PENTECOST

Better a jungle in the head
than rootless concrete.
Better to stand bewildered
by the fireflies' crooked street;

winter lamps do not show
where the sidewalk is lost,
nor can these tongues of snow
speak for the Holy Ghost;

the self-increasing silence
of words dropped from a roof
points along iron railings,
direction, in not proof.

But best is this night surf
with slow scriptures of sand,
that sends, not quite a seraph,
but a late cormorant,

whose fading cry propels
through phosphorescent shoal
what, in my childhood gospels,
used to be called the Soul.

A City's Death By Fire

Derek Walcott

After that hot gospeller has levelled all but the churched sky,
I wrote the tale by tallow of a city's death by fire;
Under a candle's eye, that smoked in tears, I
Wanted to tell, in more than wax, of faiths that were snapped like wire.
All day I walked abroad among the rubbled tales,
Shocked at each wall that stood on the street like a liar;
Loud was the bird-rocked sky, and all the clouds were bales
Torn open by looting, and white, in spite of the fire.
By the smoking sea, where Christ walked, I asked, why
Should a man wax tears, when his wooden world fails?
In town, leaves were paper, but the hills were a flock of faiths;
To a boy who walked all day, each leaf was a green breath
Rebuilding a love I thought was dead as nails,
Blessing the death and the baptism by fire

ONE DAY LATER

One day later
My body will die
But in the distich of this poem
I wouldn’t acquiesce you alone

One day later
My voice wouldn’t be heard again
Yet among rows of this poem
I will steadfast investigate you

One day later
My vision will be unrecognized again
Yet, in the letter cracks of this poem
I’ll look for you forever

Aubade

 

As I would free the white almond from the green husk
So I would strip your trappings off,
Beloved.
And fingering the smooth and polished kernel
I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting.

Decade
When you came, you were like red wine and honey,
And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Now you are like morning bread,
Smooth and pleasant.
I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour,
But I am completely nourished.

a night without a wish

Sondhit

you are standing with an open door
the promises are on the floor
the wind is dead
there's no more life left

you can't feel the bones inside your flesh
all you got left is your mess
you can only hear your own breath
praying nothing but your death

the clouds are not moving
they just disappeared
only the moon is your salvation
but it remain voiceless in the dark

your standing here
feeling nothing
all is lost
all is gone
until the sun greets you in the morning
and hope starts to come..

And The Clock Ticks On

A cry in the dark
lonely, sad and sick
often thought of suicide

standing in front of the mirror
hollowed cheeks
skiny
balding
bring back the memory
of being humiliated

living on borrowed time
hiding in the shadow of disease
shunned by friends and relatives
you find precious little to live for


by :tiara

Roses are Red

Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
Carnations are Sweet
And so are you.

And so are they
That send you this
And when we meet
We'll have a kiss.

- Author Unknown -

The day

The day of love requires a companion,
But I find myself at this time all alone.
Words of sweet affection fill the morning
Like bells outside the windows of my room.

I don't know why I don't have someone with me.
I've loved and been loved through the restless years.
The mysteries of love I hold within me
Are a darkness unrelieved by moon and stars.

And yet I feel more love than I have ever
Felt within the circle of a kiss.
Love need not be a passion or a fever,
Nor does it need a hand for its caress.

Love does not require a companion.
It doesn't need an object or a home.
It flies above the ecstasy of morning
And fills the universe inside my room.

- Sholay -

A Love Poem

If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were lov'd by wife, then thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me ye women you can
I prize thy love more than whole mines of Gold.
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee, give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay,
The heavens reward thee manifold repay,
Then while we live, in love let's so persevere
That when we live no more, we may live ever.


-Ann Bradstreet