"upcoming" poems
What a wonderful view to see
The flowers and the trees in serenity
The people and animals strive for prosperity
For peace, mans’ natures’ unity
All united for every body’s equity.
A creation of such wonder and beauty
The birds’ one and only sanctuary
A product of God’s power of infinity
There’s no other majestic than a tree.
It stood so still and tall
Its rustling leaves gave a melodious song
Like a lullaby from far home
That someone would always long.
But now, man is blinded by treasures and selfish thoughts,
And forgot the tree’s such true and noble worth
He destroyed nature and the idea of balance he seems to abort
He thought that maybe with treasures he will go forth,
But never for if Mother Nature revenge he will be caught.
Buildings, computers and other inventions
These were the things which caught mans’ attention
Trees and animals suffered from mans continuous exploitation
Nature provided everything, so why can’t man give a little appreciation
Cut here, chopped there, cut here, chopped there
What a pity the fate of the trees were
The forest was swept off, hectare by hectare,
What a fool man was to think he will prosper,
When the joy he felt now tomorrow will differ.
Deforestation and pollution product of man’s wrong action
Reforestation and sanitation, why don’t we practice these act of affection
Why destroy nature, for mans upcoming destruction?
Why don’t we love God creation for a better nation?
Flood storm and fire, a taste of revenge from nature
Catastrophes or calamities that strike and torture
These will all happen if nature is not given cure
A sign that doom will fall and it will be sure.
Soon people will suffer without pity
And nature’s answer will never be mercy
For if man continues to destroy the tree
Then it will be the end of the story
But it’s never too late for us people to change
Plant a tree and be aware
For today’s, tomorrow’s, children’s sake
Save the tree, Save the Nature, Save the Earth.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 3:48 AM UTC
Smash, slash, and if you're a noob you spam. Video Games the most interactive experience ever, it brings out the best and worst out of all of us. Combos and controls to study, instead of trying to study for an upcoming test. Some people say video games turns your brain into mush, but studies show that video games actually help people in the real world. Oh how I love video games they let me experience things outside can't, and even though movie versions of games aren't that good, I never usually get disappointed with sequels. Video games create more than fun times, they have also helped create my identity. So thank you video games for making me who I am.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC
I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing
It must have the same effects as walking on the moon
It must trend faster than a meteor as it hurdles through cyber space
I refused to love any man, who dislikes my poetry,
My man must support my passion ..
not only the warmth of my body
but the passion within this poetess, my secretive mind he must be able to balance:
Without wondering why a woman like me is so naturally secretive
I am always embracing the dark side of my creativity
Dropping little hints here and there throughout the years,
Sidney J. Harris once said something that left pondering thoughts
He said “When he hears somebody sighs,
'Life is hard,' he’s always tempted to ask them, 'Compared to what?'
I would simply say dog-gone it: Compared to struggling poets whose tries to make a living as a writer
While an upcoming rapper like Chief Keef
signed a several-million dollar deal
with offending lyrics in today music industries:
I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing,
With lots of intense emotion bursting through each line:
Because a poem can’t exist without a poet's multiple voices
and most of all his divine missions
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
A few days ago I was asked to describe the person I‘m in love with,
And to my own surprise, I didn‘t really know what to say.
Of course I could have talked about your attitude to laugh at really bad comedy, or how you randomly start singing songs
And how you run like a toddler
And walk holding on to your bag with your hands in your pockets, crumbled inside yourself,
And how you never talk about it, but you miss your father,
And how you get so happy when there‘s an upcoming concert,
And how you told me you were planning on only wearing band clothes (and I didn‘t tell you, but you made me so happy),
Remember? Or how you crack jokes no one understands,
And how you fall in love with so many songs and musicians,
Or how you sit on chairs the way others sit on the floor,
Or how you sometimes scribbled song names on your books because
You knew I was going to look at them and because
You wanted me to listen to your songs,
And how I‘ve never seen someone who found that much freedom in dancing drunk,
Or how you just lay there and observed people instead,
And I could go on and on,
And I‘m not saying that those reasons aren‘t good reasons to love you,
Or that they don‘t all contribute to my broken heart,
Because they are and they do.
