Love terrain is very very difficult and different
It goes through chaos with color of contempt
Beloved enjoys it being princess to be ardent
Lover has to be bold enough to bear the brunt

Love has different moods and different shades
Beauty has the raids with sharp and blunt blades
My innocent sweetheart when comes in braids
Then she takeover all and vehemently invades

She is not aware of force and strength of beauty
Everyone who is in love must admit and agree
Love is at glance and not on any real valid plea
But imagine what the state of real lover could be

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

I sat on a wounded chair
in a room filled with silence
and peace, nobody was there
I spoke to the dead and still
plastics of life, to seek,
love, comfort and care
Caged in my imagination
crowded , I was unaware  
I was not alone,  
I felt a deep stare

-Kaya

Most people lost in trance,
No moral No virtue, none taking stance,
Corporations, profiling the masses for profit,
Wisdom, a lost art, never a conversation topic,

Most people  lost in trance,
Thinking, intellect seems active...  but at glance,
The masses follow but a single or many devils dance,
Compassion forbidden, ignorance in forever expanse.

Wickedness spreading even in a happy song,
The Path of Ancients, forgotten, what has gone wrong?
Spirituality always seen as an unscientific farce,
A pure state of consciousness, truly: a lost Art.

As a the masses defile, few seek purity,
All with masks on, fearing true reality,
Fools fooling fools, a vicious cycle,
Kings and pawns, dreaming of power and titles.

Lost in trance, for others amusement,
Greed seekers doing even the devil's recruitment,
Pollutants in all, mind, heart and body,
Lost in trance, devoid of potentiality.

A few fools, feeding on ignorance for money,
Truly, lost in trance, a lost humanity.

I have always dreamt of a lover
whose complexion teases mine
with its darkness
that sun-kissed muscular
physique

I have always dreamt of a lover
whose arms embrace me
pull my pieces together
after I myself have been shattered

I have always dreamt of a lover
who will "woo me with his words" (quoted)
as I fall into slumber after a drunken night

I have always dreamt of a lover
who will draw me and curve my silhouette
into the most beautiful muses

I have always dreamt
isn't that the best
part?

Today another human
was buried in the dirt,
and other humans gathered round,
and cried because it hurt.
And nothing in the time that he
had spent upon this earth,
could, in those tear-filled mourners' eyes,
diminish that man's worth.

No label he had ever worn
could sway their human hearts.
With no conditions, they loved him,
the sum of all his parts.
Now under six cold feet of ground,
he lies before his time.
And other humans wonder if
the sentence fit the crime.

Another human was his mom,
another was his dad.
Some others still had been his friends
since he was just a lad.
They had laughed and cried with him,
been true through thick and thin.
Now they've thrown handfuls on the box
they buried the man in.

Now the streets are burning-
other humans, filled with rage,
lash out at OTHER humans,
with the city as their stage.
Man and woman, boy and girl,
bear witness what you're seeing-
the aftermath of the wrongful death
of another human being.

When I went to the park today
I heard the birds singing
and the water moving-
ever so softly against the wind.
The squirrels,
their erratic tails and fur
bounded across trees and
ate nuts as they stared
at the funny looking squirrels below them.
The ones with the shorts and the shirts on,
and the ones with the long hair colored so strangely.
Those squirrels didn’t quite look like squirrels at all.
They drove strange boats and paddled in the water,
and a couple of those strange squirrels
seemed to have large furry companions
that definitely didn’t look like squirrels.
And yet whenever they come near
they act like they know the squirrels
they take photos and videos
and make memes, funny pictures
and snapchat videos of them.
But they aren’t.
They aren’t squirrels at all.
They’re humans,
yet some think they are squirrels.

the self-styled trumpeteers of ethnic hate
wish to build fences
    close the gates
to keep out those who flee
from self-styled trumpeteers of religious hate
who, as it is,
claim to feel called to hold up
ancient teachings that are out of date
in modern democratic times
when neither chimes of church bells
nor the cries of muezzins
or any other servants of religion
rank higher than the people’s democratic vote

as we are told by the elected
trumpeteers of democratic nations

god and the state each get their share
in separate spheres
but do not mix

for me
those who dare violate this rule
just come across as desperate to solve
new problems with old words
look backward and believe
that when they sell regression
     garnished with some bows
it will be seen as progress
make people overlook that
     while they now may live by simple truths
they can no longer disagree
     without the fear of ****** harm

just let us speak out loud and clear
     against the self-styled trumpeteers' song

to **** in the name of whatever god
is always wrong

I declare my home to be tucked within the wreathed *****
of the Blue Ridge Mountains,
where I know them as my silent guardians
watching over me;

til I taste saltwater on my tongue,
and find my taste buds alight
with the spread of steaming Blue *****--
doused aplenty in Old Bay--
spread atop disheveled newspaper on the kitchen table.

Suddenly, water becomes "wooter,"
and wash becomes "warsh,"
and I laugh and skip rocks along the waters
that baptized me in my infancy.

That is, until the Old North State
wraps me in her misty shawl,
where I find myself barefoot on grassy acres--
wild dogs running in packs amiably--
and I race makeshift boats of sticks and water bottles
down the ole crik.

I close my eyes and feel faint and brisk breezes
caress my face like a mother's hand,
gently guiding me through dense woods
where imagination and reality forged an alliance.

So where do I call home?
Well that's entirely up to you,
whether you send my head into an ear-popping,
mind-whirling dizzy spell--
euphoric in higher elevations and getting lost in the foliage;
or you put a plate of steaming ***** before me with saltwater kisses on your lips.

I am the Oriole of the Blue Ridge,
and the Cardinal of the Chesapeake:
The White Oak and the Longleaf Pine.