Hell and Heaven are both homes.
Homes for very well committed angels.
Angels who have lived dissimilar norms.
Norms for august adventures and tough rituals.
Hell in Heaven no one dreams in a dhow.
For five fines follow no fine choice
To plait soften or hard mat for a pillow,
With the help of Joyce in a meadow.
Hell in Heaven patronizes pepper into food.
Food that the family does not like ever,
And never anyone will twitter such mood
When parents cannot hike together.
Hell brings a beam of fire in the house
That breaks the beat of home cadence
Lack of rhythm makes mad the mouse
No mouse, no mere measure around the fence
Each angel has taken personal direction,
For Abel and Cain have no common mission.
Such selfish mission messes mum’s vision,
Hatred hinders harmony to flunk home in Hell;
And so Heaven has no home to fail.
Poem by Mugisho N Theophile
Hope is the thing with feathers
Likes flying in front of your eyes
It attracts you knowing its presence
And whisper gently on your side
She flies to your window by morning glow
Singing a song to tell you the day is anew
She also comes to you in a thunderstorm
Reminding you not to forget the rainbow
She always flies around you so
Patronizes when you miss your road
She is always so willing to guide
Betray not through your horizon of life
Sauntering in the abyss of my museum of memories,
With all my true faces lurking in the grim of this gruesome silence.
Broken my pride is.
And broken was my life’s stance.
I look at the monolith as it patronizes the prelude to my cries.
Not so fortunate was I.
The clock ticks my breath away.
And even the illuminated opaque walls have something to say.
I close my eyes to the moon emanating an iridescence of memories flooding my face.
My vicious demons smile, victorious, as I struggle to leave the place.
As I get closer to the edge,
My vindictive heart forces to take a last look at the blood dripping from my fingers.
To take me away today they pledge.
Not frightened.
Not afraid of what it takes anymore.
And then I see your face.
And it all comes to a halt.
That awful pain and darkness fades.
I suddenly open my eyes to a blinding light from a small oval opening.
While finding myself over again in the delightful but annoying chirps, I stare at the ceiling dismayed.
Was that a nightmare?
Or the fear that one day you won’t care?
16/07/16
For contest: Make a poem*2
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Wabi-Sabi
A stunning beauty seen with moles on the cheek from a distance
If be near, like spaceman, we find dry lowland area of dark rock,
Shadows in holes where meteors hit, left craters, the Sun can’t hit.
She relies on the Sun for light, the borrowed light throws on others
And patronizes God-punished murderer Cain, adorned with horns
Becoming more luring in getting the dark spots of Cain’s horns.
As all of us hold secrets, never telling it to others
She never ever shows her darker side to anyone of us
We the poets, lovers, get enchanted, mad by this lunar beauty
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** God put Carn for murdering his own brother adorning with horns on the Moon
as a punishment. Sometimes the dark spots on the moon looks like horns.
*, wabi-sabi is Japanese word meaning “to find beauty in imperfection
and profundity in nature*”
+++++
Date : 12-5-13
Dr. Ram Mehta
Contest: Seeing Beauty in Imperfection by nette onclaud
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Peace you built your house in the graveyard,
And gave yourself to those scattered bones,
While we toil to have you.
I laughed at the silent chat of bones.
Death how wicked you are!
Your visit leaves nothing but tears and mourning,
Only visiting, but not to be visited.
Can’t you spare, even on merit!
Three hundred and sixty five days without food,
Makes on dry bone yawn,
Like a hungry buffalo,
Those jaws are grudging, budging begging for food,
Death if you can show pity,
Let us know how your place is,
What is your house like? What is your mission?
Though, God made death, man patronizes it.
Graveyard of the dead,
With their resting dry bones waiting for the journey,
With their ears wide open for the trumpet,
For the talks of those dry bones echoes across the seas.