I clutch little baby hands, his body wrapped in a hospital sheet.
It’s blue and red – much like his skin; my baby.
His face is the image of peace, but there’s something
not right in the silence of it all. They take him and hide him
away from my desperate eyes, but it’s a loud silence
that has my whole chest-bursting at the ribs.
I beg every god I know that he might breathe.
Soon enough we did notice some huntsmen with arrows, bows,
Who looked keen to put rollicking, glad deer yon day to death;
So like soldiers who safeguard the borders, we formed two rows
In hope we could stall each man that did tread with baited breath.
Besides, Mr Frankel shares with us that being an English coach and editor, he has to make time for other essential activities as well. While he usually writes at night for a few hours and takes breaks every fifty minutes or so, we learn that during the day too, he gets interesting ideas, which he more often than not jots down immediately. ‘During the day, however, I teach ESL (English as a Second Language) besides editing other writers’ works. Then, I do my own thing, which is writing. When I want to relax, I listen to music, read, or try to sleep. Most writers are sleep deprived at one point or another, and sleep is imperative to being creative.’
He does inhabit rooms that oft look like glooms,
Oh! But he prizes all he’s got, come what may.
He visits us with brooms, helps each man who dooms,
But I find it sad that he has got no say.
The few months that we were compelled to stay home,
He came, collected our dirt, greeted all in warm tone.
What transpired after resembled a movie scene in slow-motion. She was running to the end of the cliff, and he was standing still at first, for there was nothing he could do that would stop her. She was going to take the deadly leap to end it all! He gathered the strength to run after her like a lion chasing a deer. She though had already jumped into the air. She had widened her arms, taking the light away from the Sun as if she were a cursed angel.
His eyes are white, his hair is green
His nose and ears are super clean
While walking on his fingers weak
He never permits his mouth to speak
He buys books at the garment shop
At garment shops he books a mop
He gets paid just one time a year
And he lives his life in no fear
And when morning was unfurled,
I did open my eyes to sight
Blueness of the sky so deep and grand
That revealed the Saviour’s power and might.
And I wondered then if there was some site
Where His great vision might never land;
I cognised soon there wouldn’t be light
if He left our little world.
Every poet, without a shadow of a doubt, wants to be appreciated and acknowledged. However, little do many self-proclaimed poets know there exist different kinds of poets just like there are different kinds of poetic forms. While ‘poet’ seems to be the most commonly used term to denote someone who composes poems, it is very much possible to categorise poets. After you read this post, we believe you will get to know the category you belong to; so if you’re ready, get going!
Yon day we did feel the nature’s rage
When the city was hit by a storm;
And like puppies in a little cage,
We were locked, confined well to our dorm.
Oh, we heard the thunder’s rowdy dance
That did put us in a wondrous trance.
Time, a faithful companion
provides calmly expected answers.
observe the tiny things near to you,
then amplify your view,
move on with speedy pace,
placing your eyes on the wide horizon.
Alter the vision to comprehend
life’s design is never defined.
Why so special a man really is?
For his feelings, actions, power to pursue, learn and teach!
Feelings of love, a major chunk of human thought;
Eros instils such feelings mostly, modulates sperm to zygote!
My failing to punctuate a sentence is both intentional and inability
Yet times my word power
So limited crept on repeating on the same tree
Like a bougainvillaea
With pale colours
But the critical acclaim but partial yet times
Fuelled my expressive venture like an adventure
Talking about ‘The Mayor’s Daughter’, which was self-published last November, Emma CrowE says it is a YA LGBTQ+ Contemporary Fiction novel. ‘It follows the lives of seventeen-year-olds Chloe Carp and Ash Martin, and the story alternates between the two POVs,’ states the author, who dwells in Wenatchee, a city in north-central Washington.
My face had wilted and withered and waned,
Revealing every pain, emotion, thought;
And there was not one thing I could have gained
Had I not written ’bout what my mind fought.
“Well, like I said,” continued the monster when I was finally standing back on my feet. “I am thrilled to meet you; I have been trying to communicate with you for months now. Truth be told, I would be supremely honoured if you joined me for a cup of tea.”
The colossus looked awkwardly shy, almost starstruck.
“Would you? Join me for a cup of tea, I mean.”
I nodded in astonishment.
I am going to stay wounded.
And I shall never trow that
I can forgive those who have wronged me.
This might surprise you, but
my soul will avenge my perpetrators.
And I won’t ever want to think that
forgiveness is an art.
A former politician who has written op-eds for several large publications in the United States of America, the fourty-year-old, who is currently residing in the Rocky Mountain Area, the US, tells Stavyah Vatsarah, the roving editor at the Literary Express, in her response email that she worked full time until she got laid off in 2019. In the email, she writes about everything under the Sun – her published works, her hobbies, her family… Quite interestingly, she goes on to state that her first erotica entitled ‘Becoming Monsters’ has zero profanity because she is not too fond of using profane words. ‘If you can’t find something good to read, write it,’ she states.
‘I buy four bottles of hard liquor and some wine
hoping that by the time I get home, I won’t be able to walk
in straight lines. I want to stumble and curse and struggle to
slide my key from my purse. I want to rage against the
door’s lock, so incoherent I feel like it’s a sleepwalk.
The liquor bottles on my arm are an ice storm,
and now gloved hands shoved in pockets
are the only things that keeps me warm.’