Speech of Tears – Zamreen Zarook
Drops of tears from our purl conveys a lot,
Each an every shedding has a ballot,
By identifying the core, our hands should allot,
Because, some might be extremely as shallot.
Chipper and blissfulness gives you cool tears,
Whereas in console and divesting flow hot tears,
Fear and pains give drains of tears,
Nothing that can be patch with dollars.
Some deliveries are automatic,
While some productions are acoustic,
Another drain says I am really bombastic,
Tears are at last solely cubistic.
They convey the emotions,
People go in search for solutions,
They become happy when they are with the precautions,
Reactions again as the tears, it’s the real abbreviation.
Copyright © Zamreen Zarook | Year Posted 2013
As you grow, happy moments shrink,
At some day, skin aches when you smile,
These are just ordinary lines, or
Maybe just exaggerated tales,
‘D thought so but no fraction of idea,
It could be real, as real as you dwell in it,
Just like another story,
How a freckled face glance down,
Why arched brows are falling down,
The crow lines of eyes say it,
When it aches to smile,
Wearing it which was disowned years back
Don’t spell or stare or nod,
May face lays as in absence of suspicion
Knot of rope around my neck,
What changed or happened,
Somebody sprinkled dust on freshly painted canvas,
That Blush of youth _with self-indulged soul,
Beauty reflected in the eyes wide open,
Then agonizing hand interfered,
So made me wore this,
The face you don’t look at.
I have told enough, misery loses its grief,
If explained to satisfy that deaf ear,
Let it prevail, the dust,
Let me blacken myself in the stained canvas,
For that is what meant, and so,
Let this veiled face pray, in the shadow,
For the last breath, not for shrine,
Lived in mundanely and so did suffer,
Shall die in that ordinariness too,
If life asked you about my tiredness,
Don’t blame a name but a cure,
Which is desperately awaited, let her know.
Copyright © HINA NASIR | Year Posted 2014
Show me a clear midsummer’s day, and I
Shall reveal the coldness lurking beneath
For which the mortals heave a knowing sigh
In kind, the winter bares her savage teeth
Yet we, who know better than to implore
Play games with Time that are cruelly coy
Always to have less than ever before
And thus is the fickle manner of joy
To depart tenfold as quick as it came
Seeking first the ones who try to hold fast
For all who dare speak that elusive name
Breathe tender eulogies of summers past
Fear not, for the blush of this earth entombed
Shall run our blood until we are exhumed
Copyright © Nola Basey | Year Posted 2014
Therein amongst the subtle fall of rain
That drips rhythmically upon leafy green
I hath now a dead love, woefully lain
Like deadened steps on the grave stones serene.
Though mold casts shadows, haunting and subdued—
As rain's sleek menace cracked youth's lofty tomb—
Black boughs laden with black apathy, nude,
Line this grave yard as would a mother's womb.
These roses are not perfumed in anguish,
Yet, in hesitation, with them I lie
A solitude prepared for relinquish
That with salted derision, hopes to die.
And the meek mourn with ugly, failing grace
As the rain gradually quickens its pace.
Copyright © Marc-Enzo Alexander | Year Posted 2013
Waves crest higher than the tip of a surfboard
His grave rests, quiet, beneath the lips of the sea
They say “next,” wired, on the beaches of Cornwall
In a gray dress, inspired, is possibility
But from whence did our deceased pilgrim surfer come?
Astral-plane rider, he surfs sea and brain-waves
A dream decorated, thought-fueled, smoking gun
It’s obvious when questions lie down on the same page
Extinguished and distinguished in rolling tidal blades
Could I begin to describe what I’ve seen?
Through aging I’ve arranged an approach to the adverse that’s acceptable
Could it be I, lying deep in the sea?
Though I’ve speculated in such matters, I’ve surely no sermons to attend
And if we can picture a scene from his childhood
Incorrupted, channeling promise uninterrupted like light from a lifeboat
He hasn’t yet learned to laugh at the letters and words that define us
But this picture tells 1000 words, so why even write prose?
He would dream of a depth, unhanded, untouched
Sharing a sail and his sermon with a sweetheart at seventeen
Together they argue, they scream, and they fuck
The deadliest of dances is delivered by the murky blue-green
Was a long time ago
And through a blind eyes focus, he makes peace, makes amends
And says: I can see what adorns those with time to pretend
For your gray dress is the ocean, and I am your psychedelic surfer
Coasting the surface, captivated by what lies beneath
And if I must bury myself beneath another wave to go further
Then I’ll be drowned in the possibility that one day we’ll meet
One day, and repeat
Copyright © Sam Nicholas Harrison | Year Posted 2016