Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
In this small cathedral we meet
I sit here waiting for you
and it is not long before
our joyful reunion.
I weep tears of joy
being wrapped in your arms
feeling your creative energy
flow through my mind
into my fingers and back out
on this small screen.

I have missed this intimacy
that fills me with poems
and lines along which you travel
from me into the universe.
Those lines pierce my heart
and it overflows with life and love
because you have entered.

This is a sacred space
for here I bring all the trials and pain
and lay them out
for your creative plunging being,
plunging past the terror and hate without
into the deepest part of me
a chamber of reunion.
Since this time last month (May 2021) I have been suffering some intense pain in my back due to spinal disk degenerative disease that hurts most intensely when I sit and a bit less when I stand. So that sends me to bed of the couch where I can recline and allow my pain killing measures to take effect. I can really understand how people get hooked on pain killers. So this month has filled me with compassion for those who suffer chronic intense pain. I still await a more permanent or at least a longer lasting solution to this problem. The medical profession sometimes moves slowly. I have missed writing and this morning I forced myself to sit here, meditate, journal, and allow my muse to enter the small space of our garden room where my little computer sits and I can enjoy the feast of green life around me and through the windows AND the feast of creativity – inspiring this my first poem in more than a month. It is amazing how the creative impulse arises when we just stop and allow it to do so. I have missed you all and your poetry, your spilling out of your soul life. I hope I can force myself to return to this small cathedral more often even though the pain continues to nag and pulse.  Peace and poetry to all of you, my dear friends.
Left To Rot Jun 10
I'm being slowly pulled away,
half unconscious, astray.
My morals converted to lust,
certainly lost in those lips,
on those hips, on those thrusts.
Drop by drop I fade,
reducted to dust,
your eyes on mine,
those sighs,
never out of my mind,
a ***** heavenly sight.
Anmol Mago Jun 8
My pen has now run dry
No longer does its quaint ink
paint dreams of childish wonder
or giddy hopes
that maybe time might turn back
and the bygone days,
(their memories made sweet
with pain and with grief
dead-within the sheaths of past)
might come back alive

No longer does my pen
burn with the same flame of angst
or soothe my grieving soul
of the pangs of it's misery
or provide comfort to a wounded heart
as a catharsis
(setting aside the mythical Sisyphus stone)

No longer do ideas flow through my pen
No longer does it conceive
aspirations of a new dawn;
No longer does it's silent mouth
whisper to my soul
of the void and emptiness of life
of words devoid of all meaning
and of those silent thoughts
left unspoken

The clouds in the sky moved apart
like a lover dwelling on fears unsaid
the stillness of the night
and the silence of the stars
hung heavy in the atmosphere
and suddenly the moon shinned forth
from the tip of my pen.
Anmol Mago Jun 6
Like the weeds uninvited
In a meadow near perfect
Violence and envy
Cloud over our minds seamlessly
We bicker - We brawl
Pouring out an endless stream
Of slurs from our mouths
Staining our hearts crimson
With hatred and deceit
Dividing the indivisible
Into shallow factions and ideologies
So often we split
Our hearts into two
One trying to relinquish
Over the other
Like broken pieces of glass
Trying to mend
Perspectives - distorted

Boged down by apathy
To nurture joy is a struggle
It is a struggle
For the flower of compassion
To bloom in hearts - barren
Rife with selfishness
In absolute darkness
A lonesome light
Whispers hope
into ears - parched
Triscuit Jun 4
No matter what I do
I cannot define you
Your delicate features
The way you express yourself
The things I love
And the things I loathe
You are simply you
I cannot define you
I think about you more than I care to admit.
Anmol Mago May 30
Terror stuck eyes, weave
vivid dreams cast in fire
burnt hands-gripping over
stifled matchsticks and ash
sore throats-choked on explosives
gasping to breathe-fading into smoke
burning pyres-burgeoning graves
screams hushed into wet tissues
neon lights-cast a shadow
over the glow of our souls
tinted perspectives-exalted lies
apathy reigns over our minds

Sometimes beloved I feel that
We're all stuck in our matchboxes
closed in from all sides
searching for a light
living out in constant dread
only to be vaporised someday
leaving behind-luminous ash
and a spark of perseverance
for the travellers - weary.
Just musing
Anmol Mago May 26
Empty meaningless words
hastily scrawled over
half torn - bits of paper
Still reek of a heart,
long lost to despair
prey to twisted tongues
and shallow sugarcoated taunts
(reminiscent of an innocence
relinquished by years of growing up)

Sometimes by the moon light,
a pale trembling hand still
reaches for them instinctively
(trying to resurrect a poet long dead.)
Just a random muse
Laokos May 22
the genius
of his spirit isn't
allowed to be
confident

the muses around
his works
laugh at his
shy hubris

his connections
to the creative are
buried under a
desert

his voice
is full
of charisma
and doubt

there's something
in the way
of love

his heart is
alone in hell

in his father's
home
searching for the
way

his life is a
lightbulb
as bright as
it is empty

just like his
poetry
Anmol Mago May 19
Like a snail-curled
inside it's shell
too meek - to peep outside
Or like the faint glow
of a setting sun
engulfed by a horizon-bleek

(Agony and despair
concealed beneath
a garb of feigned smiles.)
It's a good day, when inspiration comes.
Next page