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Today, I am gardening my life,
I'll root out  worrisome weeds,
Those thoughts that trouble me,
Cast them aside, those I'd never need.

I'll cut the grass of discontent
Layer it even, soft, green and sweet,
Smoothen  the furrows,
So I can run content, bare feet.

I'll water seeds planted with love,
Of friends made this year,
Friendships that bloomed,
That make life special, worth living and dear.

I'll welcome  butterflies,
And make homes for nesting birds,
With them, taste sun's ambrosia,
Soar and see the world.

I'll bask in the rainbow of colors,
Of blossoms brilliant bright,
And keep them sheltered,
When they sleep at night.

I'll capture the scented essence,
Of roses, jasmines and lilies
Place them in a jar,
My fragrant memories.

I'll love; rest and spend more time,
Under the shade of the  family tree,
Cherish every moment, every minute,
' Neath its precious canopy.

And I'll buy new saplings,
Sow them all carefully  in a row,
Of hopes, promises to me and mine,
And tend to them, make them grow
The hate
You Give
Is the hate
You shall
Receive
70 times
Seven

For
Give
This is what I call Word Art
it’s supposed to be an
Exclamation Point
 Mar 27 Aslam M
Dr Peter Lim
Don't reach out
so far and wide to others
that you forget
to render that
unto your own self
and are left empty-
this would be like
a moral suicide-
the self must be
in sound order
and harmony:
this is the top priority
with everything else set aside
I haven't seen her in years.

Maybe she's still there
when the tide rises
foraging in the river
dreaming in half moon
they meet their fate
floating into her net.

With the tide ebbing
maybe she's still hugging the shore
praying for a little more
till the stars blink weary
waiting for her to go home.

Is she still there
her skin smeared with mud
stalking like a night heron
silhouetted against the skylight
her feet kissing the riverbed
her bed lonely and cold.

I wonder why for me
she's so mysterious
a predator in the river
a foresaker of life
for the life of her
brewing a love
deeper than I've ever known.

In my eye's river
she's still there.

Age cannot catch up with her.
 Mar 21 Aslam M
Kelsey
What a tragedy it is
To grow up believing
That everything gets better
When you become an adult

And when that time comes,
You see your parents
Without their masks--

Struggle,
Pain,
Disappointment.
Painted on their face
All along.

Then they welcome you,

To the rest of your life.
 Mar 19 Aslam M
nivek
small air sound collisions
each word a shared energy

a voice on the wind
a wave of the sea

a child growing
getting old

each and every
energy transforms

a voice sounding out
a voice set free.'
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