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Mother's eyes on the road
Looking at every face
May be next one would be him

It's been more than a month
He hasn't called, she feels adverse
War is at peak, so the casualties
News broadcasting the audacity of soldiers
But mother is both proud and restless

His regiment achieve their target
But still nothing about him
Still trying to recognise the faces

One day a group of soldier arrive
With a rectangular box called coffin
He fought like a lion, no one dare to touch him
Except a remote bullet, which hit him,
There which one beat for you mother.

She gave a smile and touched his body
Tears roll down, but she was strong enough
One thought running in her mind,  his son will also become a soldier!

Jai hind
Soldier's mother life
Eliza Prasai Mar 2019
Indeed, it is lifeless
But it gives life to her hopes.
It is a witness;
Witness of her all time pains.
It is her friend whom
She shares her thoughts with.
She looks into a distance
Upto the place her eyes can see,
Tears flow down vigourously.
Yet, hope remains deep down the heart.
It shines;
Along with it shine her faiths,
Her faiths would have died a long ago
If it did not exist.
She gazes into its light,
It says to her,"your wait is not wasted."
She strengthens...
She grows stronger with the words.
When everything faded away,
When darkness covered the dawn of life,
When there was shadow all over,
It had helped her fight;
Fight with the pessimism of life.
To the rest of the world,
It was just a piece of mud.
But to her,
It was 'THE DIYO'
Her courage, her belief and her faith
Whose never ending light
Would provide her
A reason to fight and survive.
Diyo is a small lamp in Nepal which is associated with worships, prayers and optimism.
rk Mar 2019
out of all of the ways to die,
you are my favourite.
MJL Feb 2019
Fist in pocket
Rot from within
Rage immortal
Unknown for a cause
Alone in fear
Alone in satisfaction
Perish for peace

© 2019 MJL
Daisy Feb 2019
I am here now
Amidst the ashes;
Away from the world's mystification.

Do not weep for me now
Remember my sacrifices;
My love, my life for the nation.

They reckon they've won now
They laugh, they celebrate-
Sad! they do not grasp the ramification.

Mother have lost her child now
Holding a grave ache in her heart.
And me- a fallen father for my girl and son!

Will I be avenged now!
Or end up like a long lost memory
Of honor and love for my country?

Will I be avenged!
Or end up as a tool in the game of politics
Between vultures clutching on the opportunity?
rk Jan 2019
i wonder if you still have the memory
of how it felt to possess me
or how sweet i tasted,
our bodies pushing against each other
screaming in your brain
burns of the third degree,
just like mine
a ghost in the background
taunting, yearning for ecstasy
bathing in endless torments
a martyr for your love.
JK Casilda Dec 2018
Being away from home makes me able to do anything I want without my parents having a panic.
I mean they don’t know that every morning I have my cup of coffee despite being told I’m acidic.
Or that at least every week I go try different coffee shops and order an espresso with less milk.
Really? Am I a coffee addict?

I mean…

Who can say no to the aroma soothing your nostrils   and leave you
                                                                ­                 craving
There in your table sits your very own cup, waiting
to be kissed from its very seductive rim, parting
            your thrilled lips, burning
            your yearning tongue, providing
your soul the bittersweet taste of the coffee you love
And as you sip that blessed liquid
                           Like lightning it electrifies you over your taste buds
                                                                ­                              to your throat
             to your chest then back up switching on every nerve in your brain.
You bathe in that wonderful kick of caffeine.
And you just can’t help but close your eyes and enjoy this hot bath from a long cold rainy day.
Listening to the every chemical reaction
feeling that sublime sensation
now creeping into every part of your body
telling you
                     that you are no longer your own property.
Then you suddenly get reminded of the last time you had your coffee.                               The abnormal beating of your heart
the fireworks in your head
           the ringing in your ears
                       the whispers of voices from your back
thezjdflksjcxkdjfghdisquiet of the night and
            how it left you gasping for breath
   drowning in the sea of your tears of regret.
It’s frightening.
But being scared makes you hear your present heartbeat, slowly, rushing
like it’s 8 in the morning
You’re alive.
It’s beating. You survived.
You savor this forbidden sensation for as long as it lasts.
                                                          ­               But nothing lasts forever.
When it starts to wear off, of course,
               it all comes back to the tongue.
Here comes “The Finish”.
Funny how acidity
is the strong point of coffee
but a weak point of you.
Cold sweat runs through your back
and a sharp burning feeling starts in your stomach.
Your tongue                      touching the ceiling of your mouth
                  is now starting to burn an unpleasant, undesirable sharpness,
over-fermented bitterness.
The bittersweet becomes            just the bitter.
You open your mouth like puffing out cigarette smoke
breathe out               deeply and slowly
your tongue searching every corner of your mouth
trace the lining of your gums
for that elusive sweetness
that once filled you with     happiness.
In despair you’re left with nothing      but the bitter aftertaste.
Like a whistle of the kettle that tells you the water is boiling
The reminder that you had coffee.
For a moment you want to cry—why can’t you just cry—but if they tell you not to cry over spilled coffee then
         more reasons they’ll tell you not to cry from drinking coffee
Because who cries over coffee and why would you cry from drinking coffee?
You ask yourself
        left with two answers:
You’d cry because it’s bad,
           or you’d cry because you once had something so good.
See even the most natural task on Earth like drinking coffee gives difficult life choices, too.
But before you lose your mind thinking about
The aftertaste,
        your breath,
        your heart,
        the whistle,
        the bittersweet,
the bitter,
               the sweet,
  the aftertaste,    the bitter,
You feel the cup between your hands
            warm and welcoming.
A faint light from this darkness
has started to devour the blackness.
And you open your eyes.
You no longer hear the whistle of the kettle nor the rushed beat of your heart.
Even the bitter taste in your tongue felt like it’s been there right from the start
And you just no longer care of the aftertaste that takes ages to depart.
You look at your cup with your loving doe eyes.
You’re ready to take in another sip of your coffee
not minding the aftertaste                      of that same unrequited love.
This was originally performed as a spoken poetry, my first in that field.
clever Dec 2018
my prince has died trying to slay my dragons,
dragons that keep me up at night.
his head is at my feet and his sword is in my hand.
instead of living in a world in need of a savior,
i suppose it is time for me to save myself.
only for that of sacrifice.
Skyler Dec 2018
any man can fight,
any man can swing his fists,
or shoot a gun.
any man can fight for himself,
but a hero fights for others.

(he fights their demons, but who fights his?)

any man can defend.
any man can raise his shield,
or make a narrow escape.
any man can defend himself,
but a hero defends others.

(he is a wall of solid rock,
but rock cannot bend; only break)

any man can suffer.
any man can weather a storm,
or feel the sting of pain.
any man can suffer for himself,
but a hero suffers for others.

(he has scars that none can remember;
or is it they not care to recall?)

any man can be happy.
any man can make money,
or indulge in all his desires.
any man can bring happiness to himself,
but a hero brings happiness unto others.

(they praise his name to the sky;
but no one asks why he cries)

any man can die.
any man can be killed,
for he is still but a man.
any man can die for himself,
but a hero dies for others—

and so a hero never dies.

(but sometimes, they die inside,
and there’s no marker for that grave.)
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