Once again I sit and weep as you pretend sleep.

Passing the ‘Anwara Noor’
I promised to forget
What I have kept with thee
Or what madness obsessed you
Loving, in dream even, me.

Protima, believe me, my dear
No stone I unturned from then
To struggle to erase
Memories sweet or panic
From my oblivion I possess.

But standing before the mirror,
To have a copy of my own brand
Or some broken images of me,
Nothing I get visible
Except its betrayal I do see.

In a flash, then, my dearest known
And very dearly own,
Ninety thousand faces of
Thy lovely chicks appear before me.

Now, tell me, dear, how do I forget thee!

© Rahman Mostafiz

Stuck
between
having you
here
and being
there
'cause we can
neither
be near
or disappear
without miracles
and selfishness
and a trigger
pulling
on my heart
strings

I think I'm the remainder left over;
A complex number in an equation you found to solve.
You treat me like a stranger: holding me through
the pain of peering in at you from the outside where it's cold.

Words spoken
Through the gliding motion of a tongue ,
across the floor of a mouth
Past the realm of physicality
and  mentality,
Lies invisible strings
sprouting to bind with flesh.

Without the equal support
From both collector and  giver
The weight will be unbearable

The subtracted duty of aid
inwhich had once balaced
half a side;
The remaining will fall

Along will the strings
entwined with flesh,
of  a once whole gift.

© J-d S. J

Bombs blowing in the air,
ruins the moisture for my hair,
let dying dogs lie I always say,
as long as they don't get in my way.
Let those slum children die,
so I can let out an excited cry,
when my soccer team doesn't let a goal go by.
We should clean and fix this place,
I will say when I visit the disgrace,
how can a country be so displaced,
how did it become such a waste?
But when I get home,
I forget what I saw,
as I have no time to waste,
with society's flaw.

We were of the mountain
As far as any flesh can be when flesh is weak and soft
And so imperfect in its subtleties.
The valley takes no shelter here
When we are sand and stone
Formed by the world over; we are not our own.

You can't fight this finality - I can,
But it takes its toll on me as the rivers line my face
And I feel the sea and the moon in their dance.
The Earth adjusts itself to this
And I understand what it means;
That creators are destroyers of the in-betweens.

I see no violent turn in the paths we take,
Just the gentle shift that time will make.