But what I didn‘t remember a few days ago,
Was the reason why I keep falling in love with you;
The reason why I think I could have loved you forever.
I didn‘t remember all the good things you do to others without ever letting them know,
Simply to make their life better. How you pick their drunken noses,
And make up their mistakes or talk people out of hurting them,
How you‘re always there to catch others,
No matter how hard you yourself are falling,
Or how you stayed awake and talked with me countless nights because
I was too sad to fall asleep.
I want the person who‘ll love you to know that you might not show it,
But you do care. Never assume that she doesn‘t love you,
Or that she doesn‘t care, because probably she cares a lot more than
You think. Just be patient. And love her.
And give her the time she needs to open up to you, even if it‘s an eternity. She deserves it.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 3:44 AM UTC
Here in America,
we improvise morgues
as needed.
in the cafeterias
or by the lockers,
near the ticket booths,
and at the altars.
We divvy up the dead.
Tally them
and report the number
like an answer.
13, 20, 49, 58, 6
Every death count
a timely national shock.
Almost as if
our well-televised
monthly tragedy
was ever anything less
than a game of roulette.
anything less than a matter of time
and time and time again.
Covering them each
with our bed sheets,
we try and stifle it.
Do our best to
staunch the the sights,
the noises,
(“just like chairs falling”)
the names
that keep bleeding out
onto our thoughts
and tongues,
Far too much and
too often
not to choke on.
Here in America,
we’ve learned that
horror is level-headed.
It is debatable.
It is pangless.
It seeps, deep to the core,
perverting with a silent smile.
the steady, feverish dread
weaving itself into the mundane.
the “god help us”
annulled by the
“respectfully disagreed”
the nightmare that lies
always just underneath,
and just out of mind,
Until it insinuates itself
Again and again...
Here, in America
We line the bodies,
death slumped, and
bled out on the pavement.
We arrange them-
Side by side.
Most are missing things-
a hat, a piece of face.
one shoe, a dulled pencil
(fill in C)
phones
buzzing on the ground
lit up with unread messages
(“Please call me”)
They are missing-
an upcoming
7th birthday party,
(Star Wars themed)
They are missing-
their vacations.
their first dates.
their college applications.
job interviews.
kids.
fiancées.
Lined up lifeless,
they are missing
far too many things
to gather.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
a home, above all else,
is familiar.
it does not have to be comfortable,
nor does it have to be full.
a home is probably a favorite place to be,
or maybe it houses some of the cruelest memories.
I like homes where I can drive quick and still avoid each upcoming pothole--
ones where old neighbors and new couples hunker down for their respectful chapters of life.
I like homes where I can walk around each obstacle in the kitchen with my eyes shut tight and only bang my shins a little bit.
a home is a sense, an intuition.
it is a place where you can dance while no one is watching.
you can fling your tears and regret at the walls and let them absorb your true feelings,
hushing you with their pillows and soft sounds and views.
a home is a home anywhere you choose it to be,
but above all else,
a home is familiar,
and that is a home to me.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 6:23 PM UTC
Tiredness,
The slow drag of life walking by.
This all ending never beginning,
Time after time.
No gumption or motion,
To bring forth arising devotion.
To perspire and prepare for the upcoming road ahead,
No energy left.
Feeling dead,
So tired and exhausted.
Rather stay in bed.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
**I urge that we make ourselves proud… of us
I urge that we go into and come out of these polls sober minded, responsible, uncorrupted, without ‘fight’ or ‘fuss’
Uncorrupted
I urge that a joyous feeling of an evolving nation moving forward be the only thing we can, in hindsight, say erupted… this upcoming Monday, the following Tuesday
I would like to state that a people gunning for peace in these coming days is the only topic I would like to be following in the news today
We should see what’s coming as the change of guard it is… and not as a dreaded doomsday
You may be black… I may be white, or vice versa… and that’s alright
We shouldn't even be asking ourselves “Who’s grey?”
I will vote with one heart for one country… my country
A country in which I’m confident can keep the peace, you see, we’re kind of good at this
I know this because we've had quite a bit of practice
I know this because deep down we all want to make peaceful transitions be the Kenyan way
I know, I hope… and whenever necessary, I pray
Happy voting.**
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
You call it coincidence.
I call it a blessing.
It's the gift of life.
It's the splendor of the universe.
The lillies of the valley.
The glory of the sun.
You call it opportunity .
I call it a blessing.
It's the education that is ever so free.
It's the freedom that was fought for the upcoming generation.
You call it chance.
I call it a blessing.
It's a mother's love, that I still have.
It's the wonder of friendship.
The people that hold you up.
The strengh of your bestfriend that sticks closer than a brother.
You call it a big break.
I call it a blessing.
It's the job that is perfect for me.
The material benefits that I enjoy.
You call it luck.
I call it a blessing.
It's a life partner that stands when you want to fall.
The love that is available to us all, if only we ask for it.
It's called a blessing, a blessing that we don't deserve.
Not coincidence, opportunity, chance, a big break or luck.
It's a higher power, bigger than anything of this world...
It's called a blessing.
~Gabbriella with 2 b's~
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 7:33 PM UTC
The racket that shakes the room.
It's loud and irrational too.
You see happy and hear tears.
You can even feel the fear.
Everyone's excited,
For the upcoming years.
But this noise..
It's not calming,
Nor cheerful,
It's confused.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 2:49 AM UTC
The grass flickers, as the
Wind pushes it down, in
A gentle but determined
Motion, sweeping upwards to
Swirl the blue-grey clouds
Around the radio tower, before
Dissipating into the milky
Sky, which at this moment
Is the lightest shade of
Blue, an open innocent shade
Of blue, like an angelic birthday
Cake, the pinker clouds, whose
Graceful tendrils embrace the
Air, and dancing twirl across the
Peaceful summer skyscape
Down below them, the
Emerald stalks of corn stand,
Silent sentinels, awaiting the
Coming of the dawn, they too
Feel the pushing of the wind, but
Brush it off, over their shoulders,
And continue their silent watching
On the sloping sides of the hill, the
Growling pines, resplendent in their
Glimmering needles, reflect the fading
Light, off the clouds, as the sun sinks,
Beneath the horizon, and I watch them
Silently on my bike, the only thing
I can hear, is the swish of the wind,
And the hum and whirring of the
Pedals, as my bike and I, we glide up
The hill, and down the hill, and
Around the posts that are meant
To keep the cars from disturbing, this
Peaceful walking path
A while later, we crest a hill, now
Having past the town, I see the work
Of the persistent wind, the clouds
Now whipped into a curling wave,
Of pink and blue-black, spilling
Over the horizon, behind the red-roofed
Country houses, which are strangely
Reminiscent of those old, red, barns
Which would sit abandoned in
Fields of perpetual wheat, and,
Through the turning of the seasons,
Would rot away into timbers, with
No one left to remember, what
They were, or why they remain
Now we have ridden in a loop, my
Bike clicks as I change gears, to
Crest a hill and coast down, at high
Speed, between the guard rails and
The road, with the wind kicking
Up behind me and whisking an
Upcoming tree in to a fluttery
Flurry of leaves and branches, while
Below a stream cuts a field, and,
Skirting a pen, passes by a pinto
Pony, I think it was, that was just
Standing there, as we rode past,
Onto the cobblestones and around
A bend, the group splits, some going
A different route, but I want to come
Back the way I came, and I ride
Beside the highway, listening to
The chirp of the crickets and the
Hum of the wheels against the
Cold, pavement, while up the hill
The verdant pines bob their bows,
Up and down, waving, waving,
The crashing blue-black wave has
Rolled, on past the tower now, it
Is crashing down over the silent
Sentinels, and I watch quietly as
The wind rolls down the hill, and
Whirls some leaves, making the
Grass flicker in the setting sun.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC
Tick, tick,
Down, down,
the watch beeps
On the hour,
Every hour,
I always hear it,
I go to bed at nine,
And can hear it counting,
Ten,
Eleven,Twelve
One,
Two,
ThreeFourFive
Now I have to wake up in an hour and a half,
I didn’t sleep,
Should I have done something instead?
