The hallowed history of the egg
is the stuff of landmine and powder keg.
For, many an innocent egg has died -
sometimes scrambled, sometimes fried.
The Nobel Prize, I will surely win,
for the egg that cracks only from within.
The revolutionary
The revolution germinated in my womb,
The tenderness and care never negotiated.
The external pressures never an obstacle,
The birth of the world’s most beautiful era bloomed.
Came the dawn of surprises after a storm,
The ship swayed hither to thither.
The fight and insurrection had already begun,
The world’s most beautiful and the strongest life was born.
The trunk was burned and she just witnessed,
Holding the hands of the needy and the swayed.
Detached yet focused, marching to the goal,
With slogans and spirits high she bore in her heart.
Sheltered was she, but the discontent seeped out,
In an urge to reach the pinnacle of the dream,
Reminders and warnings kept she to herself,
To be the spectator and observer of her own play.
Sandhya T.P.
It’s a brand new big idea
The banned country of such size
So I want to make it clear
Either way it looks unwise
Wasn’t Germany at war
In Bach’s time, and wasn’t France
Fighting England till the score
Levelled up by circumstance
But they never used to ban
Scholars travelled, merchants traded
Painters painted, music men
Wrote their stuff while the crusaders
Fought their sacred wars whatever
The high goal was pursued then
But it didn’t seem too clever
In the past, to put a ban
There’s no other meaning to it
But revenge, to make the foe
More outrageous, and they knew it
Now it's what the wars are for.
Do we act a bit like those who have feigned amnesia
Who’s a stranger to their self, in a wider sense
Who have got subliminal mental anesthesia
Living in a fragile shell of the self defense?
If it’s true, all I’ve relinquished better be not known
Though sometimes it does occur without any cause
Makes me wonder why the path should be overgrown
What’s the big idea of this, if it ever was?
But there’s no convincing answer, I apply to you
You should know it all my love, how we came to this
Tell me why should we depend on a changing view
When it looked so constant, sealed with your kiss.
Thought
Desire
Discovery
Passion and create
Construct through craft
Mind Test
Fulfill
Will
Ambition
Precision
Approach
Results
Proven
Ability
Established
Dialog
Concept
Idea
A mountain sits
And a river flows
A mountain suffers her tears
And the infiltration of life
Wildflowers necklace it
As the goats dance up and down its rocky parts.
It can wiggle off snow as well as a buffalo a gnat
Knowing it will be better for the snow to leave for awhile and come back when it has changed from its journey back.
The mountain stays
And only changes slowly
And it comforts the variable lives
That tend toward a flippant love
All around it
How weak is a volcano to succumb to its burning lust? How selfish.
A mountain is our shoulder
It endures the triviality and variability of short bursts of butterflies
In the meadow
Constantly
And outliving most of us.
Like the crying sky whose tears fall on him
And forget on a sunny day that he will always be her shoulder
Even when there are clouds between them.
An intellectual dresses a simple idea in the cloak of heavy and elaborate words,
Building castles from long, intricate sentences that rise toward the sky,
While the poet, with eyes deepened in the mystery of the world, opens doors to truth,
He takes the complexity of life and transforms it into a song of wind and light,
Love becomes the flight of a butterfly, and pain a late autumn rain,
In an uninterrupted flow of thoughts, where words dance freely,
Poetry does not fear simplicity, for within it lies the depth of the world,
Touching hearts through a metaphor that shines brighter than a speech.
In the silence of the night, the verses find their echo in the souls of those who listen,
The poet embraces mystery, turning it into a palpable truth,
While the intellectual sometimes gets lost in the maze of complicated reasoning,
Yet in both flows the same desire to understand the universe around,
To find hidden beauty in details, meaning in every flicker of time.
Words, be they heavy or light, always seek their place in open hearts,
Where truth can be whispered or shouted in mountain echoes,
And thus, in the simplicity of verse, we find ourselves, without limits.
my face in the ground
and a collar across my neck
i tried to stand up, little by little
but i fell on my knees again
from crying on the thought of you
to struggling for breathe over and over
my face buried in the cold sand
i can't recall your dreamy face
it still happens now and then
but i tell my heart to stop crying
and mind to hatch some plans
you were never mine in the first place
even while writing,
my body cold and pale
my tragedy is i can't recall your face
but my idea of you will never fade
Dear Future Generations,
The candle did not know whether to snuff herself out
Or begin dancing around the cemetery and give a shout
She knew she was not going to join her cousin, on walk-about
But other than that, she had a vague sense of doubt
Who do you think you are? Asked the snippy porcupine.
He was still pouting when she said he could not make her “mine”.
Candle walked off, did not give him a backward glance or time.
She was late for a date with a count who fed her lime.
The paintbrush in the corner who was conjuring graffiti
Rolled his eyes at these two, their conversations were needy
He pretended he did not care, but he had his eye on little candle too
She walked off swinging her fancy ways in the fog of the blue.
The candle had no idea how attractive she was; that is for sure.
Or how innocent, for she was white, young, kind and bridal pure.
If she had known how the handsome young paintbrush felt about her
She might have given him attention, for he was a gentleman for sure.
Take one idea.
Make that idea your life.
Think of it,
Dream of it,
Live the idea.
Let your brain,
Muscles, nerves,
Every part of your body
Be filled with that idea,
Then those ideas put it to action
You are on your way to success.
The thought of losing you has left me insane.
The idea of you not being in my life has made me weak.
I know distance and time has blocked us,
but not at one time have I not thought of you.
I love you.
It bit the back of his throat as he opened the door the nightly cold brisk.
So different from the warmth of the bed he had just left
Coffee and chocolate
Anything else
From an interior bedroom
beneath her pillow she yelled
Chips we need chips
Taking a mental note he turned once more into the acceptance of cold
The rattle of his keys
a femur xylophone echoing
In the early of winter morn.
It occurs, the brilliant light
Pulses once to blight the sight
Backflash lit in memory seared
Fades to fondest wish endeared
This might be a revolting idea a slow-thinking tablemate said.
I rolled my eyes at my cousin Rhea and ate some sour dough bread.
There has never been an original idea in her fluff-frilly head.
Rolling his eyes across the table was her daddy, my Uncle Ed
Tell me, my dear, do you have any idea of the pain I felt,
when I forced my hand into my chest, breaking my ribcage apart,
and tore my heart out, weeping crimson on my bare skin,
feeling its trembling pulse as I handed it to you with a smile.
I bled myself dry, emptying my life in an act of raw surrender,
and you rejected it, rejected my love as if it were a fleeting illusion,
and I felt hopes dissolve and dreams unravel in cold reality,
as your refusal turned my offering into an echoing, painful silence.
Yet with every drop of blood lost, I understand my love persists,
though rejected, it will not cease to exist, beating in the deep silence,
remaining a testament to vulnerability, and the courage to love
without restraint, even in the face of a ruthless and unyielding refusal.
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