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Neither my father nor my mother knew
the names of the trees
where I was born
what is that
I asked and my
father and mother did not
hear they did not look where I pointed
surfaces of furniture held
the attention of their fingers
and across the room they could watch
walls they had forgotten
where there were no questions

Were there trees
where they were children
where I had not been
I asked
were there trees in those places
where my father and my mother were born
and in that time did
my father and my mother see them
and when they said yes it meant
they did not remember
What were they I asked what were they
but both my father and my mother
said they never knew
 Aug 2015 Suzy Hazelwood
ThePoet
I don't wish
for myself to die,
but I wish that
I was never born
I wouldn't die
after I'm broken,
but I'd be dead
before I'm torn

©
Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,
Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold,
Let it be forgotten for ever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.

If anyone asks, say it was forgotten
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall
In a long forgotten snow.
...
..
Much before the door closed
Can be seen regularly when walking on the road
Though dark, see the mass of trash
But did not hear any noise ever

On the side of the sky touch wall
My constant movement
Though shadow yet trademark cynicism
I can go away even closed eyes

Closed eyes within the dark
Yet unbelievable, but brings a dream
A dream within the dark,
See a diamond crystal
Where only light and light dispersion
From each dimension

Suddenly, in dream
I am in front of the closed door,
See a footprint,
Known voice with tune,
Can hear the illusive song

Now neither there exists any tall wall
Nor any closed door in the mind
...
..
~
Whatever you say,
You do not delete the date stain on your skin
Over time it may likely to paly
Just think as the sun on the sky
But on the night when do not
Surely, somewhere else, off course in a different way
Or she has hidden behind the clouds

In the dark night,
Again she has arrested as the moon
Today, with the silky light of her,
Laughing this lake,
Bathing the distant hills,
Singing my lost heart,
Reminding the lost poetry

Her form among the many forms
How many words within the words,
The words of lost days
Her light, shines my love

The write which was only for her,
As the unfinished metaphors of poetry
Which has yet to emit moonlit
From the moonlight in a full moon night   

As if a prisoner who breaks down the wall of a dark circle
As if she has come to very near to my old door,
Light has fallen on her faded face again,
As well as the known mind of ours
Which is quite impossible to remove
Even yet that has proven the existence of eternal love
~
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Rare riddles are oft bittersweet,
a never ending search for poisonous feed,
sand greyish desert coloured ****,
so many studies, not edible this seed?

Emeralds green in forrests deep,
sunken wood drifted apart and seep,
mortal words that never sleep,
in a city full of leaks.

cherished thoughts wandering celestial high,
whose orphans are these lost kids…sigh….
flickering fields, amish nigh;

shiverings on personal corpses,
numb of words, ah… stunts in shortest.

The words refused to be arranged as it must.
I lost my commands of the words, no, it’s no plus,
these words mock mankind as their playful lust,
sorry, now I can only say in the past tense:" Friends, 'twas....."



©  SYLVIA FRANCES CHAN
Wednesday 3rd June 2015
PF on 29th May 2015 -13.24 hrs.pm.
[ Do you love flowers? ]

Honestly speaking, I do love flowers,
not the ones I have to give showers.
I do like beautiful flower gardens and more,
not the ones I have to mow oft or to care good for.

I love to go walking every morning,
to watch all birds in the trees singing and fluttering.

Walking along emerald meadows, where diamonds do grow.
All kind of gems and flowers, according to my list, you know.

One special kind attracts my attention,
in fact I never care, but this time it was never my intention
to discover such delicate jewel, these rare flowers
a reddest colour was smiling at me lovingly, all hours.

Do I wish to turn my eyes from this flower or not,
I took paces back to be on that hottest spot.
Why does this flower attract mine attention?
since it was looking at me with such fine perfection.

Oh, you have never seen such a most wonderful plant,
this is only able, I reckon, through God's greatest grant.

This flower had such a beauty of its own, it did not pose,
a jewel of a flower, as red, as wild and most beautiful.

As a gem, a jewel of a flower, it did never pose
it is a mesmerizing wild rose most beautiful….
….most passionate.....my ardent Rose….




© Sylvia Frances Chan
Copyright protected
Sunday, the 5th of July 2015
4.30 hrs a.m. WETime.
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