At dawn she stood in front of the door,
steaming cup inside of her hands,
she noticed a star in the eastern sky.
It was dancing brightly towards the earth,
or so it almost seemed to her.
“Venus” she thought.
For a while she remained, the star in her gaze.
The air still carried the chill of the night,
with the hint of a promise of a new day bright.
But her brain spun stories
of planets erased.
“Nonsense”, she mumbled.
She moved her limbs, collected her thoughts,
returned inside to continue her chores.
When her life got a blow
later that day, it took her only
Morrow calls the late sun to rise
to carry away the raw nights of ice
I failed the riches in bleakest of life
and buried the poorness in crustiest glaze
no pledge in faith
no want in love
and all the speeches remain the same
some would have been
some would have lost
it’s sorrow to day
and hardship to night
(In the forge of the earth,
a primrose may know)
(because sometimes I have more bills than income)
Sculptures © A. Tallil
Go to the king and pay your tithe
it’s wise it’s wise it’s wise it’s wise
no way around the lordship’s tills
it mills it mills it mills it mills
your groat is void and nothing but grime
without you gasping, it wanders in time
and if you do not fib or bribe
it joins the rich, but never your tribe
Go to the bank and pay your debts
it frets it frets it frets it frets
no way around those taxes’ bills
it kills it kills it kills it kills
your pennies are stocked in void and blank
without you puffing, they lose their rank
and if you do not fib or bribe
they go the rich, but never your tribe
Had longed to hear the colour’s song
had searched for substance in the light
had called the stars for comfort’s sight
but none so far had given way
so my heart’s howls would all allay.
Was tensed with worries of the bolt
was lost for darkness in my steps
was pained for gloom in all respects
but none so far had reached its aim
that this and all was not in vain.
Had borne the thoughts like cracks of dusk
had carried stones in head and soul
had dragged these bones as piles of coal
but none so far had come to ease
the fear of that futility’s breeze.
But when I turned my glance outside
and there, it was – undoubtedly bright
A rainbow touchdown in my yard.
(…no answers yet, if just a spark)
Drops of chant
leaves of mist
hands of light
have kissed our lives
and yet we do not realize
birds of airs
rivers of kind
words of light
have served our path
and yet we do not visualize
wanting and longing
always and ever lagging behind
until destruction lays its veil
upon what once seemed comfortably great
angels of earth
mountains of peace
eyes of aid
have kept our fate
and yet we do not sympathize
songs of dew
clouds of paint
whispers of dust
have lead our step
and yet we do not emphasize
wishing and hoping
always and ever casting about
until cessation lowers its bars
upon what once seemed crucially key
Not morrow and past
not sorrow; unending
always and ever making us bend
until we lose our sacred core
should ever define the here and us
it is up to us to legitimize
I know it’s age
that runs away on riverbeds
your patterned swimsuit
on my mind
I was so small and you so tall
now I have grown into the sky
left you there on shifting sand
pebbles roll beneath your feet
and waters lick around your calves
Why does the tide not stay away?
Why do you have to drift along?
I cannot swim to rescue you
out of a lifetime’s ocean
Each creek does find the sea it needs
I learned this from the tales you’ve told
and yet how could I not foresee
that drops and people flow the same?
I’m just allowed to let you float
and send some lonely tears with you
One day my creek will follow yours
and find the ocean that you know
There are many sights to Wonderful
many names to God
many views to Life
There are many hues to Colourful
many sounds to Earth
many believes to Men
and all are shares of Beautiful
It is the hope for a window agleam in an open house
when tundra nights stretch beyond the morrows
It is the hope for a roof ahead in a faithful land
when libellous streets curl beyond the frontiers
It is the hope for a raft afloat in a placid ocean
when hungry waves crash beyond the shores
It is the hope for a cloud adrift in a lucent sky
when furious storms lash beyond the heavens
It is the hope for a seed alive in a friendly soil
when barren sands rush beyond the gardens
It is the hope for a song aloud in a mellow hall
when fatal quiet reaches beyond the gates.
Who says if all is set and done
when just one voice can crack the dawn?
Who sets the rules of whole and grail
when just one glance can tear the veil?
Who carries the law of right and wing
when just one thought can down the king?
If no one can tell of truth and prayer
why be afraid to turn and dare?
a rip in the haze
a split in the rays
a seed in the bloom
a room in the womb
a print in the cloud
one drop in the air
one line in a prayer
one seat in a town
one gem in a crown
one truth in a lie
we deal with life’s board
to lift off the sword
that hangs as a threat
and tend to forget
what is our lot
This post was written for Sakshis’ Blog, which you can find here. She is (in her own words) “An Electrical Engineer by profession, A poet at heart, A drama queen in real life” and has many brilliant ideas. One such idea was to write a poem for each letter of the alphabet. She invited others to choose a letter and to contribute a guest poem on her blog. This is my contribution. I choose the letter Q. This post is also an opportunity to introduce one of my other passions in life: To make collages of all sorts of material, for example cardboard or things I find in thrift stores or flea markets:
Quench your Qualms
and Quibble not;
Quit to Quaver
and ignore the Quandary.
Start your Query
and Quest for truth …
then life will follow to the Quick
Do not be Quaint
nor be Quadruped;
and ponder your Quotes.
Find that Quality
in Queerest Quarters…
then you will get that Quid pro Quo
Embrace the Quirky
and do not Quip;
search for Quiet
and use your Quickness.
Quiz all Quantity
and Quite each thing…
then Queendom surely is to come…
I am Northwest
the moss of the tree
the damp, the dark, the direful me;
the one that only the brown owl can see…
will keep you away.
I am Southeast
the grape of the vine
the luscious, the luring, the magical kind;
the one for which all creatures do pine…
will both reel you in.
And if your compass is out of control
you may well have lost the cardinal pole
There is no need to look for direction
as I am far gone from any detection