What's that called I don't remember?
The darkness that creeps up
In the sudden loss of light.
Even though it's dark here,
I still close my lids to sleep
To grant a wish,
To dive in deep.
Where some cry, most weep.
What's that called when
We tuck ourselves in the bed?
Sing to our ears,
Mourn for what's dead.
In the deep corners of our blanket.
What's the broken thing laying with me?
Oh I remember!
It's the wry thing called a dream.
Cocoon this is reality
in an empty space
unlocked & flawed
like bleach is increasingly scenic
diluting with calamity,
revolving on arthritis
like the phlegmatic ambiance
it's vast unblemished didactic
" I am a cognizance
of petrified mimetic landscapes"
that I slammed the car door
resonating indulgent concrete
even though I might not be
venturing my hips
in an alluring angle or
"why are the rims of my eyes not
Drama, of the prosaic sort, displayed on screen and page
a stinging barb or snide retort, lies, created out of rage
The tragedies and maladies of words, words turned into swords
claims untrue and/or absurd, striking all the bitter chords
Theatrical renditions displayed, with melodrama, mayhap skill
all actors/actresses that played, soaking up, a vitriolic swill
Never fails to amaze me, walking a war torn battlefield
everything now dead and razed, nothing left to feel
How many times we never learned, all poets/poetess now undone
the power of prose to hurt and burn, and cause our blood, to run
If Sylvia Plath
Had come to me
For a sexual reprieve
Or a living loving embrace
I would have raced
To face that lovely face
I would have chased those
Dark and tempestuous eyes
To find passion release
To share one moment of peace
To hear her heart speak
With beat after beat
Even if she broke mine
If she attacked my limbs
Assailed my spirit with her fury
Even if we had to make love in a hurry
None to ever be the wiser
And maybe in the morning spend
Words and verses
Like counterfeit forms of affection
Well, that would be better
Then the release of any erection
He takes the words we want to say
and lines them up, just right
She dips into emotions
and defines just how, they fight
He melds and refines his art
a flowing of the pen
She crafts things held in her heart
feeling, more than knowing, when
I read and commit to heart
each rhyme and piece of prose
Just how and why they do it
there ain't nobody knows
Complexities of story
great humor and desire
Expertly rolled onto the page
creative logs, stoking poetic fire
Not a matter of if, and when
just a matter of time and trust
words and thoughts so penned
shaken free, from forgotten dust
Hands upon the implements
whether brush, pencil, or pen
used mentally as instruments
by women, children, men
Sing the light, or dark fantastic
the ownership, your own
not works and thoughts of plastic
but yours, and yours alone
Some spend only a moment, rage, love, hate or fear
and having thrown it out, they quickly disappear
Others have that lasting light, moving from sea to shore
back and forth they go, always coming back, for more
Short or long on form and art, scattered, as ashes from the coals
gleaned from every ember, poetry's, heart and soul
''My imagination of a poet and poetess having their first conversation.''
Gazing upon your clay-cup,
My eyes judge that you are alike,
So raise your crown, and wake-up,
O' my dreamlike!
My soul a boundless wave,
Seeks a ray of light in solitude,
You seem a queen and I a slave,
Perhaps your eyes are hued?
O' ruler, disguised in veil,
Thirst in your eyes an ocean for me,
And my soul has pined for such zeal,
You are bliss on earth craving for me.
Aroma of your gentle devotion,
And a stir of my visions have raised the wings,
My passion is scattered alike dust in the winds,
O' wise and brave, what is your emotion?
Your presence before me, an arrival of moon,
My heart opening its eyelids to a new majesty,
And the soul is dancing in the rapturing monsoon,
O' beautiful, my yearnings lay in your agony.
O' elegance of such heavenly delight,
Your beauty a messenger to my heart,
And my soul lay in extremes of your excite,
O' pearl of my pride, my image and my art.
O' merchant of intoxicating whispers,
Ecstasy arises from within your tongue,
New clouds of joy are unveiling in my heart,
And may such unity never be apart.
O' morning dew, if you dare come close,
My affection wants to hold you in its arms,
Waiting are my kisses on a throne of rose,
And elating are your splendid charms.
O' beautiful, O' flowing stream,
Embrace my soul in your captivity,
I desire to be seized in your esteem,
And my heart rests in such festivity.
O' blessed wine, O' sweetness of my existence,
Your love arose like the morning sun upon my chest,
Elevating me and pouring like a spring within my breast.
― Jamil Hussain