I want to fall in love in an art museum,
and gaze at paintings,
and see myself through them;

                 dancing between the lines

       singing among the colours

Your voice:
I hang on every word you say,
Every melody you sing,
Every moan you sigh.
I am captivated,
By the way words – sounds – linger off your tongue.
The way an “I love you” sounds when we are tangled in sheets,
How we are so out of breath it all falls out as one quick Iloveyou.

No, No, No,
I don't know
what will happen
tomorrow!

But, Look, Look, Look,
I am happy today
and now!

This wait is sweet,
My beloved is sweet,
A delicate bud is she,
An apple of my eyes, is she!

I write a poem for her,
A kiss would be better,
Sing this song of mine,
She is about to come,
it is already nine!

© Manan sheel.

Sing sing sing me a river
And I will learn to listen
Flow flow flow like an ocean
And I will learn to swim
Dance dance dance me
A rainbow and I will love again

it's funny
when we'd drive together
you'd scream-sing
and i'd sit and laugh
happy to see
that you were happy
and enjoying yourself

then i'd go home
and abuse the "repeat" button
listening to the songs
you'd made me love

and i'd find myself humming them
and then singing them
and then screaming them in the car
even when you weren't there

i put them in every playlist
because i remembered
how happy you were
when you'd sing them

but now that i know
you'll never be in the driver's seat
scream-singing to me
ever
again

the songs i loved
have moved into my sad songs playlist
and have become
the songs i skip
without giving them a chance to play

and even though
the lyrics are upbeat
and happy

they've got me feeling
some kind of way
i don't wanna feel

sadness is overplayed
overhyped

everything
your songs
our songs
never were

Mother?
Are you there?
Mother, do you ever get cold or sad in that little house all alone?
Do you ever wonder what could have been?
Do you miss your old friends?
Mother, are you missing me right now?
Is it hard without Father?
Will you be okay?
Mother, are you singing about the tree again?

Mother, will you sing to me again?

I waited too long
to mow my lawn
biopsy my lung
yet lived long enough, anon,
however long is long.
Whatever. It's not wrong
to count along
while busy living. Sing
and stay strong
absorb the sun's photons
and store them in your bones.

Those bones
outlast slights and spurns
are white as lightning and strong
as sticks and stones.
Inside is one's
spirit, soul, the nameless one
the one that's never known.
It has no cell phone
can't communicate or even moan.
Therefore. Why complain?
Have some fun.

Soon
I'll be undone
underground
my garden burned down.
So what. John Donne
died and so did Milton.
Emerson too, and Whitman.
Get over it. Vote. Love. When
the train comes in the station
whistle with it, wish on
stars with passion
or careful hesitation.
Anything's fine, within reason.

Season by season
things get done.
Algebra and calculus, Malcolm X, George Washington.
No taxation
without representation.
A gun
in every den.
People will be governed
one way or another, by a king
or trusted friend. Corporation.
Men
are more disposed to suffer, while Evils are sufferable, than
to right themselves by abolishing the Evils to which they are        
      resigned.

I'm too young
to die! I cry. My generation
cannot outrun the sun
but I want to see what happens
next, a tsunami or tornado, rain
and wind beyond our comprehension
hit in the head by speeding debris, irony
of ironies! plastic contraptions,
rotting computers and yogurt cups, pain
in the baby! Moment's
notice. None,
I notice, live long
enough to see the end. Amen. A million

years hence
human sense
has so modified and mutated under
other moons
we share one mind
and everything's remembered by everyone.
Look it up. There is no death, just perfect rest. A perfect tan
is possible, and work is fun.
I'm going there when I pass on
because souls will travel at warp speeds, using nuclear fission.
About suffering, religion
was right (and wrong) all along.

you stand among us,
as though we were not shattered when
you took apart all that we made
to give you...

and i become that seething
sniveling,
mess on the floor...
when you tell me that you are leaving again,
as if i didnt just
create love to place in
your hands,

a kiss and a blooming rose, you
are all that i am,
and yet
still i feel lonely,

empty,
as you stand before me,
naked and in pieces,

but singing on a stage that i made just
for you.

Write what you know
Paint what you see
Yourself is much more int’resting
Than whoever you pretend to be

Sing what you hear
Move how you must
Look not to other’s favour
In yourself you may trust

Create and inspire
Astound and amuse
Yourself is an instrument
Go ahead - play what you choose!