Category: Uncategorized

Read Poetry: THE DREAM FLIGHT, by NIKITA HEMANI

In the dim lights of those deep dark nights,
I kept scuffling some imaginary fights.

In my mind, there’s a riptide,
It didn’t let your thoughts rest aside.

It screwed up my mind,
And eventually gave a chill down my spine.

I was scared to board my dream flight,
Cause i was afraid of those heights.

But the dilemma required me only to chase those heights,
To let me assure that our dreams decorated there, are all fine.

So, putting all the guts from my side,
I decided to catch my own dream flight.
Because I’ve never liked,
If the nightmares dared to snatch my rights.

Suddenly, the flight took me off,
To fly on the cloud nine.
And showed me how the stars shine bright,
That too, on the same scary night.

PENNED BY- NIKITA HEMANI
INSTA HANDLE- @nicky_hemani

Read Poetry: August 14th, by Christian Castaneda

I fought bears to reach the peak.
My worst enemy, conquered.
At peace within, I’ve killed the ego and faced the shadows.
Serene and Whole.
Symbolic, Spiritual & Infinite.
Rightfully so, the views and gifts fit for all the kings and queens.
Among the peaks, hawks own their flight.
Gliding in their freedom.
Emotional baggage dropped, eloquently drifted,
Reminiscing on those shooting stars, the final night.
I have forgiven myself, so let’s sit in our power;
Vast, Just, Beautiful & Thankful.

Poetry by Avijeet Das

“From centuries ago before the dawn of civilization, I have been wandering. I am the wanderer. I can’t stay at one place. I am destined to wander from place to place!

And I keep wandering in search of a nothingness. The river embraces me and guides me to swim inside her and to drink the nectar of love from her bosom. She tells me her secrets and I tell her mine. She makes me sensitive and soft.

The mountain greets me with respect and guides me to traverse the rocks and crevices of its body! He is strong and vigorous and he appreciates my stamina and toughness.

After dusk in the night, the stars smile at me and they show me light to travel in the darkness. They tell me their stories and I tell them mine.

The moon embalms me with her love and she kisses me good night. The nightingale sings her song of love when I take rest in the arms of darkness in the night!

And after the dawn of the morning, the sun greets me and acknowledges my spirit and strength!
I am the wanderer and I keep wandering in search of a nothingness.

I am the wanderer and wandering is my destiny!”

― Avijeet Das

Read Poetry by Girish Gupta

I walk in the shadow of a cloud

of you, of your memories screaming loud

Of us, of that night and of the pedals of my car

Of my foot on accelerator while the break’s a little far

Of you, and of your pain and of your hand on mine

Of the world slowing down, of being lost in time

Of me withering away, of not being dead yet not alive

Of grabbing the keys that night saying “I’ll drive”

Of your eyes not shining as you lay on your bed

Of you unable to hear my apology being said

Of you in a coma, while I got away with just a scar

Of how different we were, yet how similar we are

You lie there silent while i read poems of you

Of the bracelet you had, and I did too

Of us and friendship and how faithful you are

Of how I’m still sad, and you’re my only star

I wanna see you smile, jumping away every noon

But all I can yet say is that I hope you get well soon

Read Poem: THE SWAN, by Jackie M

The Swan glides effortlessly across the River
The only sign, rings on the water that look as though the River shivers

Six cygnets by their side
Protecting their young, their eyes cast far and wide.
Fear for their young makes them angry
Makes them shriek and shrill
Don’t get too close they will bite you with their bill

On a good day though, you will see them, displaying their feathers magnificently
Wings out wide and neck held high
As they prepare to leave the waters and take to the sky

The Swan so full of grace
You really do enhance our space.

Read Poem: Gyroidal Women, by Aurora Eden

It comes as no surprise that we turn away from this whirl
How we burn and turn through the Kali Yuga,
Spinning as women do

As the time comes to observe what we’re making
With our hands and breath—
Past enemy lines.

And we contemplate how to strengthen the torus field—
How to turn inward and see
With the heart.

It is the Gyroidal Women, they are crowning the men
Who have risen and dared to serve and protect
The holy of holies, the golden spiral of women.

As it comes as fire and ice, on the days of trial and tribulation
Yet, embedded in the feminine will, is the courage to preserve
The web of life, on earth as in heaven.

Planets rotate from inner space; they sing above the ashes
Miles of walking and talking at the cost of our lives
To hear the quiet humming of the mother’s wrath.

