"claypot" poems
A claypot,
brittle and empty.
Cold and weary.
For I,
was that claypot.
Brittle and empty,
Cold and weary.
My exanimate body,
quiet like the winter
but piercing like the howling wind.
You picked me up,
and painted me with colours.
Colours,
that represented your love.
Blue for freedom,
Yellow for loyalty,
Brown for humility.
And Red - your love.
You embraced me,
and kissed me,
despite the coldness of my touch.
You painted me with your love.
I,
believed that I was now something.
And..
You dropped me.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 4:41 AM UTC
*From pieces of woodsticks
the tea seller makes a fire
in the night of summer,
people sip tea
as they merrily
talk politics.*
When rises the first star of night
day flickers out in the earthen lamp
shadows dance in the oil's light
finds toil's pause a resting camp.
Wispy smokes fly from the kettle spout
outside the long night awaits day
sip the lips elixir of thirsty mouth
claypot's brew finds anew demons to slay.
Fires fly as fireflies dance around
stars find the earth below glowing hot
words dry empty minds dims sound
eyes crave for escape to dream's cot.
The last cup winds up the day's cash
marks the night skylight in cricket clocks
weary hands beneath a tree throw the ash
time to count gathered amount in the tinbox.
Night then devours light's last post
his feet walk the soil of his years' trail
this lonesome hour he loves the most
when his wishes with the winds to the heavens sail.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC