How else could it shine?
Where everything lends itself to nothing,
Where shadows creep from floor to mind.

Black it seems, so called by others,
Who lift lids for whiffs of fables.
Diagnosis is dispensed, your eyes milky,
With the stigma of their convenient labels.

But the Cosmopolitans find strength,
And turn tides to beautiful hues of blue,
Their feathers signal to unfavoured reason,
And master winds, that forever circle me and you.

Piece written for mental awareness day.

Oh thou! on whom i creep,
                             thou giveth me space and thou lets me weep.
when i spread my palm in mid air
               thou provideth me space to creep
                    and then thou lets me grow and enter my sombre sleep.

i am a creeper but i was never taught to creep,
             there was a calling i heard as a bud
                     and i knew the echo ran deep,
                            the voices screamt,''creep,creep, creep´
but i could hear the other flowers and bushes calling me their black sheep.

I had seen no creepers (who ever taught me how to) creep,
      i was all alone in the vastness of the plant sheet
           but i had decided that i had to stand tall and creep
                   so when i felt the wall next to me,
                       i opened my palms so i could start the long march before i fell asleep.

I crept, crept, crept, day in and day out
        all around that wall, and,
           when i reached the top,
              yes the top!
                    i felt all lonely and lost.
But then came a bird bringing stories of other creepers who had followed their calling and who stretched and crept and crept, before they fell in to a deep sleep.
               The bird promised that he will bring flowers from different creepers
                     and seeds to sow of baby creepers
                                    who could learn to creep from me.
So the next few days, hours and months, there were all these tiny creepers who kept looking upto me
        and awaiting advices on how to creep.

(After i read what i had written, i felt the book SEAGULL in the background echoing itself)


Love's ghost possesses me to pick flowers
Sending whispers though my window, as I rest my eyes
Under dark skies my mind wonders though fields of fragrances
Sweet scents seduce me drawing me to a bouquet
That I will give to you when I wake
You, the girl of my dreams

Eiram N Jun 20

I love the sun, but the moon I love more.
I know After Dark, softly weaving and settling
down on things that in daylight aren’t quite so pretty,
the comfort of 2 am, the blanket blackness of anonymity.
Through the city it is the rustle of lone voices
that against the silence shouts,
Saying it’s okay to be broken
with the candid closure that’s all about.

And with the humdrum rise and fall of every being’s chest
the pulsating heart in each human soul
there lies those who sleep in the contentment that
the nighttime knows it all.

                                  By Eiram N

hair locked in natural curls
deep brown eyes
almost black
ebony complexion
from head to toe
melanin on 100
o ma gawd
this young woman
is the black Queen
o ma gawd
why is she standing
so mean
from the curves
in her waist and thighs
to the curve
in her smiling cheeks
she knows she's beautiful
even mysterious
she knows why they say
o ma gawd

the strength of a black woman for she is a Queen
Madhu Jakkula Jun 18

I wear my skin like a black shining armour
protecting myself from the scars left by you not letting anyone see,
holding secrets within me
leaving your mind to wander,
masking my pain
to reveal a perfectly imperfect me!!

In the house of poems
there are no words
only sheaths of rapture
color and puzzle cutouts
on an empty table
composed of shadow thin
aching smoke ghosts
aphotic and tender
twisting souls in labyrinths lurid
cum shake sweet inky orgasms
that turn earth
to pleasure domes
and shadows
like cimmerian children
in harsh judgment
sucking on
purple night shade candies
burning incense and black candles
uncrossing energies foreboding
while subterranean crystals
refract burnished glows
pulsing blood diamonds
in sacred heart manias
throb with warm breathy kisses
on plates of ash
a terrace of pink flickering tongues
drooling and biting
that turn mere pleasure
into inflammations of ecstasy
oozing creme de menthe saliva
where souls levitate and flutter
on bilious stained beds
being impregnated with verse
smelling of warm cunt cauldron

fetuses curl
in their little crib's
and bubble tapioca lyric wrangles
afterbirths purged
poems emerge
like sand bars and palm tree islands
sopping woven tunnels
flow stone stalactites
as pink ballet pastries
with architected calves
caress upturned posteriors
dancing in glitter frilly word tutus
while torrid confessions
dreaded breakdowns
and resurrections
dress themselves in garments
of language re-pleat
quickened by eloquence
in the house of poems

Smit Jun 17

“The sad thing is,”
          she said,
    “the moment you start to miss someone, it means they’re already gone.”

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