Oh won't you butter my squash?

Clean my seeds
Like the sins of my past

The baked passion inside
The oven racks
Racks
Racks

Stack the inner radiance
And peal me

The smooth orange paste
Will feel really zesty

Stay here on my cutting board
Send knives of kisses

Be merciless inside the sink
Blinking boiling stink

And watch as I eat your intestines

I write with honesty and drape it with emotion.

I wash my words with tears and dry them in anger.

I never read my words out loud, my tongue has no taste for them.

I don't notice anyone sees my writes as I notice nobody feels them.

I tap my words on to a screen as I watch my tv.

I write my words just with me and expect nobody.

Words scrape raw into my mind, on to the screen.

They reap my pain in the most simplest way.

It's not very beautiful, not like my hello poetry friends, but it's just like me no time for etiquette.

The words stumble from my mind, much like someone who has lost thier way.

And my heart reads into every line, even when I say I bare none.

Be it rushed, sloppy and brazen...

My words always always find their way onto my hello poetry page.

I get lost in all of my fellow writers, writes.

But it's no surprise, because that's how it is in my everyday life.

I'm lost and I'm found, alot down and almost never sound.

I write how I live.

I write only what I live...

My echoes are all I have to give to my hello poetry friends.

A short and an earlier popular poem of mine. Hope you like it! Thanks, - Raj, New Delhi.

       THE SURF-RIDER !
See him riding gallantly the crest of
waves,
With dexterity and poise and flowing
grace!
He rises to descend, to rise once more,
As the waves keep rolling towards the
shore!
Like those surfs the Rider continues his
mellifluous dance ,
Be it in England, in Spain or in France;
Riding high on waves as if in a trance!
The wind churns up the waves as it rises
and swells,
As the Rider manoeuvers his wake-board
riding those crests before it breaks !
Like a gymnast he executes strong cutbacks
- to reverse his turn,
His spirit dominate as the waves rise and
churn!
He did take his time to perfect his art ,
Having loved the sea  and the surf from the
very start!
He learnt to live in moments just like those
dancing waves,
Floating on their crests as his blood within
raves!
Those surfs like musical notes rise up and
fall,
Where some surfs are short and others tall !
Like a philharmonic conductor par-excellence,
He commands those waves with his skilful
presence!
Friends, riding on Time’s moments is no mean
art,
But like the Surf-rider one must make a gallant
start !
                                          -Raj Nandy, New Delhi

One says
"I'll race you to the gutter."
The other one says
"Yeah, but I'll beat you to hell."
Followed by lots of liquid laughter
And they think they're joking

                                     By Phil Roberts

I dreamed of my father
crossing the fields
on his one-eyed tractor
mowing acres of sadness
heading east of a moon
that'll be gone tomorrow
and I waded the creek
beneath a ridge
where my mother is shearing
dead roses and the smell
of those flowers floating
to the foot of the mountains
reminds me of her hair
and my father's laughter
disappearing across the hill.