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Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
I
A flower that smells of pure bliss keeps an ear to the ground
It's a serene one sitting beneath the stars down on earth
The moon, far, far, seven seas away, loves to drop into her lap.

The Bay of Bengal billows, music has gotten beneath the skin.
The leaves furl out off the deep wood with the birds
singing out to the top of the trees, rhyming with the leafy dance.
Heavensent, that was in one sanguine day in the spring.
The Mother’s Language Movement in 1952 sprouted like this
on the eighth of native Falgun month—oh magic did it unleash!

On that day our beloved brothers were shot dead
They could swallow the bullets with smiles but won’t give up
demanding the official status for the Bangla mother tongue.
Angels wrapped round the martyrs amid lamenting mothers
Laid them on Falgun’s perfumed ground bleeding corpses
Seas of roses bloomed and blew them out red, red kisses!

They are gone not the stone wall of consciousness they raised
Ah, at the sprout of the spring what were they echoing?
Ingrained deep in the soil the pre-designing voice in the planning?
Who can tell? The world gels on February 21 in celebrating!

The angels then snapped up our martyrs’ souls off the land,
placed them on a piece of Heaven where they can hear the jingle.
Down on earth, a nation springs up, has gotten its wake up call!
Stepping on the sweetening arc of the mother tongue melody
the stone turns a flower, all in a butterfly moment soaring to victory.
Thanks to the movement - Bangladesh itself later comes to be!

II
The sun comes down to the rose painting on the land
In the heavenly Falgun hues it nibbles some wild summer dreams.
“Serene songs of earth stirring the water,” like it comes into play,
rowing the cloud bubbles singing in southern breeze.
Ah, a walk on the sun-kissed kaleidoscope land is a pure bliss.  
Every blossom spray of the wind is soothing sweet
Hop on and play straight to the ruby heart, as if it's a flute.

Mother tongue means speak free, fearless, in full streaming.
Speak the heart to the world without the fear of losing the cloud
that will listen, bouncing back on the brink of the sky river.
Then what did one say, hear, or was awed by in the blooming Falgun?
Could it have been the spring humming in her native lingua
or King David singing in mother tongue by babbling brooks
what in any other language, even with a silver tongue, isn’t possible?

Allah has listened to our martyrs’ crying mothers and fathers
The martyrs’ souls whisk through the galaxies and starry fair.

Soar high over the clouds, take the rainbow's *** of gold away,
Like a hue turns 360-degree in the colourwheel bask into the colour.
Still, dip the toes in Bangla mother’s soil salted with perfumed art
Like Himalayan water swirling down melting deeper deep down
This magicland is polished for everyone be it you, a fairy, a star
or off the ploughed-out barrow a walked out wonder!

A pristine voice duo’s voiceprint gleans to the spring in muse,
Pops in a beauteous scurry and speaks in the mother tongue!
Hidden within the earthy depth, only emerges with time,
only dances in tangent, that day slipped out with the butterflies.
And finally the blue nymphs take the plunge drop down the sky  
That day the mother’s voice triumphed, whose is the most original!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
AS Jun 26
They witness what irradiates,
finding something else to blame.

To something that would create world of pain.
Never questioning why, what for? to the toxicity they spore.

Running to conclusion to ensure,
to avoid the flaws.

To which they derived,
by the symptoms they explored and the real cause they ignored.

Unable to place their hands up, to the mistakes they make and the way they only take.

Need to be commended for basic things they do.

When complexity starts, the leaning begins to spurting out sins.

Flabbergasting that they're so unaware what actions they bare, to those who anchored on your capsizing ship.

Unable to latch onto the disgusting phrases, as of course you can't do anything wrong.

The world has to sing you praises, wrap you up in its loving embrace.

But as soon as it makes the littlest of accidental mistakes, you irradiate a full blown earthquake.

Depicting oneself as victim, oh behold no one can react to the venom that you enact.

These people seeing pass your masks, know its too late for you change from your past.

Still you like to point the blame, making those who truly care feel shame and your skilful manoeuvring of guilt.

For those who take a stand, holding a mirror to your face.

They burn and feel your wrath, spreading to their inside to fester over time.

A world of torment you unleash, but to your captives compassion and empathy they feel.

Seeing past the edges and the façade, knowing and sensing the ways you were scarred.

Those scars, destroying your life or anyone attained.

Inspiring others to run, now your beauty fades one by one company fades.

Others try to fight for the little light which was left inside, letting many years of their own lives pass by.

