"bakes" poems
Ang pagibig sa karunungan ay walang katapat na halaga. Ang pilosopiya at salapi ay langis at tubig kailanman hindi ito maaaring magsanib. Si Socrates na ama ng pilosopiya ay hindi yumaman ni guminhawa ang kanyang buhay. Ang karunungan ay bahagi ng kaluluwa at ang kaluluwa kahit kelan ay hindi nangailangan ng salapi at materyal na mga bagay. Walang pera sa pilosopiya sapagkat wala rin pilosopiya sa pera.
“Philosophy bakes no bread” pero ito ang pundasyon ng mga sibilisasyon. Ang kultura at ebolusyon ng lahat ng buhay at mga pangyayari at kasaysayan ay nakasalalay sa pag-unlad ng pilosopiya. Ang karunungan ay parang gulong na laging sumusulong. Ang lahat ng sangay ng kaalaman ay nakasalalay sa pilosopiya, pilosopiya ang nagbibigay buhay at nagpapagalaw sa mundo. Ito ang bumabago sa takbo ng panahon at isipan ng bawat henerasyon.
“Philosophy bakes no bread” ang medisina, batas, arkitektura, literatura at lahat ng katha ng isip ay nakasalig sa pilosopiya. Walang kaayusan kung walang pilosopiya. Ito ang mapa ng mundo at kompas ng kasaysayan. Pati ang mga buktot na panukala at mga hangarin ay may bahid ng binaluktot na pilosopiya na binalangkas ng mga taong hangal. Ang pilosopiya ang lumilikha ng yaman at kahirapan depende kung paano ito ginagamit ng mga nasa kapangyarihan.
“Philosophy bakes no bread” pero ito ang kanlungan at kapahingahan; ito ang nagbibigay ng kalayaan. Tanggulan ito ng mga mahihina at walang kayang lumaban. Sulo na nagbibigay liwanag at pumupunit sa dilim ng gabi.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC
I am not my age
I'm more than a hoodie
Stood on a street corner
Hands in my pockets
I am not my age
I'm more than popular music
Blasting in my headphones
So loud you can hear
I am not my age
I'm more than just hormones
Racing through my brain
Making me unreasonable
I am not my age
I'm more than just indifference
Not caring about school or health
Not caring about anything
I am not my age
I'm more than just my phone
Social-media crazy
Hidden behind a screen
I am not my age
I'm more than just a stereotype
Loud, brash, unruly, lazy,
Phone-obsessed, violent
I am not my age
I have a complex personality
I have inner depth
I think about things that matter
I am not my age
I write poetry
I write stories
I explore people
I am not my age
I'm vegetarian by choice
I hate to hurt anyone
But I will fight for my friends
I am not my age
My emotions are valid
But I keep them hidden
For fear of being manipulative
I am not my age
I do not give you my respect
Just because you've lived longer
You have to earn it
I am not my age
I care about politics
It is my country
What happens to it matters to me
I am not my age
I'm struggling through exams
I'm stressed but trying
I'm determined to work for what I want
I am not my age
I'd be happy to have a job
I don't loiter or lurk
I'm not lazy
I am not my age
I'm not dangerous
Seriously, I'm a ****
I get scared walking down the street in the dark
I am not my age
I have five pets
They matter to me
I take care of them
I am not my age
I'm trying to get to school
You don't indicate
And I'm inconsiderate
I am not my age
My dad left me at two
My mum bakes cakes
But you didn't think about that
I am not my age
I suffer from depression
I'm not 'moody' or 'grumpy'
But you think I'm all just hormones
I am not my age
So don't perpetuate stereotypes
You don't know me, don't pretend to
And don't blame your problems on me
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 10:20 AM UTC
A Serotinous Pine there,
Where winter snows soak into thirsty soil but relentless summer sun bakes motionless
Every plant a tinder held close to conflagration,
in a season's Russian roulette of forest fire.
This pine seals precious seed away from every spring’s promise,
lest burning destroys every one.
Only searing heat during torched consumption triggers the last gentle act,
At the knife’s edge of apocalypse itself,
opening cones of seeds.
Fluttering down to new life on the other side of time.
Tiny bright green amid black ashes.
Swimming Penguins
Birds evolved to fly in ocean.
Wings to flippers, feet stepping clumsily from water.
Yet eggs must still nest, their babies still breathe.
