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H aven for those who’s words are never read
E ven though they pour their souls and very
L ives and spirit through their pens or
L et their fingers nurture beautiful tomorrows
O n the keyboards of their creativity.

P oetry is the blood that pumps
O ut wondrous magic from those fertile minds that
E nds up on a glowing screen or printed page, in hopes
T hat it can give birth to a long awaited
R ennaissance in the thinking of the world, and create a
Y earning for a better way to live and love.
ljm
Not real happy with this one.  May rework it.
boy,
jealous boy,
i'm crazy in love
with you,

if i tremble like a
a february leaf,
gold and brown
on the black branched
beech hedge,
where the snow's
fragile kiss melts
the night into
whispers,

and the wind,
wild with its
northern chill,
flutters those
leaves, blanched
like our love-starved
lips of
colour,

beneath a sky
of midnight's sea,

then i would melt,
like this sky
of midnight's sea,

crazy in love,
with my boy
of grey clouds,

who sweeps the
crying sea, with
strange whispering,

who kisses me so
beautifully in his arms

that i sigh and cry and die
for his love,

boy,
jealous boy,
i'm crazy for
your love,

like a star
glistening in the deepening
night where the
nightingale sings
and the grey clouds
drift forever in their
stream-like dream.
Maybe some day we will dance
Holding hands in disbelief
As tears of joy
flow from our eyes
While the field of flowers
will cheer in salute
Maybe our eternity
will come to an end
And our day will come
to begin . . . just maybe

Just maybe I hope
beyond my dreams
Waiting for the one you love
 Mar 2017 Ali Qureshi
Aeerdna
Trapped in a time loop
where all that happens is you
coming to me, kissing my feelings with your smile,
then crashing me
and leaving me there
with my naked hopes
hiding in the deepest grounds of my heart
again and again.

I am the prisoner of my own deathly wishes,
of the same repeating illusions,
and your voice in my head
is singing the same song on repeat
like a broken cassette
stuck in this old, rusty radio that is my mind.

I am trapped in a time loop
and all I do
is getting lost
somewhere on the paths of your soul
where my dreams get born
just so they can go to die.
 Mar 2017 Ali Qureshi
wordvango
some believe in the deity
others in the sanctity of self
I think poetry is a religion
a soul unto itself
not a god
but close
and I seek her his its
calming words
wisdom
to get on my knees
and worship
every night
alone
here
in my sanctuary
like any
true believer
A lone tree stands out
Against the stormy sky

On the far side of
The lawn in our garden

Surrounded by snowdrops
Quite a pretty picture!

Keith Wilson March 2017
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