dying inside,
Although no-one can see her pain,
She just continues to smile bright,
From day to everyday,
With beautiful lying eyes,
For everyone to see,
Everyone and anyone,
Everyone but me.
God , we are sorry,
we need you in this time of fury,
we are broken and blackened,
we are slaves of someone else all shackled.
the chains hurts our feet our legs
but we can take all that we deserve this toll
we just don't want them to take over our souls
we don't want to be mind controlled
our will is one thing You don't even interfere with
then why do You give them a space in our brains to sit
yes we are disobedient, drowned in our arrogance
but we never denied Your existence never denied your magnificence
we came to you with all our issues all problems
we ask you for help in every form of danger
yet You turn your back on us like we a stranger
You know they are evil, u know they are wrong
but why is it that You see us take the fall
my heart cries with the death of all your men
we sacrificed our kids our parents our country as a whole
God, i respectfully ask you, how much more?
how much blood, how many tears?
Is this the price we are paying for having a divine fear?
please forgive me God, i dare not complain
You have blessed me with so much that its hard to explain
You are the all kind all gracious
but why is your creation so ferocious?
why don't they know how to love why cant we be ever in peace?
have we been mislead from Your path and now are paying a fees?
my lord, my king please bring down mercy upon us
open our eyes,please keep us away from lust
let our kids breath the fresh air that you made away from all those drugs and meds
please don't let them put chip in our heads
please make us honest and make us love our friends
alleviate us from the differences of black and white no matter where we are born and bred
let us renew the beauty of freedom of speech
where everyone is allowed to let their minds speak
where we don't make fun of people who disagree and call them freaks.
please destroy all the evil that makes us fall apart
that brings hatred and greed in our hearts
Take us somewhere else ,oh lord
where you are proud of us and the world is not all fraud
where the people think before making a decision
where we are not lab rats put in horrible conditions
where the people are obedient to You and not the politician
where big fish eating weaker ones is not considered a tradition
I know You arelistening,You always do
please save us today, We all need you more than ever
and whether You help us or not,it doesnt matter
because I know You are the merciful we are in Your debts forever!
I’m made of ten thousand layers, curvaceous but stretched thin,
How should I begin to reveal the shape of this maiden-lover-hag
and the landscape that few men view, behind the louvered door?
Archetypes coexist comfortably below and upon my shared skin,
First, the shrew makes minced meat of all your carnivorous ways,
Then, I become the shy virgin again until Venus takes the floor.
Morning, while I tend my child between wringing out wet dishrags,
I release the Mother Goddess, nurse and maid, maker of wee sighs,
Bending down to wipe a tear, kiss a brow, proudly raise a nation.
A chatelaine rattling keys, I walk the wide halls of imagination,
Strong and free, yet accepting of my femininity, moved to cry
by the joys and miseries of family life, twin dimensions of wife.
My hips have turned soft men to stone then have rocked them
home with urgency; the same hips that sheltered one yet born
now happily support a burdensome basket each laundry day.
Betwixt the ribs, there is still a girl, weaving daisies evermore,
Remembering ribbons tugged from her hair, a tomboy daughter,
Climbing trees, bloodied knees, leaving trails laced with laughter.
Slips out the hoyden, lacking grace and gentleness, too crass,
and the very clouds try to escape the look upon my crone’s face,
Flip and sassy, standing up for the weak, voicing world wrongs.
Daily, the lady, the broad, the nag and miss rewrite their songs,
They play their parts so aptly, leaving me and them quite satisfied,
A lifetime is horribly short, my sex gives all her love and worth,
And men quickly learn that no woman on this lovely earth
can simply be classified.
*Inspired by Alanis Morisette's "I'm a B_tch"
**For David's contest, I hope
***Began the write May 26, 2012, finished the write May 29, 2012
It seems like everybody around me has forgotten,
they're stuck on a thought again,
saying alot and whining more.
Preying on their own self-doubts,
they have so much,
yet see so little.
Can't they see that 64 inch TV,
or feel the beating of the jets in their hot tub ?
They measure their lives too much,
they have fallen into the "Great American Dream Sham"
as my friend "Chad Williams Lowther" would say !
Its a ruse,
so they can make changes in their lives which they normally wouldn't do,
because they lack the strength and insight,
so they get stuck in their minds.
and the damn kids are really suffering,
cause they don't have the latest video gizmo box.
Thoughtless over-reactions of self- abuse,
much like an addict who is never satisfied.
"The Great American Dream Sham" sucked them in,
macroni and cheese,
saturday morning cartoons and matinees.
All replaced by todays goals and desires,
which are masquerading as tired souls trying to find solice,
stuck in "the Great American Dream Sham"
and now saying all there is to say,
Hail, Hail to me
and all who are free,
all who go their own way
and all who see though it !