Safety is the very precipice of existence, on bitter ice at 60 below,
Sheltering their young clustered from blistering winds,
fasting from sustenance,
While heaven’s glorious Aurora flame silently over their winter dreams.
So what then are we, on This Earth?
Cerebral Creatures, Storytelling Animals.
Minds created to sense spiritual constructs.
Living is the method of our creation,
Sheltering each other from inherited trials
With contrived joys and sufferings distracting each other
from the soul freezing fearful cold of the Empty Void
And consuming fire of electric chaos.
In the End, our sacrificing gift for our children
is God.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 1:37 AM UTC
The sun bakes down heavily on a plastic micro planet in Orlando, Florida
where crowded trams drop American bushels of tourists into an alien world.
Quickly fantasy comes alive
through a corporation of disguise.
The workers mask themselves in a drapery of familiar life
-like costumes to charm little children’s hearts.
They smile wildly, carving a clear dimple line on the but of their cheeks. Walt’s Disney World
must have driven every one of America’s circuses out of business.
The flying trapeze is too elegant,
people now want to be strapped in,
buckled up and whipped around
to forcibly experience the true velocity of entertainment.
Even the participant’s attire is geared for this third world oblivion. Neon ***** packs rest like bloated kangaroo pouches
on fat sweaty old lady’s round hips, their plump fingers
holding on to leashed harnesses reined to their child’s small chest.
This is vacation,
strangers of people in massive conglomerations
with confused expressions and burnt faces.
Even the food seems wickedly unnatural,
like an artificial order of burning plastic and sour dough surprise.
Waiting is the enthusiast’s pastime as parades
of anxious voyeurs are captivated by a trance
fixation of lights and whistles.
They line up like schools of lemming,
plunging on rides,
one by one.
This is the place
Where memories are made
And dreams come true
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
Her skin looks pale,
White shedding brown,
like a golden brown velvet
strewn across a skeleton
made from Cleopatra’s frame.
There is nothing to it,
her sway is flawless
in her stilettos,
O’ God those stilettos.
She pave the roads with
blossoms of Primrose
and Calla Lilies, as the tip
of her heels stab the earth.
Her body melts cotton candies
in winter,
her curve bakes pastries
in snowy mountains,
It was an unbelievable sight,
like a sunrise, she climbs the edges
of the highest of peaks,
like the wind, she enters a heart by
the creaks; like a creep.
Perhaps nothing shall stop her,
Her footsteps continue to pierce
the soil, making a sound close to the
cracking of my knuckles.
She made people snivel and weep
when she enters the room
with her slender black dress.
She makes heads turn almost
to their full circle,
it would be death to steal a
peek, or glance, a peep.
She is the sun on earth:
hot and highly radiated
but too tempting to be left alone.
She is like the still waters:
calm, clean and serene
but too quiet to know the depth;
and still willingly jump in.
It is like believing again.
She is like believing again.
She is tiny as is her name,
It shall rhyme as the bell shines,
Her hair, her coiled twisted hair,
is much like herself: curled, twisted
bended.
Yet she is, perhaps, the twist in life,
the curl of wind on her bosoms, or
the bend of spines when eyes turn
to gaze at her splendor.
It is uncertain what she is,
but I know, vaguely.
She, like a Zinnia, shall be the
decoration of this planet.
She shall be, though exaggerated,
the reason for our existence.
She, corrupted and dangerous,
shall reclaim her spot in divinity
and shall forever more be
my source of inspiration.
Like a stream of clear water,
gushing down the torrent
ovately,
ornately,
creatively,
purposefully…
She shall see herself,
breathe herself and know that
only she is the one she could
deliberately fall…
…or fail.
The black sand shall be her dress,
the grey rocks shall be her stilettos,
that clear water be her conscience
as she takes on the world.
With her cursive eye shadows
she will see the funny side of
life; she will see it thoroughly.
She, regardless, will persist
and resist the failure
of herself, with the moist
creek on her seductive lips.
She is seduction.
She is temptation.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
When the baker bakes the baked bakery bakes,
Do they also bake the recipe required?
What's the recipe for a poem?
Does the poet pen the poetical poem poetically to pen their pretty poems?
What temperature do you bake ink-
To make it a bestseller?
How much baking powder do you bake into a page
To perfect its pagey turny pageiness?
What kinda poem crust does a poem become encrusted in?
Should it crumble?
Should it rhyme?