Maybe done that essay,
Or finished those slides,
I have so much work to do
But I’m stuck inside
My own head, filled with
This fog of exhaustion
And confusion,
Why can’t I just
Fall
A
s
l
e
e
p
Instead of
Purgatory in my bed,
But I’m so dreading the upcoming hell
There’s a part of me that
Wants to stay awake,
Live through the hours
Because I’m not skipping ahead
Like a game, I don’t
Skip the night
Since there are things to do, right?
But I’m not even doing anything
Useless pictures fill my head,
Impossible to put into words,
Fantasies of a history
That never was,
A future that never will be
A creature, almost human,
Glowing with a white light,
With a voice that echoes,
Electronic and demonic
Keeping me awake,
My god, why can’t I dream properly,
In half-remembered fragments
Like my living nightmares
All seem to be...
Turning the alarm off at 6:30,
I realise I haven’t slept at all
I groan and roll over
Then get up.
We have work to do.
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
Scrapers will no longer scrape.
Fighters soon to lose the short fight.
Pilots are forced to surrender control.
Snakes on a plane will bank into a roll,
a scene that really no longer is scenic.
Leaders still read while getting a scare.
Huge landmarks that I swear were once there,
bridges in shortage are counting the tolls.
Dust that eventually will never be settled,
liquid support that used to be metal,
big bad crude that never was good—
things impossible suddenly could.
Answers quickly try to be drummed.
Future conflicts guaranteed to be won,
particles blocking our UV death sun,
days become decades and turkey is done.
Brave individuals are no longer bold.
Families’ histories are quite often told,
a baby’s bottle empty with no one to hold.
Government figures tilted but somehow sold
parades in protest with a circus in town.
A tiger got out, but why can’t he growl?
Seems that the cat’s got somebody’s tongue.
Another channel covers son after son,
numbers mounting, but not the right ones.
Cabbies still nose their thumb after thumb,
training centers destroyed one after one.
We should’ve just played “Drop the **** bomb!”
Fear is good, and of course good is feared;
it’s the only thing that drives us way over here.
Just like the Bible, it’s mostly made up.
The supersonic jet has just hit a rut.
The dirtiest of bombs versus our Smith and Wesson.
“Come on gang, why would you even question?”
Like death and taxes—there’s none that’s more sure,
but then there’s the free upcoming history lesson.
“Ain’t gonna do it” acting just like his pop.
This rancher really means it when tossing the slop.
“Still can’t find him—he’s with boys in Brazil.”
What’ve they done lately to lighten the till?
It’s time for the Allies to storm up this hill.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
The voice I hear is ruminating in my head,
that treacherous depart was wounded instead of behead.
How I long for this pain to leave akin the December sky,
this imminent glory was only dreamed about in disguise.
How persuasive the universe was to the story,
it did not project the upcoming fury.
Of a devious bequeath that upheld the tantrum,
the sky soared with anger until its utter collapse.
When a drop of water fell from the engorging sky;
it dropped thousands of miles beneath,
until it splattered like a human who couldn’t breathe.
This anger spread like a wildfire, infecting all those longed desires.
The heart of which pumped no more blood,
Became equivalent to a plant breathing through a frozen sun.
Nature believed there were no further storms,
until the quarrel beneath was profoundly explored.
Through the bodies sensation one could not ignore,
made the heartache of this man’s soul.
Oh why are humans so weak.
Must the sun anger the kindness soul,
For I had only hoped for evermore.
Was I a victim who loved no more?
Or an open heart waiting to explore?
This journey could not be real,
however, it became nurturing to one’s appeal.
The ignorance disguised as love evidently appeared,
as the devil danced around as one had feared.
Ambiguous to the commonality of faith,
that created an ambivalence that aroused distaste.
The traitor became her experience and ego her age,
I was in love with a spiritual woman of a certain year of age.
By: Michael M. De La Fuente
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
Have you ever wanted to cry
To let out all feeling locked up inside
I experience this everyday
Not knowing who I can trust
Who I can turn to in times of need
Jesus is always there for me
I can speak to him through prayer
I love him more than anything
But I long for a human friend
Someone who will always listen
Whether I'm obsessing about a boy
Or stressing over an upcoming test
When things go wrong they'll be there
They'll know when I need a hug
Or a shoulder to cry on
God, will you help me find them?
The person I can trust with my life
Someone who feels the same as me
And will always support me
That's the kind of friend I need
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 4:41 PM UTC
Steamy hot lazy summer day,
Layin' around, not much to say.
