Category: Uncategorized

Performed by Val Cole

The Shepherd’s Song by Bruce Waddell

I cannot cross

It is not water but language that divides us

French is not my tongue

Canteloube’s Occitan beyond me

The composer stands his ground

He alone can make this work.

From the first bar I am lost to the world

For six minutes twenty seven seconds

On the soaring voice

Of Frederica Von Stade

Carried by her operatic tongue

I understand the idyllic the ancient shepherd lived

Floating on air the maiden’s warning

Reaches the far side of the river

And breaks the shepherd’s isolation

No longer alone with his sheep,

In love

With the melody lightly hovering over the meadow

Wake up and live – I was told today.
Ignite a transformation, to be built.
When an event happens and tears may fall.
You won’t know what to do,
Until the moment occurs when you realise,
The end isn’t the end.
It’s a birth of a new beginning, of another adventure.
You’re a vessel,
Your soul will become a state-of-the-art.
When that arises and you go forth into your stages of healing.
You will be reborn into another.
All you will think of is the worse at times.
Fall into darkness so to speak.
But your path remains to be continued.
However, you wish it to be.
You’ll shake, fears will grow, hurt will manifest,
But you’re still breathing.
So, exhale, pursue the outlook of what’s to come.
You may be a vessel of short stories, long adventures or one night.
But remember this,
You’re the vessel to your own soul.
Be the human you want to be.
Fight for the mystery’s and moments in which scare you.
Explore this moment in time,
Let the universe take you on its wonderful adventures.

Alia Kassem @chasingthepoesi

Mirror mirror

What is this reflection I see
That of
This man whos image is just like me
Enriched melanin skin
Strong features
Same bulb eyes staring back at me
More silver upon his crown
Other than that
The carbon copy of me
Where you been
O.G
O.Geez
Its been hard out here
alone on these
CoLd harD streetz
With
No one for me
To model myself after
For a long time these
Mirror Mirrors
Had forgotten
The image of me
Took a while
To come to terms with
Features so unique
Ignoring that the source
Was ever so strong in me
O.g
Oh geez
Where you been
I battled demons alone
Inherited unto me
By a forebearer unknown
without a throne
Astrology alone
teaching me
what a lion king I truly could be
Pushing aside all sadness
Inviting in all badmindness
Just to survive this madness
Product of a broken home
Asphalt paths roamed
Incorrect figures followed
Holding on to hopes
That knowledge would flow into my wide open dome
It was never so
Continued to wander alone
Dashed dreams
Lost hope
Lost days
Mirror mirrors
Reflecting plenty of rain
WIthdrawn deep within
Masking all my pain
Mind swirling
Asking the same questions over and
Over again
O.G
Oh geez
Where you been
I had been on a vertical dissension
Downwards
Deep within the valley of sin
I pulled myself up from the ashes
LIke a phoenix
Rising high above men
Resurrected
Mentally reprogrammed
Re booted and
corrected
No physical assistance
Mental strength
Ambition and persistence
Genetically imprinted
Gifts passed down unto me
Inadvertent traits
Mirror mirrors
Where unable to see nakedly
Genetic imprints
That helped uplift
A soul lost and alone like me
O.G
Oh geez
If only you had been here to see
No explanation necessary
For through my mirror mirrors
Much has been seen
I realize
you have lived and survived
the same stress and strife
just like me
I had been awaiting this day
Still my
mirror mirrors find it hard to believe
The image that they see
That of a man who looks just like me
Enriched melanin skin
Strong features
Same eyes as me
More silver upon his crown
Other than that
The carbon copy
of me
O.G
Oh geez
Where you been

Richard
Aundrae
Copyright © 2020

Mumma, Mumma,
Madhav chants eagerly.
Why is there watery falloff ???
From aloft sky,
So hastily & carelessly.
Switch the tap off,
Oh! Dear Mother!!
Madhav pointed strictly.
Be gracious at his pristine modality,
By same token reciprocated placidly.
Oh! My dear Madhav,
Dark clouds and thunder lighting
supervene with hail,
Signifies soothing monsoon
has splendidly nailed.
What Mumma did you just said??
Is it Moon..&…Sun on same earth bed..
He gave a good whirl,
Synchronously lighting made him thrill.
I tightly embraced him,
and cracked my will.
Oh! My dear, come a little near.
I will surely try, to answer all your pry.
Monsoon is a fruitful boon,
We get relief from scorched full noon.
Hot pakoras embedded with dhaniya chutney,
Are mouth-watering eatables over the spoon.
Chirruping birds and dancing peacocks,
Rhythmic and serene nature enjoyed by frogs.
Glare of greens and scenic beauty
are like soothing eye drops,
Mean moment Madhav rushed to
make vivid paper boats.
Oh!! Dear Son !
Scattered splashy paper boats on watery floors ,
Seems prismatic refraction of light from doors.
Madhav giggled and toddle around,
Pointing on the pelting pitter-patter sound.
Knavishly he hopped into aqueous slurry,
I just giggled at his puerility.
Oh!! Dear Madhav,
Tell me won’t you feel??
Weather with frigid breeze
and rainy drizzle, imply divine ‘ivory’.
Nodding his head up and down,
Says little Madhav,
Hey Mom!! Monsoons should wear
all weather’s’ crown.
Drift in “watery falloff” perception,
To “all weather crown” actualization.
Is simply I say “what an irony”,
Oh!! Little Madhav you jot down.

