it comes a time in the course of human togetherness
to examine trust and devote one's endeavors
to the success of being.
we as people under the moniker " IN GOD WE TRUST"
are endowed with the awesome responsibility of human need
and the establishment of the human family.
People being people, needing and wanting love.
giving words to those who don't have words.
I stand before you as person
who thinks that rewording certain areas of our togethership
will not do to fix the problems ahead of us.
So, as of right now, we are redefining the area of construction, to bring about a change in the way we behave and allow others to
behave.
It comes to be defined : for the purpose of many
to seek refuge from those storms that divide us.
each script defined in it's purpose
in sight of all willing to take part.
the new way to see love and be loved.
we then are lovers who inspire others to love,
that we two might seek being loved, and defined as his or hers.
A cold winter's day,
Then long, drawn-out night:
Hot coffee is brewing,
Night creatures are stirring.
Staring at paper,
Pen clutched in hand;
A chill in the air,
The Muse is at hand.
All around me lies chaos,
Texts, tweets, and twitters;
Hunkered down grimly
Midst couplets and critters.
Now starting, now stopping,
Words like corn popping;
Revising, inserting, rewording,
Deleting, restoring---
The Muse gently snoring.
The hour's grown late,
In Muse-less night;
As I lay on my pillow,
So many poems to write.
The words we use
are never really ours.
Always part and pieces of someone else
who passed through our lives;
and although we seek to be original
those images and personage
encircle us
rewording to new renditions
of the message and the meanings
still the same.
Dried sand eclipsed over the Season’s fall,
sullen rhyme sings singer-birds over scale,
the storm-dance sprays dust against broken wall,
To the hat-worn folks, sorrowed, narrates tale;
Done seasonal harvest with plaint-dried tears,
With diseased cattle shrunken skin to ribs,
With cracked ground, hungry sad visage of fears,
With wasted limbs and pot-bellied in cribs.
keenly begs graceful charity for age,
Promising bags, from next seasons harvest,
To plough the ground below the lowered wage,
And to lock starving kids to empty breast.
Thus rewording he sows the seeds and play,
Hoping golden grain’s harvest from his clay.
©Anees Rahman
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