Read Poem: HE LOOKS HUMAN TO ME, by Elly Paul A. Tomas

the news megaphones he is sporting a new look
i wanted to react like WTF, is that even news?

he is buying wet market carcasses in candid photos

gamely

like it was not expected for him to do so
like he is not eating
like he lives on astronaut’s food pills

but Pablo Neruda would probably say
“at least, it’s no longer a difficult time for him”

and sure enough, i would agree

i would agree.

Read Poem: OUR LEGACY?, by Andrew Smith

I think about the future,
I think about the past,
I think about the little ones,
That seem to grow up fast,
I think about their years to come,
And the world in which they’ll live,
And I think about the legacy,
Our generation hopes to give.

But what will be that legacy,
That gift we’ll leave behind,
These things we deem important,
For the furtherance of mankind,
As we rush headlong in denial,
See things through blinkered eyes,
And in our wake we’ll leave dead seas,
And toxic polluted skies.

We’ll kill off the pollinators,
Raise the forests to the ground,
We’ll build our concrete jungles,
And say that they’re New Towns,
An opportunity for all to live,
How can we be so blind,
To destroy the things that we all need,
For the future of mankind.

So I think about the future,
And I think about the past,
I think of all the little ones,
That may not grow so fast,
For their future is looking bleaker,
Unless we open our eyes to see,
That a sad and dying planet,

Will be the legacy that we’ll leave

Read Poem: NinE, by Aaron Lee Graves

I just received some new batteries to kick-start my heart, I’m not writing for flatteries because it’s actually a tragedy—that I’ve been living like I’m dead.

I’ve been given a sedative but it’s time for me to let live; let it ride; before I die:

Proceed with caution, because what I’ve got inside is a terrifyingly beautiful ride.
It’s a little unusual, a spiritual tide, a rituals original,
and now the only that’s pitiful is when I sleep at night,
leaving a table full of things I coulda done,
things I shoulda said, love I could’ve expressed,
but that was then, this is now.
I’m not dead, I’M NOT DEAD.

I’m done not speaking my mind, I’m done being left behind, instead of looking for time to unwind, I’ve got to be kind and rewind my life like a video; tape:

off the crime scene;
Uh-Oh, my anger revealed itself,
and all of its wealth that’s been pent up like a dragon hoarding it’s treasure. It’s but a horrific murder of the man I hate myself to be,
docile and apathetic,
a heretic spewing my own rhetoric when questioned about why I avoid the conflict of being;
anything but comfortable, always safe, never outspoken, always misunderstood.
Blood all around the pain is excruciating, separating a part that’s been bonded since I can remember;
all the trauma and anger that scared me as a child,
insinuating that peace is always just out of reach, and that fear is something to submit to.

But it’s fear that taught me to not rock the boat of which I’ve locked my soul below deck,
smothering it’s feelings and suffocating my urge to implode upon myself, or explode on those who love me.
You see the anger within these hands, it’s not hate, but the rage that’s necessary to kill the stubbornness inside myself that desires comfort instead of a destiny of giving love without fear.

It’s a painful process, but I’m making progress, in becoming who I’m born to be.

Once again, I ask you to bear with me- as I learn to bear my soul.
I must understand that my opinion matters, and with it, I can shape the life of great man. No longer a boy who’s afraid to be, afraid to speak up in fear stirring the waters. Afraid of causing a wave capable of capsizing the ship I’ve built which is ironically named “Relations”; as they are what I fear sinking the most.

I will learn to speak out, and for once maybe I’ll boast, for I know my heart and it’s intentions, and that is something worth a mention.

I need your help to remind me who I am, a living opportunity to express love, not just a hollow porcelain shell of a man living behind these hands.

Read Poem: About Her, by Lawrence Mathebula

Days in my thinking place, thee I saw
only
Faces of her;she stays than I do in me.
How long’s the day? The hours, slowly
seep!
How long the night? I struggle, to fall
asleep!
It’s more yourself, it occurs,
Thy countenance here recurs;
Thy spell prolongs, while beauty’s own
bold
Hands are a charm, as thee attracting,
holds
Thy fruit fertile and witchery full in her
Blood running warm today, the single
heir.
Thy parents life is seen;here thee are,
Full another one has yet, to pop a
flower.
Thy flowers to come, days in their
thinking place,
Those men shall too, dream of them in
their, days!