With you around, they flounder peace, opportunities and chance of a life they seek.

Not aware to the manipulative ensnare, how you've drained and tormented covertly with your natural flare.

They now know there is no hope, refusing you to continually keep taking their glow.

Finally taking flight, creating the most simulating, rewarding life.

Finding the person who truly lives inside, not the one who nurtured and co-dependently gave up her life.

Now the last loyal person can't standby, to the destruction that you blow and clean up the viscous shows.

She understands and knows your distance past, but knows its no excuse to be inflicting that level of abuse.

As life is to grow, to slowly flow away from the pain and strife.

Consideration and reflecting on the way you act, to protect those you love and not to react.

So on my way I go, goodbye and sympathy for the misfortunes you reproduce.

Obtuse and lonely you'll remain, sadly until your dying day.

As those who chose to stay, keep distanced from your terrain.

No longer letting you rain down shame, manipulation and guilt.

Only accepting to be hit by a light spray, these are the reasons no one will stay, living with you each day.

At this point in life there is little chance of change, but for your sake let this entitlement fade and your destructive mind frame.

It is too late, as your emotional state sees nothing or understands the inflictions you partake
.

© 2018
Abigail Sheard
Jaycee May 2015
Take care of me,
Be there for me.
Never discourage me,
Love me unconditionally.
You're supposed to be my mother.
But you treat me like I'm nothing.
I'm sick of your constant disrespect,
The loss of love in your eyes that makes me want to cry,
It's itching inside of the back of my mind.
And someday I'll say goodbye to you,
You won't want me to,
But you can't make me stay.
You're not my mom.
But until then,
I'll be walking in the rain.
Anne Molony Oct 2017
I’m learning the new language of love
It’s cloudy and I’ve only
broken sentences
already-fluent in the tongue of
***** hook-ups and
meaningless touches and
compromised endeavors and
disguised intentions

I have never felt what I was promised
I want to bathe myself in it
showers
pools
seas
of infatuation
if it exists

desperate for affection
addicted to the idea
that a soul could long for me

craving something
anything

unreliable arousal
am I unfairly deprived?
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
When you stepped in my door,
I realised I was Paradise
in my heart and soul.
You were so surefooted
because you came up from the high.
So long I longed for it.
O Fathima, only to kiss your feet!

The time was so sweet,
beyond anyone’s dream
only in pure beauty
I was rendering,
screaming to new highs.
I did it my way!
Lovely bouncing on
my polished pitch,
the rivers forget to flow
back to the seas.
But no one knew
where my toe melts!
Until you did
and took me for a tread
closer to your spring,
my sweet dream:
O Fathima, only to kiss your feet!

Your so pleased man wished
to rain down with love,
but humble you hid your feet!
You blinded the moon, snowed it
away under seven seas.
No wonder it's
your winning footing.
Like the Prophet said:
I found me the heaven
beneath the mother’s feet.
O Fathima, only on your feet!
MalakF Jul 19
What did she do so bad,
that you had to lay your hand?

I don't understand how you can hit a 10 year old with a ******* cane,        
are you seriously that ******* insane?

You've carved the words "I hate you" on her body,
now she'll never believe that she can be loved by anybody.
Shofi Ahmed Dec 2017
Every star across the seven skies
Wishes to kiss it is a gold dust.

Not to mention the Moon in the centre
waning and waxing in the open and in secret
keeps unleashing longing to rub
this non-sublunary piece on its forehead.

She knows only then the rough seas beneath
her will calm down in the soft raining moonlight
shedding off such a lucky blossomed forehead.

Oh, if only scarcely they could ever see it
the galaxies since their inceptions longing for it.
Bliss of the eye tucked away from the scene
Paradise lies beneath the mother’s feet!

The mother is fast is for all and is down to earth
She, the mother Fathima descended down
from up above the heaven that pivotal frontier
only all the prophets’ Prophet has seen.
Then was no Adam nor Eve or Jibreel!

Paradise finds its core with its resonant lore
in the shadow of the original feminine Fathima
the immortal hotspot the original physics explored.
Paradise lived and breathe beneath her feet
but she touched down at the heart of the earth
without stepping or touching on paradise
only to give away her stake to others!
No land she would take on her way back indeed
Not in her name, know where Fathima’s grave is?
When people visit Islamic holy city Medina they look for the grave of the holy lady Fathima. It has been the tradition since her death some fourteen hundred years ago. There are two graves where she is buried but which one is her is still unknown It's been said that she preferred her grave to remain unidentified.
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