You say: Wrong place—wrong time,
Maybe: Wrong place—not right time,
Not right place—but wrong time?
I say: This's right place—right time,
In times and places,
What is the time?
Where is the place
For right not wrong?
Is this like signs
Tearing up the scenery;
What about my mind?
Don't what? I can read the sign!
Oh—Signs of the time?
What’s wrong is not right,
Lord, I will sing this song!
Fight for what’s right
Correct what's wrong!
In all times and places
Please, be alright,
And make it—
© Joseph, October 11, 2008
© All Rights Reserved
Joseph S. Spence, Sr., is the author of "The Awakened One Poetics" (2009), which is
published in seven different languages. He invented the Epulaeryu poetry form, which
focuses on succulent cuisines and drinks. He is published in various forums, including the
World Haiku Association; Poetinis Druskininku, Milwaukee Area College, Phoenix Magazine;
Möbius Poetry, and Taj Mahal Review to name a few. Joseph is a Goodwill Ambassador for
the state of Arkansas, USA, a college faculty, and a military veteran.
Place your head on my shoulder,
let it stay there
and we'll just breathe
Pluck the sadness from the air,
unravel that ball of worry...
We'll find that knot
that started it all,
and wave ribbons
in the air
We'll let those colors swirl
around each other,
we'll blend them...
then weave them
into a tapestry
that comforts us
in the end
if it turns out
are full of tangles
a lot of thread
So place your hand in mine,
let it stay there,
and we'll weave
You are the wild flower in my palm
With no stem to keep you anchored to this covetous earth
You are the fragile thing I dare not cup,
As your petals whittle away under the wind
And flit unfettered in the air;
Exaggerated fear leaves my fingers numb
Hungry need leaves my fingers twitching
And my hand is paralyzed by turmoil
As every breath of wind takes another petal from me
And brings to my lungs, my chest and my heart
An overwhelming scent of need-
You are the wild beauty in my palm
And I dare not hold you to my chest
For I fear to crush you
To know first hand
That caged beauty, is beauty no more.
Gary's Yard Sale, the story
Authored by Chuck Keys
Among the rustbelt cities of yesterday,
Along the edges of the Detroit River,
A short distance to the side,
Resides a slice of Victorian times,
Excesses exceeded needed,
Where age confronts time,
The day before meets the day of,
And greets tomorrow.
Those in the hood
Meet and greet among
The scraps of forgotten memories.
Lawns filled with bygones of size,
Tables filled with important somethings,
For important that evolved into history.
Where memories become linked,
Each to a stored thought,
Treasured, pleasured or disdained,
To a person,
Of late or present,
To a future of who knows what.
During the day,
The history-of and the future-of talk,
Of where they were,
And where they hope to be,
The dust is blown off with the wind,
From the east, west, north and south.
The yard sale, the graveyard of the past,
The arena of the present,
Life and death of the sale,
Dance together, coupled,
Where Mine, becomes Yours' while
Gary the Conductor, orchestrates to perfection,
The operatic enjoyment of history,
Buyer meets seller, exchanges
Are made. As is today.
*This poem is dedicated to Gary and Ann Harris of Northville MI USA – May they and
their Yard Sales age forever!
© Charles H Keys, 2010. All Rights Reserved. V1.4.09252010
Authored by Chuck Keys
It had no color,
Lacking shape, size and dimension.
It wasn't moving or breathing.
There was neither aroma nor taste, not here or there.
Touching was useless because it wasn't physical.
It was indistinct and limitless.
Multi-sensually and multi-psychologically
It wasn't here or there and it was.
With no distinction,
It looked like everything else,
Or it could not have looked like everything else.
It never made me feel good nor bad,
Nor happy nor sad
Nor quite nor trite.
In our world of joy and destroy, we sort and distort,
Looking more on the surface and less on the inside,
Ready to judge and be judged from outside in.
The "oneness" of mankind stretches beyond definitions and limits,
From outside to inside and from inside to outside.
We are one distinct and alike world of "oneness."
Differences exist for differences,
Therefore, differences don't exist.
Only "oneness" exists.
This poem is dedicated to Dr. Clayborne Carson and The Gandhi-King Community,
For Global Peace with Social Justice in a Sustainable Environment.
This will be the last stanza
The last stanza
The final syllable
I commemorate these wounds
to my Agnostic dreams
Because God kept telling me to believe in her
He kept saying,
“Son, be her tissue when she collapses”
“Son, wipe away her sins with this blank slate I’ve given to you”
“Be that man for the woman she may never accept herself to be”
“Be the wings of that angel”
Until, one night, I said a prayer
I said to Him,
“She must go”
“I won’t give up on her, but I must let her go.”
