Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Jan 2020 Christy Sandhu
Stanley
Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,
First poem I've written, to anybody who reads this is hope you enjoyed it and it made you day a little better
see, atlas nearly dropped the world at the first sign of tremors
and gaia would've blown her top with wrath
and it nearly toppled sisyphus' boulder til it crushed him
but the 'nearly' doesn't matter 'cause the world's still in his grasp

and if paris picked selene, we might've had a heart-shaped moon
but we got the trojan shitshow, millions died
and we nearly went extinct just 'cause some ******* greek was *****
but the 'nearly' doesn't matter since we just about survived
eso sí que es
 Nov 2019 Christy Sandhu
Ann
if dreams were real
like they said.

wouldn’t you
   meet me?
                                                        
under                               *    
                                   *      *     *     *      *
                                   *         the      *   *
                          *      *      *          *    *      ­

                                    *        eiffel         *     *  
                          *             *           *             *       *
                        *       *          t o w e r         *         *
                       *    *      *      *        *        *          *     *
                              *    where lovers meet.
whoops accidentally got deleted.
 Nov 2019 Christy Sandhu
julie
once my parents said
that we had to move

away from my home town,
my birth place,
my comfort zone.

I found myself
in Paris then,
hardly not speaking any french,
missing the beaches of Cali
and thinking of better times

Sitting in a little cafe
near Rue Bonaparte
sharing a cigarette
with a gray-haired stranger

philosophizing about life
and feeling the sand of
Santa Monica Beach
on my skin

Suddenly a stranger asked me
something I didn't understand

so I stuttered
menez-moi à la maison,
à l'endroit auquel j'appartiens
last sentence means: "take me home to the place I belong"
The waitress smiles
a little too much
but we don't care,
our little glass lung

of Bordeaux dips away
above slatish cobbles.
A Gauloises whips ash
from a smouldering hand

into the corner table fragment.
Systems of traffic evaporate.
A massive shadow folds
above the grifters.

The river laps
at knees of bread,
while empty bottles
browse the blackness

for their corks.
Beside cathedrals
a dusted dusk glows
& we follow it

back to the hotel.
It's a little room,
our neighbors make love,
& the courtyard roars

with high orange;
I think towards you
when sheets of clouds
betray a skimmed moon,

& we pull sleep around us.
The river tongue falls
& sleek stones gather
to a new language.
I've never been to Paris in the spring summer or fall
Nor seen the Champs-Élysées blanketed in winters fresh snow
I've never seen it, Why? As I could never go alone

I seemed to miss the part where two lovers met and kissed or stood for 20 minuites in a passionate embrace
Then slowley walk together hand in hand in the rain, along the banks of the river of romance, the Siene

I'm not in the lovers photographs, beneath the Eiffel tower or the playful Quasimodo pose outside of Notre Dame
You won't see me in any of them, for I was never there, because while my lover travelled I stayed and built a home, a place we could call our own.

But bigger and better was never enough your greed for things was just to much then one day off you went as you didn't hear a word I'd said
To you by now I was simply staff and just like them I was sacked

But now alone I look at things and know what I can do
Change the way I look at life and why I never went with you
For Paris is for lovers and not just those who share the rent

So one day I'll go to Paris, even if I am alone
I shall walk the streets and see the sights that lovers call their own
Who knows If I'm the only one who needs to make that trip
Do others think of it the same in reverence and wish?
One day i'll go to gay Paris and a blank post card  I shall send
"From Paris" with a smiley face
"I learnt to love myself".....
A picture of the tower or a snap outside the Louvre
Unsigned
No senders address

From Paris
With Love
romanticize our problems
until they are colored in pink and purple hues
baby blue mornings filled with you
fantasize our perfect life together
what if reality is the fake
coffee, music, and solitude can be found
any Saturday safely in your arms
awoken by kisses soft and gentle
until clothes end up getting lost somewhere
dancing around the living room
in our pajamas, without masks on
I wish this was still true
but this is not reality, this is not truth
this is me romanticizing past loving
like dreaming of Paris in the rain
 Nov 2019 Christy Sandhu
Akshay
These words are for me,
For I'm the one who's hurting,
I'm just healing myself.
I often wonder why we can't understand other's poems sometimes, but deep down it is the one who writes it knows the value of it.
Next page