Should it cry a melodrama so dramatic that drama llamas like “that too much drama!”?
Wait,
Where did drama llama come into this?
Who else is in the kitchen cooking this poem pie?
Is the poem pie perfectly pied in its drama crust?
WAIT-
we forgot about the filling…
What do you put in a poetical poem pie?
Should I peach the pied poem?
The peaches plumpy peachy smile?
(i’m not sure how the drama llama feels about that)
Should I fill the peachy pied poem with orange and lemon citrus ?
A little bit of snazz to the snazzy apple pie.
Crap, I forgot the apples as well.
Well now my peachy pied lemony apple-orange poem is too long!
And i still don’t know what temperature to torch these thoughts at!
Well the pied piper pipes in that maybe my peachy pied poem needs some pepper
To pipe the spice to pied poem levels!
But lemony apple-orange peachy pied poems with pepper seems a touch peppery for simple pied poems to be.
But who ever said a poem pied can’t have spice and everything nice WITH lemon and apple and orange and peachy fuzzy smiles?
So,
My peachy peppered pied lemony appley orangy poemy is piping hot to boot.
Now i just need to figure out whos gonna eat the **** thing.
Dec 2, 2021
Dec 2, 2021 at 3:27 PM UTC
**** brown grass
covers my yard,
saddled
by dead gray skies
that **** rain
on my holiday.
Where is Christmas?
Will it come this year?
I fervently remember
swirls of snow
everywhere, a silent,
peaceful, white world
in which I could think.
There’s less now, each year.
My mother no longer bakes
those delicious peanut butter
cookies with the Hershey kiss
in the middle.
I can’t even remember
their smell,
nor the heat of the oven
to be my blanket
after I walk inside.
Is Christmas coming this year?
I don’t see the smiles
of holiday cheer,
just the grimace
of old men,
tired of buying presents
and putting up decorations.
Maybe it’s my eyes,
but I'm not sure Christmas
will come this year.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
Your teeth gnaw on my bones
The sound of grinding is the only thing that fills my ears
But it fills them from the inside out
Like a white noise
I am disconnected
I am impervious
Yet not immune to the sun
My skin bakes and cracks
And it gets filled with oil and grease and dirt and honey
from the bees that I crushed with my feet because their wings made too much wind
and it almost blew me off my feet
but I stayed grounded
I am the bark on the oak tree that the insects burrow into
They gnaw from the inside out and they make their homes and bear their children
I’ve raised a whole family inside of me
They’ve hollowed me into an empty vessel
The kind you leave under the kitchen sink that you pour grease and fat into but when you want to use me as a vase for your roses
The soap cannot remove the oils and I slowly fill your flowers
I **** them from the inside out
That is my revenge
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 4:15 AM UTC
Health department signs litter the grass areas,
"Do not make contact with the water;
Swimming forbidden".
Less than twenty years ago I learnt to swim here
And fish too, once i even drowned!
Sometimes my friends and I would
Catch Eels then sell them
To the local Chinese restaurant.
I treasure those memories of my childhood.
This fresh water lake surrounded
By trees taller than buildings
My beautiful haven from the city, hidden
Between main roads and highways
that only the locals know.
Sitting on sandstone rocks
I see my reflection amongst the lily pads.
Beyond the depths an entanglement of
Roots, seaweed and *******
Natural mandalas made by tadpoles
Ripple across the murky brown surface
Whilst a rather large water dragon
Sun bakes on the riverbank
And ducks glide by reminding me
Of the canoes we used to capsize
And I appreciate how simple life
Used to be.
