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Bury me there

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Bury me there,
In times so Persian, and smells so Painting
Let me reborn with with Shekure,
and Black, the epitome of love,
if such exists in this world or any.
Say them as red and blue,
smelling of paints and smelling of stories
Let me live with them.

Love, said much more about it.
Believe them true,
But then dream never of being buried there.
Between the lines.
That’s strange place for
you to live your death.

But, bury me there.
Or don’t let me die, ever.

(For the beautiful people who have read ‘My name is red’)

 
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Posted by on January 1, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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I don’t know about waiting

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Apparently it is easier,
if used words are clear, and simple.
Lines are the search of my wait,
deliberately made readable,
in case you could help
me, and find what I am waiting.

Evenings suddenly becomes intimidating.
Darkness, I do enjoy, not fear.
But evening with shadows in puberty
asks about my wait.
My progress into the matter.
Matter? I learnt it is weight and space.
Nothing concerns me,
My wait is weightless and vacuum.

Say, I don’t know about my waiting.
True that, I don’t. Not even sure,
I am waiting.

Evenings are chasing, again before
another again begins.
I fake myself saying my waiting is
for a skill that could define me,
or an idea none said before.

Believe me, my wait is boring,
as it sounds to you.
Boring, and never time consuming.
The wait slow the ticks, sixty seconds is uninteresting.
Boring, and slow, and tasteless.
Long as unknown roads,
dull and disguised in harmless cruelty.
Boring, and dream-like.

My wait is something I don’t know.

 
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Posted by on December 28, 2015 in Poetry

 

Days ago, I Lost my Dog

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I lost my dog.
Passed have three choleric
and nomadic days,
together with restless, starless
and dreamless nights,
since my globes feasted the sight
of my precious.Likewise,
lost were periods
of breakfasts upon his bland barks,
sleep tangled to sleepless marks,
and prayers roped to his softness
in my toes.
Aye reader, Seen you tither he went?

Black, says people his color is,
rbbing the warmth of every eyeful,
and his honest eyes with same.
How he came of color such?
Wasn’t born so, Sure I am,
but maybe because of me?

Adorable.Amiable.Affable.
Words had leaked the premium miser tongues.
But Had he ever been so?
Before we knotted each other?
No, guess I. It was me.
Reader again, pursing eyes through lines,
look around and along,
he might be left or right to you.

Now lost is my dog and so is me.
What had If lost its identity too?
Barks. Beauty. Blackness.
How am I to spot it across the street?

Furthermore, Am I missing a point?
I missed the dog or he do me?
What if I ad been bestowed
of all greatness poetrised above
for that little of little creature,
and not the way around?
It dwells on certainity, I lost
those the moment my dog lost me.
With myself changed,
How will it run to me across the streets?

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Posted by on December 19, 2014 in Poetry

 

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Read Again

book of books

 

 

A pause mid busy breathings,
or quiescent midnight immensity,
time after time, pages turned slow.
A diplomatic justice to them,
as though eternal,stories are fragile,
and their birth is cautious.

Drawn were ample expanse hitherto,
tremored along yellow maplitho,
lived or died uprightly,
in dreams utopian or states dystopian,
as logic of words demanded.

Lest be said of the comfort, they showered,
likely as of in mother’s lap
which all of is known as lines of
stories or poems or plays.

Within the sentences hung to neologism,
the smell prevailed as Poe’s Raven,
or freezed as Caesar’s tableaux.
Drenching the time and space of entity obscure,
sanguine thoughts sunk in,
let duty they did, be guesswork.
In vicious tempest or tendor breeze,
pages turned slowly, and was read encore.

Page after page, truncheon ideas
cloaked amid lines, rised.
Delirium barked in, ramming
the chastity of silence, there until.
Riveted in strident stanzas,
rhymes were armours, held up.
The hushes of phrases, a revolution.
And those instants, wars fought bravely,
love stirred fervidly,
warmth won in dropped tears,
were freedom.

For inevitable cause, books may finish.
But way up from start to end,
is to begin again,
to read lines read before,
but a story, different.

wpid-913ba30275a85425cb8cffa46dbf9e0e.png

 
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Posted by on November 29, 2014 in Poetry

 

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Waiting

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At day’s rest, another dream started.
Strangled in top of mind concealed,
crafted in time transient as avowed,
hymns of dream brimmed in,
mislaid was a part of  her,
long before known, but remembered not.

Where did I subsist?
Stood frozen in snowcapped heights?
Or sat in fried desert sand,
as one of its kind?
Or waded in depth of sea?
Oh, reminiscence of consciousness
bother me less.

And the dream stayed abridged.
Black and white illusions swarm around,
awaiting the part missed,
for it makes them thrive inside me.

Waited me too,
For cloudburst to fall vigorously, forming
branches of  love across  my dream.
And for a roof versus cold and wind,
showing of venus and stars.

Bastilled in ticking of clock,
refined seconds, of which
myself stood stranger to world awake.
I’m still waiting for her part,
that would make us through.

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Posted by on November 22, 2014 in Poetry

 

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Ripples of Love

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Shimmering full moon proliferates
itself unto mix of hushed breeze,
was cause of which,
silent ripples induced in my lake.
Unknown of reason for reasons,
made me think of her,
these very ripples.

Pray luck,
for it incepts from nil,
alike the smile sprouts in her.

Pray luck,
for it convulges to infinity,
matched to love divined in her.

Ripples spanning, it is everywhere.
In words left unspoken
later died tangled to tongue.
In sights she conferred,
illuminating the selfsame as
moon does to lake, tonight.
In love I offered,
or, she seized,
of inside hidden is a
million more loves,
replicating otherselves,
furthermore reflecting the
galaxy of replicas,
and kindred of those in lakes, never ending.

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Posted by on October 2, 2014 in Poetry

 

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Lullabies in The Streets Mourn

laila_al_shoa

 

#supportgaza

They say, my lullabies impair plus than
menacing propulsion of lead sling, a lot more.
Oh my poor lullabies! Oh my dear lullabies!
Let these streets mourn your demise.

Sang you was of only the unrequited love,
glittered in this green grass tips,
spraying the revision of peace,
damped to flat by pacing boots, in brutality.

Weep you was of the naivety
in my son’s minuscule fingers forced
to hold on hardness of a grenade,
Forgetting the wimpy elation of dolls
he played on with the past moment.

Praised you was of my mother’s defiance,
bearing the hundreds of bodies,
which on each piercingly labelled
of the frith fruited in the dark redness,
long left unqualified to instigate.

The time had come, oh my lovely lullabies!
A time long awaited to deflower
the mines blossomed in these garden,
to drain the lakes smelling of blood and bones,
to stop the silence from being guillotine.

I pray the lullabies to defiant as ever more,
to echo through these streets no-ever lasting,
to raise hands in unison,
to live in our veins for hope bestowed.

And at this time,
Burying my friends, my mother,
My youth, my humanity,
I hope my lullabies trembles more
louder than gunshots and blasts.
I hope my lullabies are stronger.

 

913ba30275a85425cb8cffa46dbf9e0e

 
12 Comments

Posted by on July 26, 2014 in Poetry

 

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