Mini Poem #3:
Who knew a disability
would be missed when it was gone?
Contemplative poems
Contemplative poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
There is
There is a time when a poem becomes more than words.
There is a day when a song becomes more than just music.
There is a place when a book becomes more than just a story.
There is a time when a phrase becomes more than a saying.
When it burries deep in your mind
A mere mention of it, a glimpse sends
Thousands of memories, feelings
Spiraling back into the present.
There is a feeling that can never be erased from your mind.
Crimson
Crimson is blood.
Crimson is lovely.
Crimson is different.
Crimson is deadly.
Crimson tastes like cold liquid metal.
Crimson smells like rotting flesh.
Crimson sounds like nails on a chalkboard.
Crimson feels like ice running over your eyeball.
Crimson looks like blood.
Crimson is beautiful.
Perish
People perish.
Some at 23
Some at 89
Some while living
Le Café
That day, I entered into
My favorite cafe,
city's busiest cafe.
The shelf in that corner,
Had dusty old novels, sometimes being touched for reading.
The pages brown and torn.
There are so many emotions
residing in that one cafe.
Some came here to talk for the last time.
Some to bloom their new love.
Some to make the new friends.
And others to maintain the peer,
once in a while.
That cafe which steals the attention,
Of everyone for the best of mocha and latte.
And so does, the coffee infuses different moods, in those beings
Red Window Pane
The red framed window
saw many seasons
Chirping linnets on sunny day
Clear skies and no clouds
Mere Coloured leaves and foliage
On winds of autumn.
Some vermillion and chrome
Winter, full moon and starry night
Snowflakes resided and lay
Peacefully on roof and pane
Spring arrived with more lush,
With blooms of
Cherries and chrysanthemums
Lilies full way on the lane
Rains, came with pitter patter on the
Window pane...
Who are we?
Who are we and
what are we differentiating all about?
When after few decades we all are going to the
same unsorted, undifferentiated soil.
Or maybe minute stars, all besides
each other in that
figurative constellation!
Airhead
Sometimes I lose things.
Sometimes th little things.
Things like my ipod or my keys.
Bobby pins and chapsticks without warning or cause.
Sometimes I lose bigger things.
Things like my favorite sweater or my school bag.
Things like the reason I came into a room,
Or the memories of what I had for breakfast that morning.
Sometimes I lose my train of thought, or the point I was trying to make or an idea.
Sometimes I lose arguments.
Sometimes I lose friends.
I like to think all the things I lose go to the same place.
A plain white place full of hair ties and dollar store bracelets,
And I like to think they all wait there, patiently.
Wait there to be found.
One day I lost my passion.
Routes
I remember ticking no religion
in my first job application form.
‘Yir a Protestant,’ he told me.
‘No, Ah’m no,’ I told him.
At his funeral a Catholic neighbour
said, year after year,
he signed Christmas cards comrade.
Things aren’t always as they appear.
Escape routes connected the pits
in case of disaster.
That’s another thing he told me.
Years later I see disused routes
under the fields and streets
between men, and imagine
lifelines buried in fists
blooming into palms.
* * *
Time eternally trudging forward
The one thing that never alters
How we wish to change it
stop it
rewind it
Erase the pages we have written
Write a new story
It would be better than this,
Right?
Green Leaves
The leaves flowing in the wind
Displaying their green elegance
Like a shard of colored glass
They glisten like stars in the sunlight
Only to be brought down
By the winds solemn touch
Bypasser
Spector
On-looker
Overseer
Wallflower
Various labels
Various types
Though,
They all tie down to one thing
Watching
Observing
Catch every detail
Analyzing
Wordless
Are such thoughs
Such conceptions
Such quiteness
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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