“I leave it to You to save the pariah.”
I, can no longer be that man.
Because I exhaled insipid banter
from misery hollow
whisked me away to coalescent landscapes
under eclipsed moonshine,
sipping unto artificially incipient sunrises
Tasting drops, sour
Wiping them dry, with this flower
my sanctum holds close
And on this day,
this new day,
this last stanza,
soon, I will
no longer finish you with question marks and exclamation points
Soon, I will
withdraw from you,
with punctuated silence
I will walk while you crawl
I will smile while you cry
I will see while you’re blind
I will shout while you mumble
I will pray while you deny
I will climb while you trip
I will love while you hesitate
This will be my final kiss to you
No longer will we
For I now complete you,
my end poem
©Drake J. Eszes
Dawn too short and a baby sun
is grown to womanhood within an hour
and sends the Tablelands the sweeping gesture
of her fiery arms.
Further out, explosions of dry Spinifex grass;
the distant desert's oily ticking bomb.
Black smoke rolls on the breeze
above the ribbon of the red blaze line.
The clanks of the metal mill man
draw life from the deep down artery,
the hot wind his assistant,
goads the blade into rotation.
Droughtmaster chews on churlish Mitchell grass
and salt bush watered by the moonlight dew.
Wandering, blinking in the dust
along the wire on the Forty Mile Fence.
Relentless women sigh in torpid dreams.
Moist fishtail ferns fan out around the tank,
soft drips; the hard water of little tears
on to the hallowed garden.
They grow like ragged wildflowers;
the sun burned clay plains men
far out in the fade of the red twilight.
You called me "baby"
When your eyes streaked
In nudist dialect
Upon my strength
You begged to engorge
With cinnamon scented lotion
Taking me into melancholic forest
To sacrifice your shedding, virgin silk
To have your way
It was imperative
That I brought you inches closer to God
As chastity’s ribbon
Slides down leagues below sea level truths
Refused to be a puppet pulled
By your G-strings
You implored with vehement thrusts
Of creamy, inner thigh
To turn my page
But, you never bothered to read
My table of contents
©Drake J. Eszes
You waited for this moment,
As if you were an incomplete salutation
You waited for confessional breaths to alleviate this finite evening
Missing its constellations
You wept for their sunflower touch.
A touch to engorge the gaps of your imprinted thumb
With honeysuckle madness
Another cashmere moistened parable
Hungering for ink-plated resolutions
You waited for their Haiku smile.
A smile condoning resilient waterfalls
Unto ocean’s distant memory
Aching for risky walks above coal-ridden tomorrows
No forest green pupils observing
The hindrance of time
You wished upon wishes
For blanketed convenance to warm aspiring, French kiss upon promised morn
You wrestled with downward spirals,
Uplifting loneliness from Heaven’s chasm
Regurgitated sobs reserved under no-name invitations
…I was h e r e.
©Drake J. Eszes
Sometimes I am happy, sometimes I am sad.
Sometime I sing, sometimes I stammer
Sometimes I dance on the music of my soul, Sometimes I dance on the fingers of
one single person
Sometimes I expect so much from others; sometime I myself can’t meet my own
Sometime I make fun of others and feel bad later, sometimes life makes fun of me
and I smile
Sometime I win and sometimes I lose, sometimes I don’t even understand whether I
won or lost.
Sometimes I laugh as if whole world is with me,
Sometimes I cry as if I am alone wandering in a strange land
Sometimes I give up so easily
Sometimes I work so hard that no one can stop me to achieve what I want
Sometimes I am dynamic person, who wants to change the world,
And sometimes I am a kid who expects anyone to embrace him tightly.
Sometimes I feel happy about the achievement of my enemy
Sometime I feel dejected with my own success.
Sometimes I help others and show them the right path
Sometimes I feel totally helpless and don’t know where to go
Sometimes I ask god to please give my past back
Sometimes I pray to show me the way forward
Life is composed of SOMETIMES and I just flow with that.
U admit or not but you are also sailing on the same boat.
So join me and enjoy it EVERYTIME as SOMETIMES life is very short!
The only sound, whistle of a quail;
That breaks in upon the tranquility.
From the treetops glows the yellow moon,
Suddenly tossed, as a draught twists through
The golden leaves hung loose from the trees.
A cold blowing mist through the narrow streets,
Past the windows and past the broken panes;
You can see, their faces smiling pensively,
Inhaling the joys and fears of life.
Yearning with the ebbing light.
Partly patch'd, partly glaz'd;
Hearts rendered heavy and faint.
Yet, I see the light in their eyes,
Glowing with a rosy flame.
Written by : gautami phookan
For Giorgio Veneto's contest : "Impress Me"
motiff- ? Spiritual/ Philosophical