Flowers
A single rose,
Buried,
In her hair.
The scent,
Of blood,
Tainting the air.
Her last words,
Fleeting,
From her mouth.
She's free from worries,
Fear,
And doubt.
Her soul can wander,
Forever,
Hopelessly lost.
Her body,
Poems on the topic: dust
Poems on the topic “dust” on Poets.by.
Ambience
The chair creaks as
I rise from it;
god, what a horrid
sound.
As I walk through
the room, the dust
scatters from me
like scared little bugs.
I tear those
sickeningly yellow
curtains
away from their charge
and flinch
at the equally
revolting
sun.
The Waiting
Through the cracks in the roof
shafts of sunlight
like arrows piercing my heart.
In the beam, specks of dust turn golden.
I hear the doves' wings flapping
and the cooing of the lovers -
I remember him.
Bats hang motionless, waiting for the night -
how docile they look, like he did,
before he savoured the sweetness of my blood!
The wind has died.
Fallen leaves do not chatter.
The doves have left.
Bats are stirring in their sleep.
Night approaches-
I wait - listening for his footfalls...
From nowhere to eternity
Life is a continuum
Extending
from a nanosecond to trillions of millenniums
from a bacterium to bacteria
from a star to a black hole...
In between, you and me, my dear
we weave our lives from eon to eon
how naive
to think our love is eternal!
how ephemeral are our lives,
our loves
when just beyond our fingertips
the void waits to take us back-
you, cosmic dust!
The leftover
Do not look
to the future.
It needn't necessarily come.
The present is now,
whether you like it or not.
Disbelieve what smart people tell you
Past is the only truth.
The past is yours, yours alone,
Undeniably, unchangeably,
Indelible, burned onto your brain,
Scarring it forever.
On a summer morning
Shake it all down on a mat,
Lay it on the sun,
Warming,
Watch it turn brittle,
Holiday Chores
Sunday- the day when you can be
Yourself- and not let be ruled –
A day to do what you wish to do
And not what others want you to do.
Sunday – the day one could read
Even the most insignificant ad
A day you need brush your teeth
Only when you want to eat.
I have a little duster, of soft
Synthetic bristles – to dust
The books, tables or the shelves
And an old torn shirt to swipe them clean.
There’s something about cleaning,
Dusting, tidying up and swiping.
A fleck of dust, a blotch of stain,
A crack that weren’t there before.
3 Poems 3
i feel my body covered with dust
you celler my odor of wetness
dragging down wooden steps
my dirty windows
i hear my tomorrow
coming back
to look on
while i stand
to go underground
myself
a hidden floor to lie on
heart
i hold your heart in the palm
of my hand; i admire the pulsing
crimson life-force flowing through
the network of veins, tinted, just as
stained glass when the light hits it
at the right spot. luminescent skin
reveals deep, blue-black flesh
throbbing with hidden whispers
and secrets unknown to any man,
ivory white tendons, worn and torn,
just as the foundations of a fortress
holding up the bruised chambers
of the castle of your heart. feeling
the fullness of your flesh in the warm
embrace of my digits, a shadow flickers,
and i wrench my palm closed,
life story
For the first time ever in my life
I just realized that I don't have a best friend
There's not a single person in this entire world
Whom I could share my problems with
I thought I had those kind of friends
The ones who won't judge me for who I am
The ones who understand every single thing going on in my life
But I was wrong
Because those were the first of the people who made my belief in the "best friends forever" thing to fade away...
And I feel like gradually, bit by bit, part by part, I am fading too
Into the dust, where no one would recognize me anymore, not even me. . .
Meeting and Passing
As I went down the hill along the wall
There was a gate I had leaned at for the view
And had just turned from when I first saw you
As you came up the hill. We met. But all
We did that day was mingle great and small
Footprints in summer dust as if we drew
The figure of our being less than two
But more than one as yet. Your parasol
Pointed the decimal off with one deep thrust.
And all the time we talked you seemed to see
Something down there to smile at in the dust
(Oh, it was without prejudice to me!)
Afterward I went past what you had passed
Before we met and you what I had passed.
Dust in the Eyes
If, as they say, some dust thrown in my eyes
Will keep my talk from getting overwise,
I’m not the one for putting off the proof.
Let it be overwhelming, off a roof
And round a corner, blizzard snow for dust,
And blind me to a standstill if it must.
A Peck of Gold
Dust always blowing about the town,
Except when sea-fog laid it down,
And I was one of the children told
Some of the blowing dust was gold.
All the dust the wind blew high
Appeared like gold in the sunset sky,
But I was one of the children told
Some of the dust was really gold.
Such was life in the Golden Gate:
Gold dusted all we drank and ate,
And I was one of the children told,
‘We all must eat our peck of gold.’
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