शायरी भी एक खेल है
शतरंज का…
जिसमे लफ़्ज़ों के मोहरे
मात दिया करते हैं एहसासों को…
और शहंशाह अक्सर तनहा हो जाते हैं!!

a game of chess,
In which
the words, the chess pieces
keep defeating
the feelings
the winners end up lonely!!

I've tried other methods
hell, I've even tried acrostic
not saying it wasn't good
although, it may be, slightly caustic

Words are such silly things
they mean nothing, or, so much
poetess, or poet schemes
violent, or gentle, touch

Built, brick by brick
by verse, and by line
flowing, differently
taste, of dissimilar wine

Poets/Poetess' have no cut and run
words, stand the test of time
it's just the better part of us
haiku, free verse, or rhyme

Y'all are too kind, esp to me :)
Jerry Chebon Jul 8

The shade of your skin
I look for...in everyone
The shape of your eyes
I dare not...but then I do

'She used to walk like that..'
I find myself saying
'Talk like that...'
'Laugh like that...'
All of the above

Water rushes over the memories
Imprinted in sand
But yours never go away
They live and grow in moonlight
Forever plus one day

My fortress has a thousand rooms
One for you
For each

It's a given
120 years old
If I'm cursed to live that long
The last thought
The last words
Will be of you...

Pagan Paul Jun 22

The Land of Poetica is viewed
as far as the eye can see,
reaching out to unknown shores
edging the oceans of infinity.

Each drop is a Lord or a Lady
contributing to the community,
sending out their words of Art
with no judgement nor impunity.

Though storms may hit at times
rocking the boat of security,
waves of the Lords and Ladies
save Poetica from obscurity.

from 'Selected Works'  
by Lord Pagan of Poetica

© Pagan Paul (22/06/17)


Attention all HP Poetess
Be on the look out for
The Skull

Do not be fooled
By his Vocabulary
Your state of marriage
Well known to make
The women laugh
He'll put your mind
On a flirtatious path
He'll lead you to
The edge of your seat
As he blindly sweep you
Off of your feet
Beware his smooth words
And don't look in his eyes
The time is set
And you'r on his mind..

Contact the authorities
If he comes :D your way
Live your life without
A broken heart today...

Also be on the look out for
The Skull accomplice:
Sticky aka twigs

Suave, debonair, and loyal too
Just like his canine wards
Composing words designed to woo
Not using ropes, or cords
He knows just what to do
Earning, your prizes and rewards

He'll soon have you without your clothes
Slicker, than a come to Jesus minister
So ladies, hold your virtue close
He's really not that sinister
Providing you a giant twiggy sappy dose
Something, he's happy, to administer.

Get your alarms turned on
Practicing better security
Not to be bound by the Stick's
Twigged deviant, impurities

It was his idea! No trust me, seriously, It was T's idea :D
Babra Shafiqi Apr 24

What's that called I don't remember?
The darkness that creeps up
At night,
In slumber.
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.

©Babra Shafiqi.
Please leave a comment and let me know what you think about it.
Glass Mar 20

Cocoon this is reality
in an empty space
unlocked & flawed
like bleach is increasingly scenic
diluting with calamity,
revolving on arthritis
reticent jaws
like the phlegmatic ambiance
is brusque
it's vast unblemished didactic
sincerity because
" 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
softly sighing
"why are the rims of my eyes not

- G


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

Drama, it lends itself to poetry like fuel to a fire, and it always....burns.
Graff1980 Feb 2

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

Yup, I read such things all the time :)
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