Stories about poem

The war within and the war outside

It is early morning, The sky is still dark outside, The house is silent. I take my cup of tea And turn on the computer, Scanning different news sites, From around the world. My eyes run over the headlines, In that hope of finding, Some evidence of humanity, Somewhere.   But there is none.   The advanced technology, That brings the world to my fingertips, By encasing it on the keyboard, Has yet to find solutions, Or resolutions, For the dreary, never-ending disputes, Between nations and its people.   The weary world continues to be at war.   I turn off the computer, And walk to the television, Hope a little sparked, That it might bring me, Better news, From some corner of the world. A sliver, a hint of harmony, amity, ...

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My fragile house of cards

My life was a house of cards, And I always had a foreboding feeling, That it would fall apart. Apart like broken window shards, Or like the pieces of a broken heart, And one day when I had least expected, The cards toppled and I could not help it. I struggled with it and with myself, And in it I found little pleasures. My queens now were further apart, They’d been my gossipers and backbiters, but now they were busy, in making the house. And my jacks were now more lumber-jacks, And not anymore vehement and unyielding fighters, Putting all their energy to gather logs, To assist was now one of their ...

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Unfathomable is He

When I was a kid, The mere existence of God, A being so Mighty, so Big, That it lived up in the skies, Far away from my tiny little world, Used to make my head spin. It still makes my head spin today. I still do not know how to understand Him, Or find Him. I do not claim to be a religious person, I rarely pray. Yet, there is something about being around nature, That makes me feel close to Him. It is a holy experience for me. For me, prayer is, sitting under a tree. Feeling the scales of an old weathered ...

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Radiated mind

I painfully limp towards a pile of poetry buried in dust, Devouring words and lines Like the bittersweet intoxication of a spinal tap; To feed a brain long dormant For three months in a hospital bed.   To awaken the poet that almost died, Words wither away and sentences snarl imperfection. Nocturnal witching hours are spent in pursuit of creativity, Hopelessly. I had the word! And now it’s gone, In the fuzzy, indistinct chatter of air-conditioning vents.   Claustrophobia. A plastic mask clasped me during cranial radiation, Like an implacable pillow in the hands of a killer. A tight white prison For technicolor sensibilities, Banning any muses from melting through.   My mind is nothing without my art. And to escape from the eternal facade, I present to ...

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My father: Absent but always present

My father, who is hardly ever here, Lines his walls with books As though to prevent them from falling in. The mismatched clothes he likes to wear, They smell like thoughts Of pine trees and topological functions. My father, whenever he is here, Lends me his helpless traits. And I shelve them obediently, my walls mere imitations. My father, when he goes anywhere, Carries his roots with him In the tilt of his head, in the clearing of his throat. My father, who is never here, Gifted me his hands – But not what was in ...

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Put a red dress on

And he asked, and asked For her to put red on; She smiled, and mischievously, In white got donned.   He wanted, and wilt, To propose to her that night; Take her, seduce her, Under the moonlight.   She knew, and enjoyed, The extra attention he showered; Smitten souls, budding love, No more strength to be a coward.   He hoped, he prayed, The answer would be ‘yes!’ Make vows, utter loyalty, And not a tad bit less.   She laughed, secretly ecstatic, Comprehending it all too well; Preparing mind, controlling heart, Shall she go all “Of course, what the hell”?   He smiled, he talked, As they got into the car; Joked well, hid jitters, Winked, saying they were going far.   She coaxed, she cajoled, Though not tell ...

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Kill me, for I have spoken

Colour me red, paint me black, brush me dead, back on track, picture perfect, vivid deploy, peace stagnant, you destroy. Shoot everyone having a mind, no eyes? Everyone’s very blind, your arrogance and guns show, the laws of the land will not go. Cross the road and you will die, stand and wait, and you will die, speak your mind, and you will die, be human, yes, you still will die. Misunderstanding much? Oh please, ideologies cliched, yes very much, the land of the pure, bruised and cut, apologists, please shut the hell up. Conditional peace is always good? Your side of the deal, oh it was fate, heaven sent men, please go away, for ...

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Stop the war

I dreamt of a destructed land last night, Walked around and met a wounded child, She was lying in between dead people, It was the oasis last night, she said in a pained voice, I was playing with my brother before he died, My father and mother kissed me before they were murdered beside me, I had a brother like you, but he was killed last night, Such is the case with all the girls after the oasis converted into a graveyard, I walked ahead and met a crying mother, We were sleeping last night, she said frantically, I had a son like you; he was killed by people ...

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I drown days in the sea

I drown days in the sea contrary to what you may think, they aren’t spat back on shore. The sea is made up of days.   I lose them, one by one, (watching them go with the sun) perhaps once, I shall see my last, perhaps I’ll be running too fast to see it flash past then.   Running; all I’ve known. I am still now, as I flick stones and bathe and lie in the sand, grateful — I am still. But it doesn’t mean I am not running. I am running still.   I am at the edge. I am a sailor, my mind delves into ancient superstitions. If I go any further I will drop off the face of the earth.   The sea ...

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The artist’s way

We live in an ugly world; there’s no doubt about that. For the past ten years we have been bombarded with images of terrorism, violence, destruction and death: on the television, in the newspapers and on the Internet. The most recent assault on our collective sensibilities and our battered sense of security is an image I just can’t get out of my head: Sarfaraz Shah begging for his life before being shot and left to bleed to death by the Rangers in Karachi this last week. As I said many months ago on Twitter, Pakistan is a nation in the ...

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