Here I sit, fog-eyed from yesterday's
Wine; the last sounds made still in my
Ears; her laughing at my reply

When she asked why I was getting
Out of bed: "To go jogging," and when
She love-sarcastingly giggled, I

Laughed back: "I love you, but ****
You," and she laughed even more, and
I'll be ****** if that sentence itself

Isn't as much poetry as anything else.
Her, love and I; all three together at
All times, bruising and scratching

And moving in bed, or hand in hand
Asleep on the sofa, still fog-eyed from
Yesterday's wine and having

Had enough of everything the world
Has to offer lovers on a Sunday morning.
Sometimes poetry is the only

Remedy for Life. Sometimes poetry is
The only voice in the world.
The sound of the love between us.

The act of fingertip on touch screen
Etching a moment into cyberstone; quill
Of 2015, chisel of Today.

Sometimes poetry is our newborn;
Love manifested; product of our
Scratched, bruised morning hours.

Are you writing about me, she asks.
I lie.
*No.

you have to be careful
what you put in your pomes
and how you word your critiques

some poets are unique
and their retorts
are silenced

like their critics.

/
Thou Create Spaces
Within Thou
Barren Fields
Garden
It is born
Many trees
Flowers
Fruits
And do Thou
A mistake,
When thou plucks
The Flower
From the tree

The lesson of
Nature
Moves you to
Open Sky
Into the waves
Of Sea
Into the Black Shale
Of Paleozoic
Ripples
And reach the
Thoughts
In the home
Of Star

Now thou have
Learned
To count Stars
Move to
Get beyond,
Of which
May be found
The Edge
Of the Spaces
One Day
/*
@ Musfiq us shaleheen