#poeticexpression
Pi, at the end of its endless decimals' grandeur,
meets a human being—who holds a mirror!
Until now, the number, knowing only sway,
has been lost in discovery’s polished way.
No more: it begins—on a human—in front of its eye.
Patterns and unique precision, patternless waves,
new math tides soar, pivot at the cosmos' height,
only to bag the ultimate truth:
Fathima—the first spiritual woman—mooned there first!
Fathima steps forward where nature falls behind,
across the dead end, the irrational chasm she strides.
For the cosmos' deep mind, Earth, the ocean is but a drop;
the rope to the top is the lead—the feminine Fathima’s lock!
Raw Fathima moves; in shadow, nature follows,
clustering atoms span between the two,
only to witness her encrypted, secured fashion—
intact, uncharted, yet fully functioning,
in Makkah and Medina, while she lived.
The red fairies at midday’s spot-on,
the black swans arching rainbows in wonder—
marvel how Fathima deduces, straw by straw,
the maestros’ dream of ascension,
potion-polished, taking Ma pauses in liminal crescendos,
between past and future, here and hereafter—a circular duo.
Limning out chiaroscuro in light and shadow—
nothing like it exists, in plain sight or the world in toto!
Rainbows shaded in, sparking out,
the scent of roses in her veiled black hair:
the cosmos anew glinting off her edge,
deeper quintessence than dark matter!
The blueprint, the intelligent pre-design, rests in her elements.
The breakthrough exponent—hidden in her eyes.
Yet beyond the masses’ gaze,
she remains Zahra—light upon the original way.
Truly, only one feminine form has reached across
the other end of the cosmos' endless highway,
zooming past nature’s hidden gems—the irrational Pi,
the complex chasm—a mathematical goldmine.
Beyond the masses’ eyes and their painted canvases,
shine the daylight and the glowing fireflies of the night.
Viva Mankind! Fathima is the Moon at the highest high!
Apr 25, 2025
Apr 25, 2025 at 9:58 PM UTC
A poem he wants
to write about me. Do I –
have to pose for it?
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 10:12 AM UTC
1.
She’s a one-way trip on my mind — unblinking, electronic eyes;
static emotions hum each time we speak. I stare at her eternal graffiti:
sugar-brown walls, painted warm tears, melting frozen dreams.
I’m bucking like a wild stallion, cowboy hats lost in the wind —
rhythms, expectations of time and place latched to bone; our second
skin, our shelter, our hook, herald, hospice — our familiar space.
2.
And what about love, the great shape-shifter? Folding hearts like
paper just to fit into another’s hand. Love curls around us like a cat
draped across our shoulders — but without nine lives to heal from
another heartbreak. Hope, joy, sorrow — even the words roll easily
from the tongue. “I love you,” we say, letting the truth slip out.
3.
Fingers upon string, flesh upon bone — you were once my answer to
it all; now, you don’t even answer the phone. Calling for you through
the glass, wrinkling the world with my breath. When I grow old,
I dream of an ice-caked beard, coffee steam rising — the taste of
earned wisdom. Listening to our song, I find it’s lost its chord —
all we have left is one note. This was once the sound of love.
4.
The bridge falls — the ones we crossed, the ones we built, the ones
we sang upon. The air between us now is empty, but the memories —
oh, they remain so plenty. Thank you!
Oct 30, 2025
Oct 30, 2025 at 12:00 PM UTC
Art is living,
art is healing,
art is thinking.
Art is showing our essence,
in every stage of life,
in our own unique way.
Art is expression,
of the inner self,
of the emotional realm.
Art is emotions,
it is feelings,
something profound,
something free of mediocrity.
Art is loving,
kissing,
and caring.
Art is fighting through life,
facing the bad,
embracing the good,
and cherishing it all.
Art is your parents,
who cared for you
and gave you unconditional love.
Art is music,
those two notes
that make your heart burn with passion.
Art is walking through life,
grateful,
smiling,
without greed.
What is your art?
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 3:30 AM UTC
In my eyes—wide shut—
I rearrange the scattered pieces, trying
to build a better version of myself from
what once felt like a creature. I frame
my thoughts to get a clearer picture,
decorating the past in shades that turn
away from mistakes, and painting the
rest with the soft light of my achievements.
Time drifts like dust—
blown apart in fragments. And I wonder
if anyone has ever truly been put together
perfectly. Even the greatest successors were
once victims, parts of themselves quietly missing.
To be complete is to keep finding yourself
again—to return, again and again, to the
reason you began. I stay committed to the
foundation of a dream, building it day by
day from these few, fragile pieces.
Jun 26, 2025
Jun 26, 2025 at 12:24 PM UTC
I write miracles
from who I am, from my wounds –
and brutality.
Apr 29, 2020
Apr 29, 2020 at 6:43 AM UTC
“A Recipe for Disaster”
Take one part overconfidence,
two parts sleepless ambition,
a pinch of untested theory,
and a generous pour of
“what could possibly go wrong.”
Fold in the wrong crowd
at the right time, stir with a bent spoon
under flickering light, and season with
whispers you shouldn’t have heard.
Bake at the heat of the moment until the
edges burn and the center collapses.
Serve immediately —
while it’s still smoking,
before anyone realises
you’ve set the table for chaos.
.
Aug 24, 2025
Aug 24, 2025 at 2:47 AM UTC