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Rendering summer’s mid day
Looking back at autumn’s memories
A warm winter having winds of may
Yonder saddened by tears of enormities

It is a difficult and intertwined world
Little by little we became distant
We became obsess with wealth
Forgotten to what is more important

What will words could ever be
Thoughts, farthest words form probably
In the place rainbow born and dies
And where the end of this life lies

When do you think people die?
When the heart stops beating?
When the body is as cold as ice?
No, it’s when.. they’re forgotten
Heavy Hearted Apr 10
Painting the pictures I wanted to be in ~

Our life's lines are implied as parallels,
For they trace in the same direction
To our collective personnel's
profound destination:

As our life's lines are redrawn,
again and once again,
Our destiny's knotted into one,
A Triquatra till the end.

Know our lines stay parallel-
Though Infinite,  they'll never meet
In their never joining spell
Their truths within decept.
The Locker
by Michael R. Burch

All the dull hollow clamor has died
and what was contained,
removed,

reproved
adulation or sentiment,
left with the pungent darkness

as remembered as the sudden light.

Originally published by The Raintown Review

Keywords/Tags: Sports, locker, lockerroom, clamor, adulation, acclaim, applause, sentiment, darkness, light, retirement, athlete, team, trophy, award, acclamation
Mikey Kania Mar 6
last minutes of trust
in a poem made of dust
you made me hate me

feel the real injection daily
everything seems to poke
you turned into a joke

everything seems to shine
twinkle and rhyme
feel the real injection

this verse is for my protection
this verse is killing you: action!
lamps out of broken teeth

brother breaks his brother's knee
brother stabs his brother's stomach
feel the real injection

everything is for protection
turning choirboys into warriors
brother against brother

everything is an attraction
brother smashes brother's face in
brother against brother face it:

brother against brother
Today is a good day.
Mikey Kania Mar 6
the rivers of shades
provide water for the forgotten
ones

who have been isolated
from all living in order to
dance

you'll find their silhouettes
behind curtains, in flickering, a
chance

for the living to look closer
in ice-packed letters forever
can't

you give it all back to me?
i need me my caring, my huggings
don't

stay away from me i wouldn't cope
i would grab a thick rope but ya know i
won't

everything counts no detachments
attachment: the rivers of shades approaching
us

we can't get away from them they
are here now and they will stay
more

depictions of endless loopholes
children adults and groups
into rivers of shades:

the last curtain
the last candle
the last silhouette

"we can't get away from them"
you say looking at me but "no sweat
we'll be good baby" i'm echoing as we

become a combination of wolf & lioness
from one unit into one fluid
liquid

last echoes voices and shades
but the rivers remain
but the rivers remain
Today is a serious day. A girl I'm very close to threatened to take her own life. What the... Fortunately, she didn't. God bless you

Much Love Mikey.
Chandra S Nov 2019
A crushed Shah Jahan said:
When you behold the memorial,
a sight so masterly, yet sorrowful;
you will inevitably admit
an aching little bisecting wish
that adorns your yearning lips....
parched,
barren,
effete......
And from the world's lid,
the luminaries too
would sob and drip.

#

He could well have been talking
about my beloved's words ;
......so utterly breathtaking
that a sigh poignantly quivers
in my dithering being.

Her words meander.
It is no wonder:
for all of us saunter
in thought and speech
one time or the other.

At times her words are poised and easy.....,
wonderfully jolly, sensationally starry:
They shimmer like the four minarets (1)
on the full moon night;
....brilliant......resplendent.

Then they taper from the dome
and stop halfway between the tomb
and the solemn reflecting pool:
They are calmer, sober,
and you know,
a little factual;
...what they call discriminating
intellectual, rational......

Soon the words leave charbagh (2)
and hit the red sandstone walls (3)
crenellated with flawless wisdom;
spotlessly beautiful
like the lifeless marble
that proudly commemorates
Mr. Shah Jahan's love
in grim, cold blooded grace.

