When Poems - Poems about When

On a night with a full moon, when the wind whispers forgotten stories, I sit by the river that flows endlessly, like my thoughts, And I feel time dissolve, like mist under the gentle rays of morning, I feel the silence become a song of birds lost in the horizon, I feel the grass beneath my feet telling tales...

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Given that God alone is the all there is and all manifestations are but a dream, to find out who we are is then not a quiz, for as we are bathed in light of love’s moonbeam, from our heart bursts forth, a thunderous bliss fizz, whence we see this world is not as it does seem. When our eye is...

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When did the world become so young Every flight crew averages 22 My health care ‘professionals’ all do too When did talking to people stop ...

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President Marshall, quite fit and quite bold, Said, "This hijacking story's grown old!" He'd punch and he'd kick, Like some action flick, "Get off my plane!" he then loudly extolled. ©bfa032125 (Harrison Ford in Air Force One) ...

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How do you fight when the battle is within you, and every attempt seems doomed to fail, When you thought you were strong, but now you see you're caught in the web of doubt, A stranger in your own skin, searching for a self that once seemed so certain, I try to rise, but I fall again, chasing...

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Choose me, when the silent storm of my own uncertainty tears the seams of my being like lightning splitting the sky, when my heart becomes a battlefield, and doubts are invisible soldiers marching against the truth you have always carried like an unwavering light. Choose me, even when I break under the weight of self-doubt, when my soul is a sculpture...

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i wonder- when the people you’ve seen once upon a distant memory ask how i am, what do you say? do you say we don’t talk? do you say the truth? do you admit to your sins like a devil in the church- do you feel a charcoal burn on your soul when you see...

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When we lived beneath thatch-roofed houses, Curry simmered in pots, Flames flickered from firewood gathered From hills and thickets. When bullock carts creaked Under paddy loads, Harvests reaped from fertile fields, Bicycles spun on dusty roads. When sounds of hand-pounding paddy Echoed from homes everyday, Women weaving at fly- shuttle looms Sometimes till late night. And when caws of the crows And chirpings of tea cricket at...

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Do you have enough scars to help others heal Or wounds that stay open the past uncongealed Did you suffer in silence each moment of pain Did all hope leave you orphaned alone and profane Is your counsel of value when the weak come to call Can you see through the trauma and cushion — their fall (1st Book Of Prayers: May, 2025) ...

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In the diaphanous light of morning, when dawn paints the horizon with golden whispers, The earth rises from its deep slumber, dreaming of the green phantoms of revival, An untamed longing is born deep in my chest, like a firebird spreading its wings, A burning thirst to embrace the world, like a river flowing towards the endless ocean...

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No Victory Day when the Genocide is NOW The Nazis were defeated in war their ideologies simmered germinated in the wombs of today's monsters many may not know Zionists and Nazis held hands in the dark they kissed and collaborated now the Zionists carry the flag changed the color not the atrocities playing the victim while they dance and slaughter an army in diapers, while they...

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The sun arose with reckless cheer, And burned away the last of fear— No clock could chain the golden skies, No rule could still the fireflies. Bare feet chased dreams down alleyways, As time dissolved in honeyed haze. The world, unbuttoned, sang out loud— A symphony without a crowd. The madness bloomed in fields of flame, Where poppies whispered each one’s name. The trees danced...

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There will be days when no one will grasp the depth of your hidden feelings, and that's okay, a silent complicity that embraces your soul like a cloak of mystery, days when your words will get lost in the ether, no matter how loudly your heart longs to be heard, and that's okay, an echo that returns only...

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When poets fall into silence, humanity will lose not just its voice, but the very essence of Life, soaked in the pain of fallen kin, surrounded by the tumult of fears that dance like shadows on the cold stone-like asphalt, a poet dips their pen in tears of silver. He had a name, a name that echoed like...

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The Penguin, a fowl, quite absurd, With his brollies, he'd flap, never stirred. He'd quack with a sneer, "My plans are quite clear!" Then trip on his own, feathered word. ©bfa032125 (The Penguin in Batman) ...

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