Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
as i turned at the bend
the house showed up

at the gate she stood
smiling at me
her hair fell down on her back
black slightly curled
perfumed oil fragrant
which when she raised her hand to comb
revealed her navel
that like every other day
lusted me to grab her
press her onto me
coalesce
till i would not know
the part that was she
the part that was me.

the house stands freshly painted
there's a woman at the gate
but she is not her.

i sniff the wind for her fragrance.

twenty years is a long time
but why my lust still seeks her

why these hands burn
to grab her just once

do the time we leave behind
and the space
immortal?
(                                                                              
                  )
(                                                                    
                     )            
                (                                                                    
                  )                
(                                    
)            
(                      
\/                    
/\                    
/    \                    
##

                                              Little child of the years that linger here

••

Yeah sure

We are the ones who made such promises

//                                       fear /
certainly knows just  *******

( we see it happen every day)

|||

( But we still remain )

••                          
Despite the fear
Despite all pain
                       ••

We do stay loyal to the law

(  •  )        (  •  )

::

We are the children who linger midst the years

//

We are the seed

//

We are that which become human beings

//

We are THAT LOVE

the lovers who know everyone

Who know everyone as love
There’s a key
to open the lock
of the door
that leads to
the alley
hidden from
everyone’s view
old buildings
graying facades
history peeling off
exposing
the strong walls
not many
have walked
this alley
for many centuries
forlorn and tired
history sleeps
memories sigh
waiting to
be heard
the last footstep
that reverberated
into oblivion
lost glory
passionate dwellers
abandoned
for centuries
stripped off
the lights
and long forgotten
switching off
the town’s existence
now only
if one had the key
to walk down
the forgotten alley
history would wake up
to narrate
so many stories
put under
a long spell
an effort to
wipe away its existence
but it soul
still lives
and the key shall be found
to the lucky one
walking amidst history
transported back
to the past
to feel the essence
of this unnamed place
almost wiped
away by time
There are many such places and cities which were wiped away from memory and also history, which once thrived with life, but the whole ecosystem was wiped away over centuries. This is an imaginary write and do not refer to any particular place or city.
She was beautiful
rolling of silken tresses
cascading her delicate shoulders
as if Niagara falls
i drawn of her beauty from afar.

She was unkind
her feet was bitten with wanderlust
i could never fetter those feet
with letters written
from her flighty dancing and bouncing.

She was skilled
she snowballed inspiration in her hands
caused diarrhea of ideas in my head
she laughed at me
while i made a mess
over my incompetence.

She was
a past, a history
abandoned her starving soul
till she left, died
and now my hands are left paralysed
paralysed in reminiscence
of her sweet voice...
 Feb 2015 Emily Pidduck
Maisha
I am
 Feb 2015 Emily Pidduck
Maisha
I'm a wordless poetry; inexplicable
and unwritten
A blank space after a finished sonnet,
just waiting to be scribbled.
May be unfinished.
?
I stand still on the tip of the big hand at one
and the seconds pile on.
I wait for the chime,
it decides not to come,
so outplayed by the bad run of luck,
is it fate?
tucking my pant legs in my socks and spewing hatred at clocks and their imbecile ways which have for so long wasted all of my days.
I take the Sun by the ray which is beaming at me and wave goodbye to the seconds but they're too blind to see and more interested in being the weight that piles on when the big hands at one.

I rush out of the Sunbeams,
it seems like forever but more like that never ever is or can be
and the weight of the hours begin to slide up,
I see the trick now,
to unbalance me,
how cute is that?

Time starts and it ends in a flat line,
dead on arrival or the
fight for survival,
a train timetable,
I am unable to understand that which is clear
at times too far is far too near.

I stand,
the hands will return
time on my hands and too much time
to burn.
In the market place they are selling, pipes to smoke your dreams upon
and the coffee trader shuts up shop and yet decides to linger on,
the pots and pan man is making eyes at
the widow woman, who tells him,
go away and free your sorrows
when you come back bring the gin
and
the rain comes down in tinsel town
and
the streets all disappear,
it could have happened only yesterday but you
know it was last year.
Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes
Which starlike sparkle in their skies;
Nor be you proud that you can see
All hearts your captives, yours yet free;
Be you not proud of that rich hair
Which wantons with the love-sick air;
Whenas that ruby which you wear,
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,
Will last to be a precious stone
When all your world of beauty’s gone.
Next page