ELEETE J MUIR
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 7:56 AM UTC
When crystal droplets of rain fall on the ground
When the smell of rain mingles that with the sand
I will remember you
When petals first open their very eyes
And emit fragrance, showing their colorful dyes
I will remember you
When a rainbow forms, a prism, a multitude of color
When plants germinate, drink rain and grow taller
I will remember you
When autumn leaves begin to fall on the countryside
Crinkles of red and orange, carried with the wind's tide
I will remember you
When full ripe Granny apples and Smiths begin to grow
And the river's sound rhythmically flows
I will remember you
When you harvest your crops and gather your wood
When you light a candle, wait for winter as you should
I will remember you
And when winter snowflakes begin to fall
And you wear your gloves and scarves for warmth
I will remember you
In the long dreary dark winter days
Lingering smells of coffee and apple cinnamon bakes
I will remember you
As the children's laughter slowly returns
And your smile that I long for and yearn
I will remember you
When the sunflowers directly gaze at the sun
And the windmills across the fields begin to run
I will remember you
When drunk are the freshly squeezed lemonade
And along the wind sways, little girls braids
I will remember you
A seasons love, I will remember you
I will always remember you
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
My Mama's Cooking Is The Best
She Cooks And Bakes Me
All Kinds Of Delicious Foods
Such As Scalloped Potatoes,
Ground Turkey Meatloaf,
And Even Tuna Pies
She Bakes Me
The Sweetest Cakes
And The Most
Mouth-Watering Pies
She Makes Them All
By Hand, Of Course
She Kneads Her Bread With Ease
Delicate Lily-White Hands Caress
The Bread Dough Laying Before Her
She Makes And Bakes
The Best Meals You've Ever Heard
So Now She Has Less Time
To Make Those Delicious Foods
And I Am Beginning To Miss Them
And So Is My Hungry Stomach
~Marian~
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
Ah, yes they sit and wait waste their life away. By the time they find food they have perished to something called slowness and starvation. Now its body lays and decays. They say it bakes in the sun but theres no way, only until it can find its fate.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
There’s a time and season for every reason
no cookie bakes itself
cherries don’t burst on their own
cherries don’t burst ************
a bottle doesn’t empty itself to full/fill
breaking clocks is a wonderful way to **** time
ironic glory hole of blood and glass
running out of test tubes, the ***** too tight
**** reason!
INVEST!
Admiration is the state furthest away from understanding
pawns don’t need details
******** with teeth make ******** meaningful
smashing the cow softens it, …digest it well
meaning is derived from screening STD g string
of a starry eyed ******** that drowns in a sea of ******
obtuse and absolute are the only submissions
failure to comprehend results in ***********
cuckolds worth….
IMPROVE!
Lexicon laxative
this antipathy won’t last
stimulate thinking with cankerous drinking
***** ***** need no season or reason
to drown ****** who never show
the tears of heaven that understood
misled admiration and adolescent aberration
that silently candle deplorable fornication
time stays unchanged
counting doesn’t prove progress in this game
falling short… half beat hesitation
ITERATE!
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
The natural you and what about him
The Zen gold egg climber Prince
Got his "Godly" rinse of the hen
We always knew their way upon
our thinking "Jumping Jack Flash"
But to be the change the day single
let's be feasible naturally, we mingle
The Holy water medieval drinking
By the night call, something is moving
Like a creature not in human form
We need to meet our expectations
More spoken revelations and terms
Naturally, we were born to be told
we have the fire to move any force
Even when our bones are getting old
That powerful love but someone is
watching us above
With higher hopes will make
it through lovesick she coughs
The Passageway like a click of her heels
Feeling the beauty but climbing high
Naturally being cool with her sigh
Or the carriage day vintage wine
Her lucky wheel
World’s are invitation the engagement,
The sweet words or the terms of endearment
Be the Higher lover up in the Prince bow to her
A need to get higher inside the
Castle what a love hustle like a stampede
The rampage turning the ancient pages
Rock and roll ages or the Gothic pale
Victorian beauty her name Judy
Sir page the Grand Marnier
or change of pace human race
The drink Moet
High Mighty King singing
Her heart shape ring beating
Fresh-cut or worn out smoke put out
Brighten her pleasure the rose repose
To be born not a piece of paper torn
Like a Queen reborn
For love how its spoken not just
City Girl with her token for-God-sake
can you look through her
wing turned up she is curled up
in her new threads of sheets
eyes please she is not ready
to hear goodbyes to your beat
What do you read is she naturally
beautiful than or now
Her naturally glow lights up
The Shakespearian castle
Two nature healers, not the
same as card dealers
Butterflies the fireflies
Her love shape naturally
that's no lie
It comes naturally to be loved __
More like homed bakes muffin ___
Google the nature of things spoken but
they may not come
Please don't wait too long
Perhaps there is always someone
to copy your song
Be the climber love for who she is
Her vegetables her sensuality is quite
organically raw
She loves her side dish coleslaw
How nature made us in the womb
Naturally spoken things like her sub combo
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 10:22 AM UTC
you are right to not believe
for you
the silent cries
that carry into the night
do not existence the volume
of your tv is adjusted
& everything becomes
a mute apparition
illuminated
but not heard.
you are right not to believe
for you
the sounds of gunshots
are the popping of fire crackers
after holiday barbecues
& the screams
come from parades of people
cajoling down side streets.
you are right not to believe
for you
the only hanging you know
exists in laundry whites
bleached towels are a must
for wiping hands
clean
& unstained
from the bloodied bodies
of loved ones.
you are right not to believe
for you
the world doesn't exist
beyond these bordered white picket fences
& bakes sales
until your mexican comes
to clean
suburbia
when will you realize
the war to be fought
runs beyond 5’o clock rush hour
& taking away your son’s ps4?
