Nary a doubt must your heart murmur Whereby the creatures of the sky gather to feed on heaven's abundance in the open. Come forth my love, Rest easy your frets. In light steps must your form find me, Resting in sweet surrender inside Earth's sweet bower.
'Tis here Gaia summons the wind, On a conch dazzling with rhinestones, And the sky in pearly reverence weeps, to witness her nameless divine. She walks in lithe grace and the hills and mountains tremble in adoration while grasses part in delight to make way for her gazelle feet.
What gaiety must the sunflower feel when the bees cluster to woo her affection 'neath the amber sun! What delight it is to have the wind kiss my flaming cheeks the colour of a cherry!
Anxious beats my heart, waiting for your footfalls. When your form finds my outstretched arms, I shall bedeck your tresses with stars and kiss away the city's smog from thine eyelashes and poetry shall find us running among golden fields serpentine cities, could never truly understand.
October arrived early this morning, A superstar in gucci gold robes, Whispering sweet promises of a full stacked granary before the Sun's nightly slumber. My thoughts wander towards the empyrean, a flamboyant enchantress dressed in cobalt blue, she floats and sings the bashing Sun a serenade, I think I feel the tip of my ears burning. The birds, in jubilation, breaks into a chorus of hallelujahs, a tune that sets my heart racing. It is morning like this Peace finds me, beneath the wizened tree in sweet repose, when the Earth's a tranquil mother, waking to the sound of her children's laughter. She smells of damp soil and rosemary thyme, a concoction my nostrils in acceptance sniffs to. And so I sit in awe, tasting the bliss of solitude on my tongue's tip while the lone leaf the old tree clings to, dreams of a spring that was promised to him.
Behind a broken heart waits an aging sun, plotting to break free from the insipid cloud's claw and run on feet that defies gravity. But Broken, I tell you, is a homeless vagrant, battling the sea with a lion's heart even if Hope smirks at him perilously poised on live crackling wires.
There's a river flowing inside his heart that feels empty because Life in it sleeps in a trance to a sad lullaby Orpheus played on his lyre. He waits for his darling's kisses on a spring day, when the purple crocuses will bloom and tickle awake the sleeping fishes and the river in him will again pulsate to his lover's touch.
If my poetry doesn't rhyme, would you still care to sway along to its emotions?. This is an unrhymed poem for broken hearts because battered hearts still beat beneath troubled waters, Perhaps a little slow, but then a rhythm it picks up, when you find the right beat to groove to it and make it your own.
Talking about writer's block and Bukowski yesterday made me remember this. This is a reworked version of a "poem" I had earlier posted on my "other" account. Some of you may have read it. Edit: @writersnetwork it's been long Thank you for the repost ♥️ #benecc
Twenty-six seasons of wintry indifference and Life begins feebly at the heart of a titanium wheelchair.
This must be solitude, I tell my wheelchair, as I sip the cheery red horizon of a fading sundown. This could be solitude but misery clings on my skin like an old dissatisfied lover, fearing rejection.
We take a roll down the hills, My wheelchair and I. And I wonder, should the sky come crashing and bury us six feet under, would I still have the clouds to crochet a shroud for me to sleep in?
Twenty-six seasons of grieving Autumn's fall and it took Death's frosty breath to jarr awake my bones. This must be freedom but my legs stay suspended mid-air and my knuckles pop under the weight of my apocalyptic percepience.
Twenty-six seasons of living in blindfold indifference and the unadulterated wind sits for the first time on the tip of my tongue. I crawl, lamefooted towards where the damp soil beckons, and feel, for the first time, life gurgling inside my bulging veins.
So, this is personal but being sick for almost two months nearly made me go bald and I had to get a hair cut. It left me sentimental. @writersnetwork thank you for the repost and the ec. Ben adores you ♥️ #benecc
Once when I was young, I chased amber sunsets in my rainbow bicycle along the green hills I called home. Oh! But the ding dong of my bike's sing song made Old Yueri chuckle boyishly.
Once when I was young, I'd fashion hairdos out of mama's precious muslin scarves and wear her black stilettos to wobble around the kitchen, much to Papa's delight and mama's exasperated mortification.
Once when I was young, the marigolds and the hyacinths in our backyard stood taller than me and I'd stare and stare in green envy till (I fancy) I morphed into them and grew flowers out my bedazzled orbs.
Once when I was young, I raced in glee to the mountain's call. Perched atop his shoulder, I cupped my hands and yodelled aloud my love and pranced in mirth to hear the birds the animals echo back their love to me.
And now I've outgrown the flowers. The mountains, I love, grow houses out of them. But should I meet a fairy who'd humour me, I'd like to go back to chasing butterflies barefoot under the golden autumn sun every dreamy eve.
I was running To see my self, to hear that voice To smell the aroma and live my life My mom i don't know any thing about her Life they say it was dark and unsatisfying I remember her walking towards that night I saw some one with the moon light I think that was the last time when i cried For some one and i remember your hand was so warm and tight... Now i am running in this madness I see no one in my life May be this is the end....of my sacrifice Of course you were a witch I am not, hi did you erase my memories Of our life, i don't stand in front of this world I see my blue eyes i see you and i don't die....
I mirrored my life one look in my eyes Now i want some blood in front of my eyes
It's the red strands that keeps you awake at 2:45 am scarring you like the letters from your last lover. As time smelled of poison infused roses. It's the red strands that keeps you awake at 3 am as we walk in the land of dandelions, murdering metaphors and insomnia. It's the red strands that keeps you awake at 3:15 am as rain falls like jinxes of the witch with red wine eyes. It's the red strands that keeps you awake at 3:30 am hallucinating about the half contagious smile of yours, as I get tangled between your sacred thoughts.