No surprise and not by chance,
Is the thought of you in skintight pants.
Is it midday? It got real warm,
No, just a reaction to the upcoming storm.
Not here are you, but it matters little,
I will play my member, just like a fiddle.
My thoughts of you burning desire,
My manliness climbs higher and higher.
Sensual lips pressed up against mine,
Tasting better than a classic wine.
Your southern lips they burn like fire,
As I stroke them, soon we will sire.
I place my lips to the burning mound,
And kiss and tease, you fall to the ground.
I climb upon you and hear you say,
"Wait a minute, I have a better way."
You climb upon me and rock and ******
Until my body turns to powdered dust.
We lay together and fall a sleep,
Secret is our *** I can keep.
The next thing I know I open my eyes,
And you are before me, to my surprise.
"Hi honey, how was your day?"
I grab you and tell you, "it went this way."
Visit poemsbypaul.com
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 9:41 AM UTC
A moment sweet
like a strawberry kiss
between the luscious lips
of early sunshine and
damp blades of grass
Goodbye winter,
I whisper to the wind
not a powerful gust
but just a honey sweet breeze;
a gift from upcoming Spring
Pecans falling from my tree
like a rain of fall leaves,
fluttering softly to the ground;
happy to have survived
this years mild mannered winter
So I gather them up
like a squirrel on Christmas Day;
not just the buttery nuts,
but the kiss also
from the luscious lips of sunshine
and the damp blades of grass
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
there are invisible children hidden behind
miles of above ground swimming pools
and wooden swing sets. they've seen
life sized doll parts scattered across
their front lawns and were taught how to
take their first steps
as though they were being sent off to war;
knees straight. head tall.
don't flinch at the sight of blood.
a few weeks ago i turned on the local news,
the upcoming story took place in the west side of Detroit.
a photo of a young, colored girl wearing
butterfly shaped barrettes in her hair comes up,
the headline at the bottom of the screen reads,
3-YEAR OLD SHOT IN FRONT YARD
the news reporter talks about the situation
as though she's being forced to discuss
the weather in the middle of a heatwave;
it's the same. **** thing. every. day.
i'll tell you what no one pictures
when they hear about another ******
in the same city that might as well
*start building their front doors
like cemetery gates.*
picture the mother
trying to sell a cradle so she has the money
to buy a 3-foot long casket. picture her
walking into her daughter's room
to tuck her into bed & remembering that she's
got nothing left but empty hands.
dear america,
tell me why some of us were born
with targets sewn into our backs, tell me if it
disturbs you at all that there are children
who want to chip off their skin, that want to be painted
a new color because they want to see if the light
will hit them in a different way,
& make them less invisible.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC
Plumped rouge with pigment
her lip fills to graze the ********
intent to disquiet the likes of de Sade
autografted with ocular detachment
should a Marquis wish to harness
the song of the morning
within a bandolier of Seine
to ensnare any bustled Persephone
gilted by discharge of ions
into a ménage of torment
through the Porte des Lions.
Hers is the tincture of doxy
caramelized and debrided of naivety,
empowered by the eve of invention,
swollen to curves and grounded in Paris.
Illumination defies pervasion
down to every gear and pulley
she has hushed through mechanization
and lulled by steam,
swaging a cacophony of flickers
encased in glass by the Lady’s watch,
where every rivet of her plate glisters silken
reverberation in cascade,
elegant, caged, and towering,
outspoken in silence,
ever challenging the Champ de Mars.
"Paris by Gaslight," written by Dionne Charlet, is the title poem to be featured in the upcoming steampunk anthology Paris by Gaslight, the third anthology in the By Gaslight Series from New Orleans small press Black Tome Books. Look for the first two collections of poems and short stories set in Victorian Times, New Orleans by Gaslight (ISBN 9780615801186) and Cairo by Gaslight (ISBN 9781516961528). Both collections feature poetry by Charlet, under the pseudonym Dionne Cherie.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
A river, my river, I am the river.
A river, water that goes with the flow.
A river, a calm flow most of the time.
A river, now in a time of life that overflows.
The calm river, gone
not coming back as it was
but as a new river it went somewhere.
