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 Dec 2014
Days of Dawn
Why don't you meet me
Under the willows by the river
Where quietude is common
And birdsong the only sound

Come watch with me
Watch the willow branches in the wind
And the sun glinting on the river
Like hammered silver

Read with me
Under the weeping trees
Away from the world
Sperate and secluded
 Dec 2014
Musfiq us shaleheen
///
our mind can feel everything
if we can feel the beauty of roses once
it can make some meaningful words,
even can create a few metaphors of a poem

we write all through our life
it can be grown as words of war
even can be born as a piece of peace
or can be grown both,
war and peace

it can be made a pain or gain
or it can be seemed as a stream,
that can be bought a grain of sand
Even it can earn both,
the pain and the gain

life can make a song
it can be a song of joy
sometimes it may be a coy
even it can make a rhythmic tone
that can't always be a romantic tune
as the river is not always plays a full of chimes

life can be found love
or can be gathered loss
or it can be earned both love or loss
as the poem " Annabel Lee"
that gifts us a pang of pain

life can be moved long like a novel
as Tolstoy's war and peace
even life can be too short, tragic
as the life of a poet,
like Sukanta, Keats and Poe

life looks like a novel
it's growing as well
with both lost and found
of so many stir of dreams

our mind is an endless paper
feelings are as ink
times are as the pen
everybody is the novelist
begins writing since he's born
and finishes before his death
though someone exceeds beyond the death

wise men told
life is a learning
life is a continuous earning of wisdom
that can be repair our kingdom

///
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
///

Tribute to the three greatest poets Sukanta, Keats and Poe.

Sukanta Bhattacharya (Bengali: সুকান্ত ভট্টাচার্য) (15 August 1926 – 13 May 1947) was a Bengali poet and playwright.

John Keats (/ˈkiːts/; 31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821) was an English Romantic poet.

Edgar Allan Poe (/poʊ/; born Edgar Poe; January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849) was an American author, poet, editor, and literary critic, considered part of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his tales of mystery and the macabre.

///
 Dec 2014
Sjr1000
He exchanged his
routines
for the
long dusty road,
he exchanged his
jeans
for a long white jacket
he called it the "white robe."
His hat said "Home"

He took off on the
road only travelers
go.

He had a pretty girl
he was was going to see,
then he knew
he would have to leave.

He stopped saying much,
mainly "thank you"
and "please".

He had exchanged
his mind set
for a new set,
his confusion for clarity
his narrative for poetry,
many said
it had led him astray.

He exchanged his
fullness for emptiness
and
began to take it all in,
the old dusty road became
the only way he knew at all.

He would stand in perfect silence
and
hear it all.
He would stand in perfect stillness
and
travel it all.

He exchanged his awake routines
for dreams.

He traveled here and there,
where ever
that dusty old road
would take him,
some places made sense,
some were flashes
of total innocence.

He had exchanged
his expectations
for creations.

He could love you on the road,
be with you
but with you
he would never go home.

Rumor has it
it was his fatal flaw.

He had exchanged
success and failure
for
experience,
he avoided many a cliff
many a fall
in having it all.

You won't find him
hitchhiking
panhandling
soliciting or pandering
selling drugs
or
in bed with your mother.

You'll find him in the whispers
you hear
in the rainbow aura
around street lamps
on night time
deserted streets,
the meteor at midnight
the green flash at sunset.

He had exchanged
staying for going
and
he was on his way
with dust devils
blowing
behind him.
 Dec 2014
Elizabeth Squires
a pity of ashes, were strewn well about
love lying in ruins, the fire burnt out

embers expired, the flame not living
smouldering heap, love's timber burnt out  

finished passion's taper, no visible flicker
ardor had lost its shine, all twas burnt out

no more elan for the two, the spark gone
love's crackling unheard, a flint had burnt out

verve's bright gusto did dissipate, as the days passed by
an ash mound within hearts, love's cinders all burnt out
 Dec 2014
Roberta Day
why try anymore
why stand from the floor
why speak over a roar
why commence action
why repeat interaction
why sentence construct
when I'm interrupted
why decide when time
keeps on--why contemplate
why this apathy
     despond
melancholy
why this grim mask
life moves so fast
brain's slowing down
mouth stops speaking
thoughts flicker away
no memories today
feeling sedated
tranquilized
catatonic
mute
 Dec 2014
Bassam A
If you sync your time with mine
I would find you as a star in my galaxy

If you become a flower that I smell
I would keep you in my favorite book that I read ..

If you become my lips when I speak
I would keep calling your name

If you become my hand on my pillow
I would find you sleeping in it
like a butterfly

I am not good at saying hello

I am good at finding love

and I adore you
 Dec 2014
irinia
to get my hands ***** with miracle,
to be fed with unknown, quietness, outburst of laughter
to carry me like a bridge into nonexistence
to make me a violin amidst misunderstanding
an imperfect piano in Chopin’s musings

to confuse me with another
spewing me on a distant shore
to bear my craziness of walking naked
among suspicious warriors
to teach me a prayer for each & every
breathing day
to take me to the other side
inside

I want elongation & annihilation
the practice of martial arts
in the truth of uncertainty
to invent distant words for the violent joy
of being alive

I want the little things
filling the imperfection of the day
like the warmth of your socks
my hand finding your stubborn lips
the forgetting of your tired shoulders
the softness of my whispers sometimes
my shoes next to yours wandering there
where something always happens
hic sunt leones
the shape of your thoughts in the bedclothes

I want to fall from grace
to love the weight  burying
me in this round-about,
the hymn of my blood
 Dec 2014
The Jolteon
The beauty of missing you
Is that I can hold you in my memory
That perfect moment
Imagining my hand in yours
My head resting on your neck
There are no words disrupting
No outside thoughts impeding
Just the thought of you
 Nov 2014
Kathy J Parenteau
Because Heaven Is Listening

I often visit yesterday,
it's therapy to me,
my guiding light
giving me strength
as I close my eyes to sleep.

Burning bridges, taking
changes,
I dance through life's
twists and turns,

Isn't that what living is about,
today's mistakes
are lessons learned.

Opening doors, teaching us
it's memories of yesterday,
that gives us strength to fight life's battles
no matter come what may.

Loved ones gone still make a difference
remember, rejoice and behold,
words of wisdom spoken to you
in your heart will never grow old.

It's true they light the way
whether skies are black or blue,
light a candle in honor of someone
who made a difference to you.

Because Heaven is listening

Written By Kathy J Parenteau
Copyright © 08/27/2014
 Nov 2014
The Darkness
The cold mouth of the bottle
never told me it loved me,
but, it never told me it hated me neither.
It never spouted a geyser of derision
designed to drown my heart,
and brow beat me into submission.
It  never caressed my cheek,
a second before trying to scratch out my eyes.
It never called the lone declaration of my affection
a pack of halfassed lies.
It might **** me one day,
suffocate my brain, and perforate my liver...
But, the bottle never told me it loved me,
before trying to destroy me.
"Drink me ***!"
Captain Scaggs
 Nov 2014
mark john junor
i followed you along the silent train tracks
in the dark cold rain
stepping on photographs of sunshine
watching the world wash away the graffiti of possibility
cause you promised
you pinky swore
that we are a heartbeat away from love
that we are in the way of knowin what the heart dreams
i followed you into the winters night with romance on my mind
you never told me that i would have to leave it all behind
i still believe we will find love
still believe because
you promised
you pinky swore...
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