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 Aug 2017
Seema
He was a lonely boy
Always fixing a broken toy
Dirt covered his face
Old shoes with no lace
But he wore them today
It was his sisters birthday
And he was fixing her doll
Someone gave a sudden call
Which left him in tears
Then came his darkest fears
His mother's voice shouting
Crying, his sense undoubting
He pretended not to hear
It was a special day of the year
He was going to see her
At the foot of the hill, afar
She lived there alone
In the cold, under a tombstone
Last year, he planted flowers
When bloomed, he sat there for hours
Today he's got her another gift
Her favorite doll that came adrift
By a narrow creek nearby
He always wondered why
His beautiful sister got taken away
Far to be buried, where she lay
Alone, along the plain meadows
Where lived now the shadows
Of those dead, buried in ground
Where huge raintrees surround
He picked her favorite flowers
And walked towards the stone towers
There a flowery grave waited
To be visited and weeded
After done with clearing
He sat there grieving and tearing
Telling her stories of his life
How often he's threatened with a knife
But with a smile, he promised to be brave
As he curled up, beside his sisters grave...

©sim
Can you picture this :)
 Jul 2017
Mohd Arshad
Walking is wisdom
People go out
Abandoning their
Comfort unstitched
Each step is
pulling the yoke
It is sunrise
What drives them out
And keep them running
Pushing each rock
That hinders their way
I am sure it is an invisible
Spirit that breathes inside
A special gift
Of God to them
Not for women
A message for those
Shouting for equality
Yesterday the rain
Hit hard like strip on the fur
And the man,
with his umbrella
Like a broken sieve,
Staggering fast
Due to his twisted leg
Crossed the road
Where ditches were the rungs
I made a good comeback
Though in the morning
My mind had been
The kettle on the fire
And like him crossed
The subway to reach my point
Coming back is the best harvest
After sowing seeds of going out
And Walking is their water to grow
Pushing
 Jul 2017
Gaby Comprés
i’ll live in a yellow house
painted by the sun itself
a house that stands on the corner of
Joy Street and Sunshine Avenue
and in my house a garden will grow
with flowers watered with hope, rooted in love.
my yellow house will be the talk of the town
and children will come on their bikes
to meet the woman that keeps flowers in her hair
and a few stars in her eyes,
the woman that wears dresses with pockets
filled with honey and cinnamon.
 Jul 2017
kierra
I am raw, plucked
bare and overexposed;
ashamed of my emotions and
too vulnerable, too fragile
I am not threatened but I do not
feel safe, I ache to hide but where can
I hide from my own mind? I need
time to decay my histrionics and my
need for affection so that it never
resurfaces again, so that I never
resurface again -- I am drowned in
something benign but chaotic, replicating
it's mutation endlessly, perpetually, until
I cannot breathe because I am overexposed --
bare and
plucked raw.
written during a panic attack
 Jul 2017
LA Kirby
I was there with her
the day she went to Glory
What a tender moment
What a beautiful love story.

Although she'd been in pain,
it ceased to mark her face
when she saw her savior coming
to take her to his place.

And though she could not speak
I watched her reach above
You could feel His warm, sweet presence
On her face, a glow of love.

And in that quiet passing
from this life to the next
there was comfort just in knowing
with him she'd get to rest.

There's no doubt about it
His presence there was known
He came to care for Mother
and welcome her back home.

He blessed me with my mother
compelled to share the story~
Of the peace that fell around her
the day she went to Glory.
For my mother, Iola.
 Jul 2017
Sandoval
I was not born a

poet.

I was broken into

one.


*Sandoval
 Jul 2017
Mohd Arshad
My child doesn't jump to images
He rummages one or two of his taste

To much degree. Yesterday he found
A piece of a beautiful deer,

Running upward the hill
Ignorant of water, rushhing high.

Creeping to me , that night,
Under the warm blanket
He put up in a surprising way:
Can we run without moving
And still reach the desired place?
Why is that deer there
So nonchalant, though no progress?
Closer to him I did say:
Life is about movement
But paintings cheat us in such a way
That we fall into a ditch of beauty
And forget rhythm of the clock..
 Jul 2017
Mohd Arshad
Lynching is justice in the court of mob.......
 Jul 2017
Mohd Arshad
In the rain
When I step out
I keep my umbrella open
And the parasol in my bag.....
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