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
Stars, brilliant, yellow and white, they pierce the total black dome arching over the trees.
Campfires spew sparks, dragons fly and jump to meet the stars,
Miniature electric lights; a spritely accent around the RVs.
Night choristers, peeping, honking voices dispelled by dawn
Morning light creeps up
Dew
Dripped, rivulets ran down the side of the tent
Campfires, lit anew
Pancakes, sausage, oatmeal.
Noon
the heat of the sun bakes the ground, dew dispelled.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
I.
something within me,
maybe its my amigdala,
misses the oven-turned-gentrified clot,
that great collection of want,
of transient soles-souls.
I miss how we’re piled three stories high,
so close to each others’ mouths that we must
burrow in criss crossed, colliding tunnels
to our point b’s, our job sites,
our lovers’ houses.
maybe it is indeed part of our un-nature to do this,
to cling to one another even
as our unforgiving sungod bakes us whole,
cornish game hens on the el train,
hurdling 40 mph, to and from
our personal hovels, heavens
and bedsheets,
tethered to this place, possibly indentured,
definitely flawed,
where we revel under roofs to prove incredibleness
an virility.
II.
our eyes are not closed today.
they may not blink in unison
as mannequin lids do,
so effortlessly, plastic and mechanical,
but those, we are thankfully not.
for we are flesh,
and air, and miles of gastrointestinal turnpike, if unpinned,
would stretch from here to panama.
we are each of us
a viscous mound called
Sally, Bertram and Queen Mary.
We are the collision of milk flowing, divine,
a whirling dervish
in scalding darjeeling.
we are air,
gliding over enamel into the collective breath
to be devoured so sweetly by others,
as saintly man-scripted gelato,
dribbling down our chins in piazzas.
la dolce ************* vita.
III.
that’s the funny thing about living
in this size 2 world,
the ability to appear anywhere upon its face at a moment’s notice,
to be in front of any face when desired,
to live sans toll booth or customs desk,
to simply dust off our ability to fly
and tumble icarus-adolescent into the collision
between the two blue planes called sea and sky
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 9:58 AM UTC
Lazy days and choppy waves
Upon a copper sea,
A breezy, warming westerly
Is blowing down on me.
Sunlight striking wavelets
Below clouds of cotton cool
And seagulls hang in squadron lines
Aloft from oyster pool.
Road signs judder in the breeze
Ripples weave amongst long grass,
Mangroves bend in unison
And asphalt bakes in molten glass.
A parasol of brilliant blue
A picnic basket brimming high
With lemonade and icy beer
Whilst sausages and onions fry.
Two barking dogs cavort with joy
Chasing hard on sandy beach,
Leaping high in summer air
Running, fetching, ***** to each.
The lazy summer saunters in
Engulfing us with solar heat,
The pretty girls wear tiny shorts
Which breathless boys find such a treat.
Pohutukawa’s bursting forth
In waves of rich and scarlet red
Which juxtapose dark olive greens
Of leafage midst each flower bed.
A sky of brilliant powder blue
With salt spray aura in the air
As swimmers splash in gales of fun
Hot sunlight baubles kiss their hair.
Marshalg
Port Waikato beach
15 November 2011
© 2011 Marshal Gebbie
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 12:28 PM UTC
Attention and tension...
Sirens Blare, mighty like the wind...
I heard someone say that was their favorite sound...
I think that's sad
Most of the time that is the death wail
Sometimes it's the sound of hope
Hope
The fire did not burn all the family photos
His wife still lives and bakes their grandchildren cookies
Hope
That sirens blares through the ether
Attention and tension
Hope
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 2:09 PM UTC
Like sugar from a shaker, snow falls on Saul the baker
delivering steamy biscuits from the shop he calls his home
to a drafty run down mansion where the princess on her pension
can be testy with her tension, hence she's living on her own.
Today he took her order, "One fresh bagel, for a quarter
'cause I haven't seen the likes of one since I left my childhood home".
Well he'd never baked a bagel, but he's not one to finagle
and wanting just to please her, finds a recipe from Rome.
And he's thinking to himself, "I must be way out of mind~
no woman's gonna want a baker's life"
but he carries deep inside his heart, the will to be a friend
hoping someday she will come around and one day be his wife.
So to win her deep affection he packs up his best confection
takes his chances on the back roads, now iced over in the storm.
Finds her waiting in the foyer with her thrifty 5 cent lawyer
complaining 'bout the day old bread and... "this bagel isn't warm!"
So..... he heats it on the fire, 'cause her heart is his desire
but she won't accept the bagel for it's not quite the right form
And he's thinking to himself, "I must be way out of mind
no woman gonna want a baker's life"
but he carries deep inside his heart, the will to be a friend
hoping someday she will come around and one day be his wife.
So he runs back to his bagel board and pounds the dough and rolls a cord
and shapes the perfect circle to a bagel lovers dream,
He boils and then he bakes it and to her mansion then he takes it
piping hot but now she wants it with churned butter from fresh cream!
Well he's starting to get antsy but he knows the farmer, Clancy
whose butter is fresh-churned and known by counties far and wide.
He heads out to the pasture and he buys what he is after
and returns to find, 'tis so unkind, the princess, she had died.
The baker in his stricken state swallows the bagel off the plate
he calls the cops, pulls out the stops and serves the day old bread.
He gives the details more than once of how he ate the evidence
and though he thought his story bought, they arrested him instead.
"Tis a likely story", was the only thing he heard
although they'd bought his baked goods, they could not buy his word.
"The Baker is a Butcher", is what the tabloid said,
"better to take your bagel cold than take it in the head."
But all was not as it appears, she owed the butcher in arrears
and when they went to check her craw they found a hunk of mutton.
It ended all without a trial, the butcher he did reconcile
and posted "Pay the butcher now and do not to be a glutton."
And Saul was thinking to himself, " I must be way out of mind",
no woman's gonna want a baker's life",
but he carried deep inside his heart the will to be a friend
and it turned rather nicely as she willed him in the end.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
1143
The Work of Her that went,
The Toil of Fellows done—
In Ovens green our Mother bakes,
By Fires of the Sun.
2.1k
Miles and miles of sand
with no horizon in view,
the caravan moves on -
in search of an oasis.
The heat is treacherous,
the sand is scorching,
the camels are tired
and so are the herdsmen.
The journey is long,
the day will almost be gone
and darkness will reign again
until another day dawns.
The desert’s dreadful distances,
the weather’s vicious whims,
the camels’ callous restlessness
all add to the herdsmen’s hardship.
Roadless tracks
of sand and rocks
where tall, wild cactuses abound
with many sand dunes around.
The Sahara -
a natural oven -
bakes humans and camels alike
leaving scattered mortal remains.
A sandy landscape
in shades of light fawn
with deceptive mirages
inviting thirst again.
The journey is long
with no sign of an oasis.
But the caravan must move on…
Inshallah – until we meet again.
Gita Ashok
9/10/2010, 3:15 pm
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 1:58 AM UTC
Relaxing in the front yard
Peering up at the sky
Mesmerized by the sound of the leaves dancing in the breeze
Watching the clouds sashay by
The shapes they made entertained my cerebellum.
The warm summer sun bakes the smell of lilac into the air
My best friend relaxes beside me, mimicking my every move.
living in our minds
Not a single care
This was ours
Our moment
Our time
The grass was frigid and plush beneath our backs
The sweet breeze kissed our faces
This was one of my favorite places.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
They will come and
Bliss us!
They will come and
Animate us!
They will come and
Resume us!
They will come
So, we decorate our abode!
They will come
So, I go for fishing!
They will come
So, she bakes cake!
They will come and
Make us vibrant! Nascent!
We are waiting for them
Year after year................
They will come.........
Bathe us with music and chortle......
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
She was
nigh as
bosh a
lar gibbon
and the
edge of
water made
hotter season
now while
sun bakes
her bread
on Formosa
Strait and
shapes Sino-Taiwan
with her
by south.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 8:56 AM UTC