Ashley Sep 2017
Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic, We,
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.

Mindless,
         In the soup of silicone, all
Myth-makers,
         Pouring over electro-spawned networks, fall
Workers,
          In the buzz of bits and bytes, of megabytes and terabytes,
          down,

Far from the wood, the brine, the mud that caked us,
In tighter and tighter digitised  projections, click:

           ‘Like me’, ‘Share me’, ‘Leave your comments.’

Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves, enter,
Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,

Now a waking voice,
          Hardened, digitised, recorded in bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
                        Numb numbers of numbers numb, mirror.

          A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
          To record the echo in the hollow of our Being.
Wrote this a while back. It was published in The Tunnel Magazine, which was great. Anyway, hope it gets a wider audience.
AS Jun 9
Broken souls, I always feeling the urge to help them grow.
To show them the beauty in the world.
To lighten their sight, to their picture of gloomy skies.
Nurturing to see the beauty that lays beneath.
Even with the underlined plague of suffering, that can come round some days ever so tight.
That there might be more, than the valleys and the world that you've already explored.
Life is a mixture of Ying and Yang, joy is apart of everyone's overall plan.
Darkness for the lessons, to appreciate those you adore.
Light for the experiences, with the appearances of fulfillment it brings.

© 2018
Abigail Sheard
Brighter than the blinding flares of the sun, shimmering outward with power of thousands of stars
yet comforting
yet soft.
Filled with oceans crashing and wild, turning over ships, rushing under a powerful storm.
yet still
yet calm.
Filled with wonder and curiosity, yearning for the unknown, desperate for enlightenment
yet wise
yet content.
Eyes so wide, so deep, filled with delicate roses, the power of mighty warriors, elegant as Venus's flowing dress, filled with souls of thousands, with passion, with yearning, with desire.
Filled with beauty
Filled with you.
Split Aug 10
Don’t look.
Go look.
No. Don’t go look.

I wait all day
I wait all night
Once midnight strikes
I know it’s time.

You are my poison in disguise.
The reason for my lies.

Red streaks on white
Veins all aligned
I know now you’ll speak your mind.

Words like water in broken glass
Each ear a sponge that always lasts.

Four hours until alarms quake.
Vulnerable conversations
Now somewhere in a deep dull lake.

But this one must be our last.
As I no longer wish to be your hearts cast.
My mind must accept
That the shreds of your love
Are not mine to repair.
For her actions have damaged your soul
Now we shall take a step back
And learn to be on our own.
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 pot 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.
Janna Jul 30
I can't stop thinking about you
I'm not sure if its because of the kindness I saw in your eyes
Or the way you looked at me
Like really looked at me the way I looked at you
Our eyes met and they locked
Never like this before
Has it been so long now
I can't even remember the last time
Six hours flew by just like that
Talking, and even in the silent moments
it didn't feel awkward
I'm scared of this potential love
I can't lie
I fear the future of what it might change and bring
Good or bad
Sorrow or joy
I'm stuck in pickle
A pickle I can't forget
- soulwriterj
Follow @soulwriterj on instagram
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