I shall tend to my garden.
My word of thoughts that are seeded,
to blossom at any time of day.

I shall tend to my field.
My plot of ideas that grow well,
that need to be harvested.

I shall take *** to heart ,
and prune what doesn't serve
then a poem will be displayed
on window cil of my writers heart.

A writer's greatest fear
is being lonely
in his
own
mind

Looking at the dark sky
He looked at his paper and started to cry
Wounded by the harsh criticisims
Yet you aren't the God to judge him

He only have passion
But it turns to depression
Leading to stop writing
As people continue judging

Works are meant to get the critic
Not the person who writes the lyric
He is a writer by blood
And a person in the middle of the crowd

I'm not a writer
Gathering marvellous words
Spreading healing poems

I'm a fighter
Trying to survive
Avoiding bad omens

As potential grew, a desire to write, disclosed to few

Imagination immerse, but yet to thirst for knowledge, accrued ambition address

All aboard the express, thoughts of Harry, a plot to marry

From fanciful flights to greater heights

Capturing such visualisation, twas the formation

Characterisation, of wings to soar, with metaphor

From Dumbledore, yet taking shape

Professor Snape, assume the plot, lest thoughts forgot

A forest to roam, a philosophical stone

Such creative flair of which to share

Joining of the dotted line, artistic mind

Transporting train, journeyed acclaim

Of whom to impede, the will to succeed

The ability to write, the capacity to teach, the desire to reach

An impetus for change, a literary role, a priority

Of which to seek with tenacity

Beyond horizons, beyond confines, stand undefined

Awe-inspire, great readership, a due reply

To simplify, a noble shift, outstanding writer in the midst

Dynamic plot from pen to page, persistence through to published stage

A realised dream, challenge overcome

A victory won definably, stocked supplies to library

Broomstick flight phenomenon, a mystical tale was to become

Would generate, the bus of Knight, to render right

A rebuilt life, a legacy made

From chosen craft to final draft, a world of creativity

The right to type, to innovate, an intriguing wait

A shining star that would liberate



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©

He watched you cry
He watched you bleed
He saved your life
Which isn’t yours to keep
So why do you question
His intentions?
He created you
With all your imperfections
He tests you today
So you can see tomorrow
In the hereafter
Without the sorrow
Of the Dunya we chase
While putting the Deen aside
We exploit His Grace
And refuse to abide by
The simple rules He’s lodged
For our own benefit
We disregard the elephant
In the room in which we sleep
The Muslims of today are no less than sheep
Following the norms of western society
Forgetting our own and neglecting the Deity

I wish I could be a book
I could send myself to you
in envelops and postcards
over a laconic lifetime
rungs of ladder climbed
waded through like the push
of legs in the water, over sand
chewing on the words you sent.

We, are a family now,
some privileged in the boundaries
of grandiloquent bags and pouches,
some forgotten in the drawers
before relocations,
versions of a person’s state of mind
over time, we make history books
capturing people in the making
of an indistinct next moment

sometimes we carry our own praises
outsourced by the wits of our writers
like love they did find not in the other
but their own selves, blind still.

Does your reader pause too?
basks in the glory of an empty wall
staring at nothing in particular?
I wish we had will and means
to write ourselves on ourselves
so that we could reach other and do that.

Instead like our creators, we are
dilapidated ruins of yellow bodies,
left to live and die on dirt and air
once they are gone, aren’t you scared
of death?

Seeking Reply
Letter A