An island, a calm place
a stopping point.
The rivers stopping point.
An island, a place to learn
a place to evolve and come back better than ever.
But even an island can’t stop a storm from happening,
emotions from escaping.
A storm, a disoriented place where everything is dark.
A storm, a cry
just a girl.
A person, a safe place until the storm happens.
Even beauty can’t safe the sea.
The sea can never be saved.
It can only safe herself
And after some time
come back anew
as a calm river.
It’s a cyclus, happening over and over again
until the island disappears.
Until it’s fully gone.
But an island never disappears.
it might not be an island anymore
but it’s still there with me every step of the way.
This time it follows the flow,
evolves along the way until I don’t need him any more.
And then I go my own way,
to find that island.
As a calm river, getting ready for the upcoming storm.
As a girl, preparing to hate my mind.
But its nature, its human.
It will happen many times all over again.
And thats alright.
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 12:39 AM UTC
Tuwing Halalan, may kalakalan…
Palitan, tindahan ng mga pangalan
Manibalang, sariwa’t bulok man
Hilaw o hinog, merong pagpipilian.
Tuwing Halalan, may paligsahan…
Maliit, malaki, mahirap, mayaman
Basta handa at gustong lumaban
Maging sino ka man, pwedeng sumali diyan.
Tuwing Halalan, may kaaliwan…
Kantahan, sayawan at palakpakan
Kainan, kwentuhan at inuman
Wari’y may pista ang buong bayan.
Tuwing Halalan, may kasawian…
Tsisimisan, siraan, banghayan, alitan
Hamunan, bugbugan at bantaan
Hanggang kamatayan, walang uurungan.
Tuwing Halalan, may kalayaan
Pumili ng pinuno ang mamamayan
Dikta ng sarili **** isipan
O maging anong uri ng kabayaran.
Tuwing Halalan, may karanasan!
-09/29/07
(Dumarao)
*upcoming local elections
Aug 24, 2019
Aug 24, 2019 at 2:04 AM UTC
'Kabali' and 'Badlapur' actor Radhika Apte will be the show-stopper in the upcoming Lakme Fashion Week in the ‘Gulzar’ collections of a prominent Kolkata-based fashion designer.
“We have been working with Radhika since 'Majhi the Mountain Man' days (2015) and she will be flaunting our fabrics as show-stopper in India’s premier fashion show which is keenly followed by Bollywood," the well-known city-based woman fashion designer told media after a fashion show in a city hotel last Friday night.
The Lakme Fashion Week is a bi-annual fashion event with the summer-resort show taking place in April while the winter-festive show is held in August.
This year the winter-festive show will be held from August 24 to 28.
Radhika will be wearing bright-colored lehenga since the show will be focused on beautiful India, it’s colours and contours, choreographed with the poetry of nature by Amir Khusro, the designer said.
“It can also be termed our tribute to a great name like Gulzar saab who has brought our lyrics and poems to a new level,” the designer Saroj Jalan said.
The signature style of the designer, whose works adorn Bollywood actors like Radhika beside well known models Lisa Sharma and former Miss Universe India winner Ushoshi Sengupta, is delicate floral patterns along with the use of Zardozi and array of hand-woven tusser silk and velvet enhancing the experience of the garments and “we will project the same in the Lakme week where the accent is on ethnicity,” designer Saroj Jalan said.
Supermodel Ushoshi, having recently debuted in the Bengali film 'Egoler Chokh', said “Lakme show reflects the different tastes of all leading Indian fashion designers who are still rooted to Indian heritage.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 12:29 AM UTC
Rare, she is
On wishing
Her
I feel
State of peace
On blessing
Her
I feel
Get blessed myself
More
Every
Upcoming day
Simply it is like this
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 10:16 PM UTC
You are!
The source of
Pleasure and calmness!
I recall You!
In deep city noises
I request You!
In deep dark nights
I talk with You!
In a solitude
I smell You!
Everywhere
When I wander about
I have You!
When I need You, Lord!
You are the answer!
Of unseen questions
You are the solution!
Of upcoming problems
O! my Lord!
You are!
The source of
Pleasure and calmness
For the heart
That recalls You!
With and within heartbeats.
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC