Every Sunday he herds cattle,
battling many hardships, pains;
Like a cloud that seems to prattle,
rattles all the weeds for gains.
Dancing and rejoicing, he heads
to the lands where grounds are beds.
Isled, forlorn are those plain lands;
People there don rustic bands.
Every Sunday he herds cattle,
We can be each other’s love if you will;
Shall I beseech you thus to feel my love
So both may joy in little things, have fun?
Be guided not by fame but one’s own will!
In shame, guilt and regret we shan’t down bow;
Love. Oh, that feeling we should not once shun.
I can’t feel bad if good you do;
I can’t rejoice when you so rue.
I can’t say lies and myself fool;
I can’t break that unspoken rule.
For in you I see the holy spark,
Which does guide me as well in the dark.
My asymmetric assumptions, they bury
twisted tales of absurd desires
How I learn to hide my wound and heal
worshipping the new face of the devil!
A filthy business to revamp my soul
coated with skimmed pinks
of the blood moon from your sky
So, tell me, when you see the face of the governing body of this great land and all they uphold as true, this fairy tale they call democracy…do you see a faultless image, like a dream without any error at all or do you see it? Do you see the port-wine stain? Red and glaring? Signalling like the truth? May the spirit of my forefathers, the calloused over hands of the blue-collar workers, and the sackcloth covered corpses that line the front lines, as I…may you be the port-wine stain on this country now.
Fill our paper birds with love
And we’ll never truly grow old
And we’ll never truly fade
Write our names in the heavenly sky
Forever immortal are our pages
Paper birds fly
Forever lasting in black and white
Continuous, the landscape coarse
and choked by urbanite decay,
I tried to sing but sounded hoarse;
a tuneless note of dank dismay,
ten thousand trampled daffodils
destroyed by deeds and dollar bills.
Standing on his doorstep was Maisie Beck. It had been years since Samuel had seen her, but he recognized her straight away. She was standing a few steps back from the door. Her hair was untidy, and her mascara had run down her cheeks. Also, her lipstick looked smeared. She was wearing a short party dress and had streamers strewn over her shoulders. She was bleary-eyed and tottering on her high heels.
The author tells us that Nevada Noir is a dark, atmospheric trilogy of intertwined tales of greed and temptation in the Nevada badlands. ‘In these three dark and brooding short stories, set in and around the US state of Nevada, a cast of disparate characters struggle with greed and temptation and the cursed lure of easy money. An old man goes in search of his son in the aftermath of a terrible storm, a couple down on their luck make a life-changing discovery, and an ex-cop has one last impossible decision to make,’ he explains, adding, ‘It’s an action-packed meditation on death, temptation and flawed humanity.’
Who knows what an eye with little knowledge sees?
A xylophone with pink and yellow notes;
Tink, tonk your sounds fly up to the trees.
In two eyes, we observe; in one eye we connect.
Two eyes make judgements that one eye rejects.
Two eyes show this one life, one eye shows the rest.
Two eyes watch the lesson; one eye takes the test.
Sensing the mass of human boundaries
so overwhelming and disheartening,
love dissolves the choking ghost of fear.
Hidden talents hit the surfaces
breaking down walls that should never exist
Young Alex considers the goddess her only friend because she doesn’t have any. Her parents don’t allow her to play with the kids in their neighbourhood since they’re ill-mannered, but it’s okay with her because she thinks they’re too loud, and she doesn’t like loud. Her only playmates are her nephew and her two cousins, who live on the first floor; but they’re all boys, and they suck at conversations that aren’t about robots and toy guns, so when she’s not in the mood to play with them, she’ll be alone.
A woven purse of shot silk threads
covered in a glitter like hundreds-and-thousands,
a dust from semi-precious stones
so the purse is abrasive to touch
inside a black leather handbag…
Conditionals allow you to express a wide range of scenarios. You can talk about an event that is unlikely to take place with the help of a conditional. Similarly, you can use conditionals to talk about purely imagined scenarios or hypothetical situations. You can also use conditionals to talk about something likely to happen in the future. Hypothetical outcomes that have got to do with the past are also expressed using conditional sentences. In short, they help you articulate your thoughts in the best possible manner, and that’s why they are considered significant.
White trumpets of flowers lean
from the bindweed that plaits
a fence of chicken wire
behind which three plastic buckets,
blue, pink and yellow, lie
beside an armchair left out
so long its legs are wormholed,
its green upholstery rotted,
and a table whose top has warped
leaving a concavity
where rain has laid a mirror
so clear I could gaze into it
and forget my origins.
Her second book entitled ‘A Storm of Magic’ happens to be a YA Fantasy. Speaking about the book, Ms Laino says, ‘Being brought back from the dead is an impressive trick, even for magician Darien Burron. Now he must try and use his sleight of hand to swindle modern-day witch, Mirah, to sign her power away, or end up a tormented demon in the afterlife. Meanwhile, sixteen-year-old Mirah is starting to lose control of her powers. After an incident at her aunt’s Witchery store, Mirah is sent to a secret coven to learn to control her abilities. While she is away, Mirah meets up with a soft-spoken clairvoyant, a brazen storm witch, and the creator of dark magic itself. The young woman must learn to trust in herself before she loses herself entirely to the darkness that hunts her.’
I haven’t seen you in a while, my friend.
But I still remember the time we’ve spent together;
Pictures of you are still vivid in my memory –
A part of my soul will always be there with you