We talk about
riders and scruples,
kith and kin,
restraints and constraints,
fidelity and modesty.......
....and I can not help
but to sadly agree
to the placid logic
in our impeccable scripts.

#

Logic is a wonderful remedy
for the radical and foolhardy
but for every cure,
there is a spin-off.
Deep somewhere,
a delicate,
two-cent sentiment
collapses into atrophy
and.......silently
another part of me
becomes a
meek monument
of disposable history.

----------

(1) The four minarets of the Taj Mahal

(2) The garden that starts from the end of the main gateway and ends near the squared base of the mausoleum is an integral part of the Taj Mahal structure.

(3) The building material used is brick-in-lime mortar veneered with red sandstone and marble and inlay work of precious/semi precious stones. The mosque and the guest house in the Taj Mahal complex are built of red sandstone in contrast to the marble tomb in the center.
Inspired by: The typical victory of logic and rationality over emotion and sentiment. A parallel is drawn between the irrefutable beauty, yet the apathy of logic and the Tajmahal, which is elegant and yet a symbol of sorrow and loss.
Sabila Siddiqui Aug 2019
Eid Al Adha;
Eid of Sacrifices
and the celebratory end of Hajj.

Purity abides around their heart
as souls are blessed with the
sown seeds of joy.

Allah hu Akbar;
takbir echoes
as devotees congregate in
every mosque nearby.

They wear embellished clothes,
extending their hearts to one another
and capturing the ecstasy
in every single encounter.

Sentiments are reciprocated,
and gratitude is manifested
on such an occasion
as we recall the origins of the
reason we sacrifice;
and that is to follow the order of Allah,
as Prophet Ibrahim did.
Writing out poetry, line upon line,
As the Summer rain, silently, dripped down the window,
I solemnly scribed every rhyme upon rhyme,
Forging sentiment slowly distilled from the page.
Whimsical musings yet tinted the scenery -
Colourful, fancy and folly imbued –
As the wondrous flashes of visual tapestry
Filled me with passionate fervour renewed.
In this poem I strictly adhered to a dactylic metre (the title itself; a dactyl) as it was the first poem I wrote after I had begun to actually study the basic precepts of poetic metre. So many modern poets appear to disavow such strict adherence to poetic metre (perhaps they find the form dated, simplistic, or stifling?) but I really enjoy the musical qualities of such poetry.
Laura Gallagher Feb 2019
Where there is a will there's a way,
That's what I always say,
Hope is a four letter word,
For a story that has never been told,
Time is of the essence,
Taken forgranted yet shines its fluoresence,
Digital fairytales seem the norm,
Forgotten are memories so free and warm,
Busy bee is searching for connection,
Smelling the roses, she expresses affection,
Mourning the sight of passers by,
Lonely stressed and ever so shy,
Bewildered and in a daze,
These people are lost in a maze,
A zenful flower is not the ideal,
For a world that is told how to feel,
Hope is a four letter word,
That whispers "where there's a will there is a way"
Allesha Eman Jan 2019
If the world was a stage and I was a play-write:

The wind: It was a musician, the muse of a heartbeat and whistling was its charm.

The leaves: The companions of the wind, they were the strings of the guitar. Dancing towards oblivion.

The flowers: They were the painters. A vision was their purpose. They played with colours and mystery.

The sun: It was the stage light, as it glowed upon the sounds of music in the air, the surface of the leaves, and gave life to all the trees.

The stars: They were the show stoppers, dancing in the sky. Revelling in the attention from the eyes of the observer.

The moon: The shy wonder of the night, sometimes barely visible. As it timidly sets the stage for another afternoon.

And lastly,

You: With a thousand stories to tell you’re in thousands of places at once. Looking for mountains to climb and things to design. You’re curious and too quick, never on the stage but merely an observer, but secretly you’re the whole show.


There are a thousand stories to tell,
So I’ll tell you a secret to this mysterious show
The script is blank, the pages clear white
And every minute new words appear
For I am merely following sentimental alliances
Just an observer watching as the future becomes clear.
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