Resembling Poems

Every Girl's Dream

That girl splatters her faiths in colors of adoration,
Adoration of spineless whispers carried by heavens beyond,
Beyond the biosphere where her sentiments goad to creek,
Creek tender desires into every reverie.

Reverie curtains her realm in silk and gold,
Gold resembling the narratives my girl’s yet to articulate,
Articulate by an expression that is so tender and genuine,
Genuine as the assurance of waiting so proximate.

Proximate to her emotions, a reality takes voyage,
Voyage through the stars in the velvet darkness,
Darkness bends in amity with a radiance my girl has perceived.
Perceived in the lifecycle, she’s continuously baptized her fantasy.

Poem by N. Mugisho

STREET FOOD

                         We met under the street lamp
                        on our first date to have fun.
                        We wished to relish junk food 
                         tasting salty chilly sweet and sour,
                         at random enjoying variety.

                         Good to know, our food habits
                          resembling much extent.
                           Satisfaction of taste buds  ran
                           almost similar to both of us.
                            Food is the interest for survival.

                            We were students at that time 
                             unable to afford posh restaurant.
                             So we chose  fast food at street -corner.
                            Our romantic life had its start
                            under the street lamp leading to unison.

Lavandula

Lavandula
 Purple fields.
 Lavandula through the meadow.
 As far as the eye can see.
 Beyond breathtaking.
 Above violet skies.
 Morado organic shine.
 A fragrant herb.
 Also an Ametrine stone.
 Lavender symbolism, old ways.
 Cool breeze, open range.
 Relieving stress purplish oils.
 Recipe soothing gardens.
 Lavender resembling.
 Humble, soul searching.

Wine Tastes Better Aged

Flourished and nourished,
hair locks resembling branches,
I gaze as it dances —
when blowing, he looks glowing.

Twenty years had passed,
but still, I last.
I may have ripened,
but I'm still the same berry, same fruit,
slightly fragmented, a little indented,
not demented.

You got a sample of me when I was at my prime,
taught a few tricks — oh, to replay our time.
Let me discover what you have learned;
still, I yearn —
like the eternal flame, I burn.

Do not read me as if I come with the label “handle with care,”
I am more than able.
Only sixty-five, still alive!
Round-bodied, the taste of sweet and sour —
come and devour during lunch hour.

Do not guzzle — sip slow,
take the time to enjoy this aged wine as we intertwine.
Oh, how you've practiced —
glad to discover upon this mattress.

Park Just After Dawn

The warmth of the sunrise cast upon the emptiest park.
The treeline afar resembling a foreign far eastern palace.
The wind blowing the leaves and swings out of their stillest place.

Goodbye Poetry

Oh poetry,
why do you not feel me.
I was once your poetic percolate,
the assonance to your consonance, 
spilling in silver ink,
upon Earth's raw fibres, 
but in your quest for perfection,
wanderlust words are now waterless roots,
resembling a mediocre muse,
cursed from rose tinted glares,
exposing pages of bad grammar.

Since the feather in my quill
set adrift with fireflies in the wind,
conflicting choruses echo 
in an acoustic refrain.
In this musical merry go around -
I'm only composed as a last thought.

In chapters of contemplation,
wondering if you feel the art of my heart;
I ponder if I am a
vacant vowel in your 'why?'
An unexplained myth..
A rhythm not seen in your rhymes

or do questions only bring bitterness?
But without the reason for answers,
will there be anything left to express?

I'm just an empty cartridge
abandoned from your fountain pen.
Now only aches and angst alliterate,
as invisible ink slowly dissolves.

I'll forever be an unfinished masterpiece.
A long forgotten poem. An anagram of listen.

There is no metaphor for this grief,
so I say goodbye to poetry
and farewell to my muse.

I do not have the time to write a tome

I do not have the time to write a tome
I’ve just too much to do right here at home
I dread the thing that calls with vapid tone
That distant idle chirping of my phone

And yet I must abide and scan the screen
Perhaps it’s something I have never seen
Or worse an urgent message from a teen
Saying the Irish whiskey turned him green

And yet my fingers love the keyboard dance
My mind in fevered harness longs to prance
Upon the snow cap whiteness take a chance
Somehow the empty pages to enhance

Yet I am stuck at home a wingless drone
Resembling the forests aging crone
Subject to a curse turned youth to stone
A voice of cryptic curses to intone 

Thus do ancient fingers keyboard dance
The challenge always there to take a chance
Put on your dancing shoes and boldly prance
To hell with those who say “you’re old…you can’t”

Thought of the day

A tree outlives the leaves that adorn it
Adapting thus to change without complaint 
It thrives without any fear or desire
Stoic, standing erect, resembling a saint

MANIA

sensibility
   peering
provoking
      reponsibilty

embroidering
    language
resembling
   affectionate
       enthusiasm
whilst
weaving
      a tapestery
into
obsession
of
  affulent
     aesthetic
   curiosities
of
simplicity

AN OPEN FORM uses spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,& relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input &respond in a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood thus is inherently variable.

