Pottery
Represents
Arts
But
Poetry
Represents
Aura
            - Amisha priya

Love has gone mad, like you my dear
and keeps night in a wine press like a caged bird.
I will save it, says Love, turning the handle
to birth a morning with broken wings of red curd.

Everyone here keeps their mouths in jars
to prevent you influencing their palates, dear.
Anyone with any sense has placed locks on every vine--
all that grows down the rows is the silent brooding volunteer.

Morning whispers madness through your skin,
and wears a crimson cloak made of feathers and strange paste.
I will marry it, says Love, hand in hand with Oblivion
serving wine heavy with grape skins and an odd metallic taste.

I cannot love you anymore.
I cannot argue, not another word.
Love has gone mad, like you my dear--
enjoy together your strange vintage
of dark mornings,
heavy tannins
and Love's dead, wide-eyed bird.

Teachers are like stars
who light up dark minds,
like the sky on a moonless night.

Their light doesn’t burn,
but soothes young, innocent minds,
guiding them on their path
towards their destination.

Many teachers touch our lives
along the way—
each bringing new wisdom.
Some shine softly,
while others stand out
like brilliant stars.

But just like every star
gives away its light
to brighten the night sky,
every teacher plays a part
in making our life
a success story.

the blue and white sky
hidden gemstones

rainmaker and snowstorm
crystalised dreams

When you laugh

It is waking at night
Beneath a waterfall

Seeing clear through
The veil

To a multitude of stars

There once was a king
Who built a big bonfire
Right in the center
Of his kingdom.

"Higher and higher still!"
The silly king shouted.
And it was done!
He made them all jump to.

Proud, he was, to rule
Over everything
As far as his eye could see.
With his bonfire done

He was ready for the fun.
He called for more fuel.
"More, and more!" he shouted.
And it was done!

Now with all eyes on him
He took a match, gave it a strike,
Then threw it on the wood.
O, what a sight to see it so bright!

And the fire raged on
It began licking at homes,
Buildings, and even people!
It became a conflagration.

"It started before we knew it.
What was happening to us?"
Everyone began saying, shocked.
And yet the signs were all there.

Too much wood on the pile,
Too much fuel for the fire,
And an out-of-control ego
Who lost all control!

In the end, it all burned down.
And the moral of the story is:
When rulers burn the kingdom down
The king will rule over nothing but

Ashes.

eyes on the pavement,
the tiny architectects
of sky bound prayers.

the children draw dreams
with chalk-stained hands
on the cracked concrete,
flowers, and sky bound birds,
and home and stars and rainbows.

a shimmer of light on stone.

will the chalk bleed before the bloom?

The moon was but a sliver of a smile in the sky
It followed me relentlessly as my world passed me by
I kind of like being followed by a smile,
Haven’t had one myself in quite a while
So I smile back at that waning moon
And drive on, drive on in my motor car cocoon

Yucca wind cuts through my coat,
the markers blur and fade.
I rode a while on golden dice
and now I walk in gray.

The sun still hangs, a blistered coin,
A whisper left of heat.
I shake dust
from a hollow skull
and drift on tired feet.

Cantinas hum their broken hymns,
the meek slip into pews,
they trade their vows for bottle rims
and saviors they can use.

The stew’s been warmed and left to cool,
her smile is soft and deep.
I pull a blanket to her chin,
watchover while she sleeps.

Their toys lie mute in cedar drawers,
their shoes set by the door,
and she still scrubs the cracking tile
as if we could make more.

I left my heart in a canyon’s jaw,
too hard to dig it free,
and let the desert keep it warm,
the way her hands keep me.