A yellow notebook
Few old notepads
A winter jacket with shoulder pads
Many unfinished manuscripts
Few badly written comic scripts
Couple of pencils
A pack of pain pills
A Rocking chair
My fishing gear
Not much to show.
Your all conquering charms weaves its magic in hearts
Your beauty oozes from dress showing grace of parts
Sun and moon carry, follow your encompassing charts
Your smart actions of love is celebrated in all the marts
My love see you in all your graces, charm in real prime
Your beauty is celebrated everywhere in place and time
Your glowing cheeks and juicy lips instigate me to crime
Your innocence is style which communicates pantomime
Let me taste eternal divine wine from your juicy red lips
Through your beauty my heart aspires very many trips
I am so enthralled that your graces are on my finger tips
As a romantic poet I owe you me, all my love manuscripts
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
One day we were counting
the ghosts of our mistakes
and you randomly brought up,
"Ernest Hemingway saved his manuscripts
by throwing them out the upstairs window
while his studio was burning."
I compared you to Hemingway
that a man can love words
more than an actual person,
more than his own life at stake.
To which I responded,
as I hope it marred your mind,
“I liked the idea of loving you.
I wanted some sort of filler
to compensate for the feelings I got.”
Your fixation was intensely unnerving,
like you were unwrapping every vein that rippled in my body.
I carried on, watching the embers of fault lick you profusely.
“For some reason, I use people until there’s nothing left to use.
Romantically, I used you to cover what I wanted-
Cast you in daydreams where it is like this right now,
in a coffee shop underneath the streetlights.
“It was all the idea of it.
As much as I wanted to make up our relationship,
I couldn’t imagine what it was like to really be with you.
To be close to you, your hand in mine,
to watch your favorite movies under a warm blanket, to jump
in the car with you to chase a sunset.
To have you text me at two in the morning
and tell me I’m beautiful.”
You began to protest,
but I wouldn’t listen.
There is something satisfying
in expressing true happiness
rather than dwelling on it in your mind.
I knew you weren’t giving me that.
“So I don’t think I was ever in love with you.
Just the thought of you.”
There must be an eternal fountain
Where the creative ink flows
A secluded hamlet where all Muse resides
A museum where all seer poets are featured
The laureates from earlier centuries
Adorning the walls of ‘Hall of Fame’
Their legacy passed on to next centuries
Some through narratives or written manuscripts
Omnipresent, to provide the guiding light
To pen the narratives, metaphors, onomatopoeia
The rhyme schemes- Ballade, Chant royal, Cinquain, Ottavia
But most important of all is the rhythm of the heart
And when the heart and soul coalesce, it creates literature
The rhyming schemes of our mind, heart and soul
Is what the composition of a passionate writing is**
© Amitav (Radiance)
— The End —