Best Owes Poems
What does the blood owes the vein?
What does food owes the stomach?
The grasses would always be green but
Not in a drought and dry days.
The day owes the night the chance to exist
Among the evil men who dwells in the dark
Planning preciously on how to attack the innocents.
The day owes the night breathing space and the
Longing for approval by the craving moon
Who lies awake in it abode.
The day owes the night a space to
Interact with the lords of the night and
Welcomes the owls to their haunting game
Of human souls which had deviated from the laws.
The day owes the night love and separation
From the time limit of the division of the their works.
The day has to make the lonely night have its rightful
Time allotted to them by nature.
It owes the night the privilege to perform it duties
It owes the night an acknowledgement to welcome him home
During when the east breeze goes to the west to settle its dispute with the sun.
As the sun owes the day so as the moon owes the night
And the night also owes the day when the cock stood
In the rusty thatch hut to welcome the day as the night
Depart to an unknown destination.
We all are debtors, no one is less important in this global village.
Ignore the anger, more anger grows
Ignore the heart, but the heart knows
Ignore the problem, the problem grows
Ignore the person, the person goes
When you were little,
we wandered the sunlit shore—
your laughter a bright echo
mingling with the rush of waves.
I watched as the sea snatched your red ball,
a tiny planet swallowed by surging tides,
whispering, “Hold fast to hope;
the tide always returns.”
That battered sphere, salt-bleached at dawn,
washed ashore like a small miracle,
a promise that even loss
might be reclaimed from the deep.
But the sea, vast and unyielding,
claimed more than a toy—it claimed you.
Now your towel stripes the dunes,
your slippers lie silent,
and those oversized shades, once crowning your smile,
are but faded relics of innocence lost.
Men in boats cast their nets
through dark braids of kelp,
hauling up relics—a bottle cap,
a stray shoe—
fragile tokens from an endless blue
that keeps you hidden away.
Here I stand upon this lonely shore,
my heart heavy as the crashing surf,
knowing all too well you are gone.
Yet I strain to catch the tide’s murmur,
hoping against hope
for that final, silent deliverance—
for your body to return,
so I might hold you once more
between loss and love.
The horizon hangs an empty ledger,
the tide’s cold arithmetic clear:
what it steals, it subtracts;
what it owes, it forgets.
And in that barren sum,
I remain to cling to a hope too fragile.
to let go.
Few people can take their house for a drive
Or say it is paid off, like my pal Mr. Shrive.
Mr. Shrive is always in a very good mood, upbeat.
He says owing no one money is incredibly sweet.
With a chicken, a snake, a rat, and a dog named Blue
He spends his days doing whatever he wants to do.
I was told He listens.
That every tear I fed the floor
was collected by holy hands,
that pain served a purpose
even when it split me open like lightning.
But I’ve bled into prayers
that went nowhere.
Screamed into ceilings
that stayed still.
And if there’s a plan,
why does it feel like punishment
just to keep breathing?
God owes me answers.
Not riddles in scripture
or well-meaning verses
read by people who never heard
a mother’s sob crawl out of her bones.
Not silence.
Not sermons.
Not “trust in His timing”
when time has only ever taken.
What do I do with this faith
when it feels like a bruise?
What do I do with this silence
that echoes louder than comfort?
I was taught to fold my hands
like that would keep me safe.
But my hands were shaking
when I needed Him most.
And no one came.
So I stopped asking for peace.
Started demanding it.
Stopped whispering prayers
and started shouting truths:
You weren’t there.
And I’m still here.
Is that the miracle?
Is that the test?
Or just the cruelty of believing
in a presence that never showed?
Still,
some part of me
wants to believe
there’s something holy
about my survival,
even if God never said a word.