Just dried bread wetted in water for a whole month till you came
From the other end of the land! Whom on earth am I to blame?
Parents? Siblings? Friends or fellows? False professors and pupils?
It's a holy jungle in which no animal you can tame.
I still recall that beautiful, agéd girl of refinement*
Who once, noting in me a spark of human love, or a flame,
Nodded twice or thrice in wonder, talking to herself loudly
That affection had not yet turned entirely into a name.
Aye, that big bag of those canned foods you right away went and bought
And left without taking a rest told me once again the same
Old tale that God's eternal fire will for ever burn and glow
In the midst of the moles and bats who love darkness without shame.
By all you have sent me weekly for these years, time will defame
The conscienceless quasi-humans when they're gone, up is the game.
11.11.'21
*The late Dr. Naheed Sarmad
No comments, please!
*Image of Cave, Stars, Sky, Tunnel by Pixabay.
Of Infinity
Source and aim is ... vast consequence,
Wherefore controls ... take prominence,
Greek's Alpha meant ... primal ascends,
Omega states ... constants transcends,
Cause steadfast edge ... oppositeness,
Expansiveness ... span conscienceless,
Space an abstract ... not concreteness,
Wander spirits ... lodged comprehends,
Source and aim is,
Between the two ... points wantonness,
License demands ... subconsciousness,
Omnipresent ... joined broad bookends,
Christ's the answer ... prize providence,
Infinity ... stretched mixed strengthens,
Source and aim is,
2021 November 07
*1st Place*
This or That, Vol 8
~~Edward Ibeh: Judged 2021 December 05
*HMS & RZ
I'm In balcony
Observing the silence of
circumstances of surrounding
Without human
Every part of nature is as usual
in own position
(In disguise of savior
and corona patient investigator
Some fiends rape a young girl!)
This news forces me to write-
Covid-19 has not come for illiterate country!
Lockdown is not wise decision for undeveloped country!
To illiterate poor and conscienceless educated rich
here rumors are trustworthy prophecies!
31.03.2020 (Chattogram City)
A story must come
From the heart
And must be carried
In both hands
Cupped like sacred egg
In the hands of a priestess.
This is my brother
A rare outpour of truth
I can carry his story
In my hands
Or pour it on your page.
A painter could have it
On a canvass;
It could be sculpted
But it must come
From the heart.
The story of my own brother
Who was crushed by a polity
That cared not for children;
Whose child heart
Was blasted away
By conscienceless administrations.
That had eaten up
The children’s future
A story must come
From the heart.
His smile could
Light up the night sky
A smile that made
Innocence envious
And little children
How they flock by him
This is my brother.
But his name changed
And the authorities will
Be kept really busy.
This story must come
From your heart.
Still it is possible to have a conscience
Amidst the conscienceless,
Then you're on your own
Good-luck-buddy.
Avaricious protoplasm spins madly out of control
Under an aching sky,
Vapor and dusk.
But that which is rooted in things dead
Drains the living of its intrinsic essence
Devoid of remorse, loathe for sorrow,
There are ties rooted in memory,
Thicker than water, just as ephemeral.
Ties that strangle when no facet of comprehension
Encapsulate tthe ties that bind.
But I am not rooted in things dead
Nor do I wish to die in consideration of the retrospective flight
From sorrow,
As if the mob's approbation or wrath
Ever impelled the wonderment rooted in things beautiful
Engorged in my eyes.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.