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Shofi Ahmed Nov 2017
Don't get lost in the starry sky
alight at the Moon for countless stars!
Sutherland Oct 11

The world goes round,

oblivious to sound.

We ride its spin,

until our sun goes down.


What have I done?
Rode the pillars of fun.

Spent my last dime,
should I turn back and run?


The scythe leaves its sheath.
What does fun equate?
It's the end of the world,

don't be late.

I've been uncled
By my sister,
Tears in his eyes,
As my brother-in-law
Kissed her.
Then the ballard of how
He cut the cord,
Giggles and laughter
On the maternity ward,
As corks pop
And bubbles flow,
I wonder if
He'll ever know,
Because the child he'll bounce
On his knee,
Will one day look
A lot like me.
Somebody said
if you count to ten
in your head
while holding your breath,

as if breath is an object
with a shape and a texture,

by the end you'll have
forgotten how to breathe.


And sometimes
you need to pause,
to let every black swatch
of worry evaporate
like crooked puddles.


And you feel a trickle
of something under your skin -
perhaps a calmness,
a word not yet invented.


In your mind, a clock face,
hands that aren't hands,


Voices wrestle.
Your voice, your voice again.



Now, remind yourself
to exhale, see how the scene
becomes clean,
how it felt to hold in
such a temporary thing.
Written: August 2018.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
Peter Balkus Aug 2
Poets are wasting days,
like been given to spare.
Poets are counting nights
to the beginning of Life.
Emily Nov 14
Imagine if it was just me and you.
What a dream that would be.
You're nothing like my last.
Call me just to hear my voice.
You don't let your pride get in the way.
Tell me time and time again that you wish I would be yours.
I know you would treat me right.
For me you'd put up a good fight,
but this is a match that you're not ready for.
Consider this the standing count of eight.
I see I'm leaving you hurt,
that's not my intention.
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