Inside of us you should always reign
with poetry given the main game
the lamenting heart of a stars heart
like chorus in a distant land
echoing through your star lite chamber
Compassionate parts of poetry of tomorrow...
Capable of infinite sorrow
expressive eyes that see
such kindness
as much as me...

To be special in an indifferent world
makes no difference in your million years
In the mire of your worlds
you hang on to every syllable
when hurt comes in shades
you write and weep in your poetry...
A poet's life, not understood
many shake their heads and go
as each poet's days on paper are born
carrying a message to another's day
the immortal message maker of beauty
fires the souls of God's art, that cries for me...
Through my poetry my heart has grown
contacts are many that share their life
seek their poetry through each strife
sweet to all our visions giving air of love
surrounded by a blazing sphere of sweet doves ..

We've heard from
Abraham, Jesus,
Mohammad and Selassie;
God!
If we'd heard a humble apology
For the pre-emptive strike
In Eden, way back then,
It would have saved us all
A lot of grief.

Tracing parallel lines of fate
this upcoming moment
weaves fabrics of mutual experiences
as we carry on
our separate ways
together

A voice
of thousands of voices
my voice
tangles the clusters of my thoughts
strangles my cognition
twists my vision

Can you hear it

Across thousands of miles I found
In jungle of uncertainty
a grove of serenity
Amid dessert of desperation
an oasis of satisfaction

Who you are
is everything I've been striving for

When the sun goes dim
And the sky rains fire

I will be here
Walking beside you
like spindrift tracing ocean waves
Put my arms around you
like canyon embracing blast from the plain

Amongst
the city grids of dusts
the canopy of ashes

We suffocate
melt
integrate
into each other
Rise, and roam
beyond the vastest atmosphere
conquest, and dwell
above lands and seas

Feed me, as my heart
falls in bitter hunger
Caress me, as my flesh
burns in blazing desire

Deep down the abyss of the inner me
A voice shouting restlessly

I need you
I need you

Can you hear me

~~~

The unsung heroes
They work every day
Without complaint
At a job with low pay.

There are not many are out there
Who place their laurels
On the person who's right
But ends a quarrel.

It takes a person
Internally strong
To accept a defeat
And say they were wrong!

Those little things matter!
But don't get much ink
Like the husband who shaves
And cleans up the sink!

The mother who picks up
The toys from the stairs
The wife who cleans drains
And removes the hair.

The child who sees
That grandma is old
And therefore replaces
The toilet roll!

The boyfriend who remembers
The day of first date
A girl who pays dutch
To help out her mate.

Remember that you
Are needed and wanted!
So many small tasks
Are taken for granted.

At last the bell
Is taken and rung
For the persons who do this...

... *the heroes unsung.

But what would life be like without these encounters?
The spark of passion ignites that which is supreme in the patina of our days, of our years, of our very being.
It comes and it goes...but in going it hovers in a spangled irridescence just beyond the now and endures in this special place, until the day we die.
M.

I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.

she came
when seeds were not yet sown
the sky had not ****** the river
clouds were far away from rain.

she came
when heart was mere flesh
eyes had not known rainbow
and mind was just a wayward place.

she came
when door was only wooden frame
autumn was blooming shy veiled
romance was yet to wear a name.

she returned
there was darkness gathering

love is she forever searching.

My world is not of the written word
It cannot be numbered
held captive on a so called page

My world is liquid
as sea , rain , snow or ice
It can be hot , cold , or entice

My world is cloudy
It thunders after it flashes light
My world is wrong , my world is right

There are no words that bind my life
I won't be delegated
to exist in the black on white

I will not be staved
by the limited sways
of the written words upon the page