a burst of lovely yellows hopes
a star of the stunning sky.
them, looking down
upon the other flowerets,
cultivated by bonsai.

anchored in the substrata it stems
more than shoulders, more than heights.
verdant green leaves of which look
less like lance-ovate but my heart,
lumpish and ever fertile.

course hairs run all along its surface,
leaves ticklish and sandpaper-like.
blowing in the air of poetry, mumbling me-
” faulty aren’t always the thorny roses, but
also, us, who you poets never describe.”

soon the field calls for an Aster romance,
the sun crosses the horizon and them, their paths.
blossoming may have the entire garland
but sunflower of the Peach Passion
has it’s picturesque vehement too.

―Kartik Prajapat

With cities, without fumes.

With oceans, without plastic.
With horizons, without warships.
With nations, without states.
With history, without victors.
With heroes, without fiction.
With anarchy, without panic.
With kindness, without limits.
With wealth, without banks.
With tuition, without fee.
With pleasure, without vice.
With poems, without lies.
With truth, without pain.
With stories, without end.
With wars, without guns.
With gods, without cults.
With Hell, without a soul.
With Heaven, without curfew.
With you, without debts.
With us, without haste.

Walking in an alley.

It’s nothing new.

Just something I do to get through

the tough times.

Emotions marinate like steak, I

think I need some tenderizing.

There’s no timing like perfect timing

but, striving to be perfect

is like driving a car into the horizon.

You’ll never drive by it.

Maybe that’s why it’s

so hard to heal my heart.

Because people aren’t perfect.

And it’s hard to find closure

when I feel like putting the work in isn’t worth it.

I mean, if real conversations aren’t willing to be had

then, what is the purpose?

I know that actions speak louder than words

but, words aren’t worthless.

Sometimes, in order to heal we

need to peel open the seal and

talk about things

that are below the surface.

Genres: Family, Friendship, Hurt, Life, Pain, Relationships, Rhyme,

https://thelearnerin.wordpress.com/

To my dear sweetheart,
with lots of love…

I want you near me

So that every moment I can share,

My thoughts and my feelings

Every moment will be special,

Just spare some time from your routine…

I am fantasizing that night,

Where, I shall be close to you…

Sleeping between your arms

And some little cuddles…

I will be waiting for you.

Your presence shall warm up my night!

And a perfect candle light dinner…

Imagine!

A silent night will allow us to be together,

Our words shall meet our lips.

Two cocktail glasses for brandy…

And a contextual music playing…

And…

How about a sentimental ballad?

A slow couple dance…

Music on, “perfect”

In a romantic mood ,

Your hands against my waist

Holding me tight!

Lip-locked!

Sounds amazing…

Wish, that nightfall is coming soon

Awaiting, dreaming to meet you, darling

And, I am sorry if I have hurt you someday…

Trust me,

My love will never die even if you leave me

My passionating heart needs you honey…

~Navaparna💕

In my hand I hold a tissue as I talk to you
I play with it even though it’s already seen its use
Its texture is dampened but uncompromised
From its introduction to the corner of my eyes
But now it rests between my fingers
And is delicately folded over and over

Talking still, I place it down and spread it over my lap
I tug the corners to ensure that it is properly flat
Then I fold it in half, making sure it’s creased neatly
Then again and again until its folded symmetrically
Now it’s layered as thick as a wedding cake
But compact as my hands wished it to be made

The more I speak, the more I’m shorter of breath
But now I’ve got the tissue rolled up like a cigarette
I twist it like a towel and spin it around
I turn it over, side to side and upside down
I give it more thought than this conversation
What would you think if you saw me in this condition?

The end draws near and the rivers on my cheeks have begun to dry
But the tissue remains in my grasp and I don’t know why
How can my tears be carried by something so paper-thin?
What was it for if it just ends up in the bin?
It must have been some chat for my mind to stray so far
If only tissues could hide the weeping of my heart

You send up a flare everywhere you go,

walking under the cathedral’s arch,
in the anonymous grocery store line,
at work on an insufferable Tuesday.

Look at me, look at me, look at me.

With God’s love so close, it would seem unnecessary,

this somber cry for recognition, though somehow
I doubt God is put off,

rather, more than gratified that in the flesh of things,

in the very skin of your history,

you find the grace to connect,

to bridge the silent passages from one day to the next with a body,

someone whose voice you can hear, and not be thought crazy,

as the saints were thought crazy in their age.

The fire that burns beneath all fires
is for a rare and courageous breed,

like the ecstatic early Christians

whose love of God was so intense,

they gladly flung themselves into the pit.

Or poets of a certain stripe,
dancing around their own
kind of fire, offering fervent verse

whose humble prayer may transform into
a more luminous light,

one that will cause a catch in the Lord’s throat,

should He be so moved.

I digress. We speak here of the flesh,

the unrelenting ache, the touch of hands,

the body’s own potent salve.

You send up a flare everywhere you go,

in search of a sacred gift,

one the angels can never know.