“Strawberry Moon”

You've rippen and have become a sour fruit

adulthood has made you bitter forsaking your sweetness

16 year old me wonders where did all that love go .

I can only tell her that I don't know , child .

I do not know .

The full moon ripens,

in the month of June.

While admiring the beauty of something ripe and sweet...

we forget to cherish the raw bitterness;

The thing that shaped us

Into the sweetest, ripe version of ourselves

We refuse to taste it

as we don't know the value of it

But one day, we will realize...

that the sweetness was not a miracle—

It was the bitterness that made it possible

Love ripens and rips

A flower smiles

And a rain sings

For the fruits to be sweet

The sickly sweet fruit,

Worms sought themselves to dig into the flesh,

A daring, rewarding feat for the bugs,

The rodents, and the dirtied,

How could they not wish for the lovely sensation?

Of sucrose,

of this fruitful harvest?

I won't let them,

This derma doesn't deserve the filth of cruel nature,

But the gentle hands of a child;

Those who need that sweetness most.

The soul consciousness

That shines

through the darkness of ‘Ego’ night

To brighten the inner space

And spread the the joy of sweet love

poems are ripening, words are following

an unseen design

but truly, life itself inside

its sorrowful losses, its wonders and mirages

the quiet fruit of hours

the mind is growing, the soul feels alive

there are moments

when I remember your eyes

not as they were

but as they almost became

there’s a new world quickening in my head,

struggling to break its walls of ferroconcrete,

ignorant of the whole universe’s writ,

scribbling a palimpsest of its own instead

starting a riot, breaking out of my head

As my flesh decays-

my skin begins to ripen

Can you see my ribs?

The air moistens-

so does my brain

Am I smart now?

I'm ripening up to who I have to be.

Am I good enough?

It is strange when you are a Man and you meet her with her innocence, you experience her childhood.

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As the sun wakes behind

The cool spring breeze

Transforms into a warm summer breeze

Seasons ripening each moment

My legs pumping

Watching the buds open over months

Watching kids move from school to play

Watching graduates moving out

A goodbye for some

becomes a new start for others

Fruits ripen,

days ripen

And with age you

Is it true

Fruits ripen, turn sweeter

Flavours burst, then slowly diffuse, if left

Days slowly turn into months, become a part of year, fading into years

A slow mathematical process, a progression one can’t change

One can pause, to live, to feel, to chase, to reflect, before the moments fade away

Adding years to your life

You ripen and then leave

There's a thing, some sort of

eruption

on my skin

and it

vibrates

every time the autobus bounces

and the chickens flutter

as if, dreaming they are back in their shells,

they want

to be reborn

as eagles or raptors or some undreamt-of symbol

rising

through the bus of the autobus.

There is a blemish,

some sort of eruption

on my skin and boiling beneath Mount Pinatubo.

The day is hot,

and I am dizzy,

as we go around the curve

on this mountainside which has no

guard rails

and never did.

rage

red as strawberry blood

i've been stabbed in the back

twice by the same hand

i'm a fool

and rage ripens on my vine

my thorns i hope

stayed embedded in your spine

I have this green apple lying meekly beside the microwave.

Unnoticed and unbothered. Picture-perfect at first glance.

But perhaps, when cut open I will finally chance upon,

the decay and wear that weather and time bring.

Perchance I'll do it, but not today. Not yet.

My heart.

My lungs.

My fear.

Is creeping

Ripening

Rotting

Waiting for me

To fall into

Its deadly clutches

Waiting for me

To break like

The wood infested

With maggots

Waiting for me

To waste away

Beneath its

Malicious grinning gaze

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Heaven's Berry

Fireflies blink through dew-kissed grass,

sending Morse code into the darkness.

The sky blushes rose-gold beneath Heaven's berry,

and summer blooms with lifetimes of remembrance.

The Strawberry Moon hangs low,

ripe with things I thought I buried.

Old summers stir beneath my skin.

The laughter.

The hunger.

The people who became ghosts

without dying.

Tonight,

everything feels close enough

to touch.

A Quiet Corner of Peace

I am not looking for riches,

I am not looking for fame.

I only seek a quiet place

where my heart can rest again.

A place where worries fade,

and gentle silence stays.

Where the mind is free from noise,

and the soul feels light and safe.

Through every storm of life,

this is what I crave the most—

a quiet corner of peace,

to call my own.

_Tavina Khatana

The dew of a ripened

cloud falls into

a sea of coral flavored

roses that cover most

of the ground,

their petals gathering

the morning

as if light were water,

cupped gently

in a thousand

open hands.

I walk among them,

silence growing between

each bloom,

until the world becomes

only fragrance,

color,

and the soft surrender

of rain returning home.

The ripened cloud,

emptied of itself,

flowers again below.

my engish ain't that good ksnap de vraag ni

Fruit left in a bowl that ripens over time

reminds me,

of how my adolescent years

shaped my tree.

A new age

a new milestone

a new challenege and a new task

a new point of view

and a new memory

the world around you spins

and you spin too

but sometimes you are at a stand still

breathing in the light as it rushes past

touching the sound as it moves swiftly by

watching the air as if it were ade of glass

hearing the raining as it cascades over your skin

breathe

breathe

breathe

and lose your eyes

you are different

close your eyes

different yet again

always was and always wil be

it is time for you

My core is bleeding, its leaking, and yet like a an animal, a beast you're feeding.

That grassy smell outside of my house. Being in the middle of nowhere, smelling only that fresh scent whenever I go out the front door.