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the crisp morning air
embraces my skin
greeting each pore
with a welcome
to wake up
Written before my morning bike ride to work.
The WORLD is a poem...

Upon waking up on each new day,
you face a variety of views, of people,
animals, things, events or scenes...
They start to unfold before you,
they capture your eyes and
stimulate your imagination.
It could be a spectacle, a tearjerker,
sometimes, an eyesore...
from the nearest place,
right there in your garden,
reaching out to the farthest in sight...

A rose is a poem in itself,
from its leaves, down to its roots,
to the colors that adorn its whole being
even the thorns on its tough stem
have messages to relay
they are loud verses themselves...

The birds by the trees that greet you
early in the morning,
the geese, always in a huddle,
chatting, honking with the others,
near or far from the water,
those who stray further,
waddle by the nearest puddle,
seemingly interested at first sight of a human being...

The lonely eyed cats and dogs on the streets,
with no roofs on their heads, rain or shine,
just like the homeless people, the street children,
there's a lot to read from their faces..

An after breakfast walk
could take you to the streams ...
walk further and you see the bigger seas,
roam your eyes, to reach those hills and plateaus
all have hidden stories to tell...

The seasons of the year,
slowly shifting from one to the next,
they make themselves known to you
through the changing colors of the leaves,
the hibernation of some animals, the naked trees,
much more of God's miracles are revealed,
abounding,
amidst your surroundings,
just open your eyes...

The sun, the moon and the stars
the comets and meteors flashing across
a firmament of blue or charcoal black,
give you so much to wonder about...
they, too, are sources of rhymes,
they are a flowing spring
of vital informations
Teeming with inspirations...

Morbid, scary thoughts accompany
a cold coffin, but
maybe a chest of drawers,
an overloaded bag, a blender,
a faded and dilapidated chair, a table,
or the old but firm toothbrush
could generate a lot of positive thoughts...
Even a whole kitchen
would speak if it could,
you just have to pause and see,
feel, listen to what they express
in their silence...

Those bridges you cross
sometimes by car, other times, by foot,
they connect you to distant friends, relatives
or people you've never met, never seen
people who are deprived, abused,
hungry, even killed...
bridges take you to places where a battle is
about to start, or already raging,
where help is needed...but never given...
bridges are brimming with events to share,
they would have spoken...
but they could not,
it is up to you to be sensitive enough
you must be aware, you must know...

Every thing, every one on earth
has a message to impart
All of you are to be their voices...

You should be most grateful,
and love this WORLD you live in
it is a most precious gift from GOD,
You should all be one in saving the source,
a great volume of verses:
this universe....

Save me, now...
I am your poem,
I am the WORLD.



Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
From out of the blue, these words came out.
I am keeping my fingers crossed...
 Aug 2014 The Quiet Poet
Wanderer
In comparison to the universe
I am minuscule
A speck of dust on the slide of a microscope
While nebulas are being magnified
But down here my heart is huge
Able to ease and comfort
All those who lay their burdens on my doorstep
A single ant may be expendable but when looked at as a whole colony...
                  
              *They could move mountains.
 Aug 2014 The Quiet Poet
Àŧùl
I do believe that there couldn't be anything,
Present or past or even in the days to come,
Which match the **** contours of her neck.

Slim & young it got me hooked for lifelong,
It is just as some branch of the mango tree,
As the tree it bears vivid fruits of her face..

A short story of the luck fruits is necessary,
Be it her sweetest voice or her saltier tears,
I relish it all and I receive it as the dainty...
My HP Poem #539
©Atul Kaushal
My childhood was filled with Sundays
full of hellfire and brimstone
that burned more bridges down
than they ever built

As a child, my curiosity ran wild
always questioning the unquestioned
and all too often, the answer given
sounded more like a parable than epiphany

As an adult,  knowledge became flame
setting fire to the things once held as sacred and true
and I had to choose to either rise, a Phoenix, or
spend my life sifting through the ashes

Such a simple journey for some, but I took the long way home
Dark hair and light eyes.
I hope you choke on your lies,
Causing your demise.
Beautiful liars are the most dangerous kind
 Aug 2014 The Quiet Poet
Meg B
I love the way it feels
To be barefooted
In the park,
The normally unexposed
Flesh of my feet
Brushing the blades of
Slightly browned grass
And dirt.

I hear the chirping
Of insect correspondence,
Croaking like frogs
In loud crescendos.
The lush green leaves
On the trees with fat wooden trunks,
They glow yellow under the
Fluorescent night lamps.
The leaves crinkle and crackle,
Shimmy in the wind,
Creating a summer staccato
Against the sounds
Emerging from those
Ever-chattering crickets.

A light breeze kisses my skin,
Twisting itself around
The darkness,
Morphing into a double helix,
DNA of the
breath
Of
Fresh air,
The summer
Heat
Briefly catching
A
Cold.
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