Tiny Home

Wind outside my tiny home, wreaking chaos on its porch
Wicker chairs and potted plants, stand firmly against its force
Finely tuned chimes sound loudly, sending sweetly toned notes into the night
A candle I’ve lit flickers, with the flow of cool currents through aging wooden panes
As the warm glow from the fire, now comforting, fends off the chill from a cool springtime rain
Tuxedo cats hardly notice a thing, intertwined into something resembling a fine sable
Opening one eye on occasion, then quickly returning to twilight 
The fire logs let out a soft sounding hiss, as they shrink into hot glowing embers
Fixing my gaze towards its vibrant colors. Comforting, Hypnotic 
Drift off to sleep with sounds of a storm. Who’s sharp pitches and tones
Guiding me gently like binaural beats and theta waves
Into another state, created by conscious choice. A world of making all my own

Wallow

Nowhere is my place.
Escape evades my chase.
Shunned by lifes embrace.
Imbue with hindrance grace.

Consumed by peace I rot.
Exhume long hidden plot.
Solitude sought where it's not.
Accursed sanctum death forgot.

Self became a state of disassembling.
Formless integration of dismembering.
A gorgeous desecration of resembling.
Hopelessly fixate on not remembering.

Aimless unknown into wanderer strays.
Time lost in the wake of endless daze.
Necrosis grows so gorge on what decays.
Another phantom slipping out of phase.

causable

dilection

progress accepts
          the loss as record
to attempt the morrows
         starting points.
single faceted beginnings
            do not persist,
threats are testaments
           of defeat
resembling weakness

In Nature's Glory

As I awake from night's deep sleep
morning light begins its grand sweep.
Across the skyline, it unfurls
as dewdrops hang like strands of pearls.

Resembling tears, not those of grief,
they quench the thirst of each dry leaf.
On prismed drops they drink their fill
as sunlight climbs above the hill.

My flowers sup from Nature's tap.
Their petals cupped so they could lap
the nurturing moisture of life
when lack of rainfall brings them strife.

Sun has risen and morning broke.
In the sky is a golden yolk.
Its warmth has spread over the Earth.
Each day is likened to rebirth.

Twilight will find sunlight fading.
Its hours are quickly abrading,
but darkness will never hold sway~
Luna will not be kept at bay.

With us, moonlight shares her soft glow,
ruling the tides that ebb and flow.
One more day that tells the story
of nature in all its glory.

Epiphany

Reflecting its neighbourhood,
The lake water shone yellow.
Resembling a synchronisation of saturation 
With the setting sun.
Seizing green colour of the grasses 
The sun painted them gold.

Engrossed gazing pines dance spectacularly,
Only awakened with sparrows' chirps,
And Robins' melodious songs.
Perched on the edge of a dead tree,
Abrupt thoughts hovered my consciousness.

Despite a gust, the dead tree stayed firm.
Nighbours swayed, relished,
Departing sun of the beautiful evening.
It rests and rests....

The landscape mirrored delight,
It grieved its own death.
Incompetent to sense, the scorching sun,
The white sheet of snow, dusk and dawn.
It rests and rests....

Observed the ambience twice .
No mournings! no sorrow!
Nothing ceased their pace.
Infact , they moved on.
It rests and rests....

Silent hum of grief

My souls mutters in the muteness;
"Is my melancholy more melancholic than yours?"

I gaze across a bridge,
wondering which stream flows to you,
as nobody understands how 
in the definition of lament,
I am a piano without a pianist
and you a harp without strings.

My heart is a weeping willow
within a godforsaken garden.
As the last blossom decays,
the image of you is fading,
resembling fallen leaves on soggy ground.
I don't belong in this numbness,
nor know how to explain why 
my voice is lost in the vastness
of valleys without endless echoes.
I've forgotten what I wanted to say,
attempting to escape this maze of sorrow -
yet your words reverberate without resistance.

Pondering if your spirit will guide
me from this uncertain terrain,
I'm distracted by the silent hum of grief.
It hurts like an eerie lullaby, 
unable to soothe the stillness of your ghost.

As silhouettes disappear in the dimming light,
I protect a fragile flame in your remembrance,
before withered leaves fade into ash.

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