Your smile, your laughter was the light during the nighttime 

Your touch, The way your fingers would caress my soul 

Your voice , like soft melodies playing in my mind

Your time, if you had to say, it was well spent

Your life, was a gift; a small brown box draped in red ribbon 

our memories are embedded in my heart

I can feel it as if it were now. 

In memory of Chris...

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To The Saint Of Lost Causes

Melancholy Monday

Brown sugar blues

In the same vein

As your father

But you never made it

Across the river

To the other side

When you combine

The names of flawed giants

Who have fallen by the wayside

More than once

There is a grim

Divination

You leave us

Those sweet moments

From the Tennessee sun

To ...

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Sitting to the east

Sloping down to the edge  

Of that other world

In the summer sun

In the winter chill

The sentinel watched over

The little family in the cottage in the hollow

Lately it had felt her sorrow  

It knew when she left Pant y Lleiniau

And walked slowly along the cart track

To reach the little bridge under the trees

Where she crossed Nant yr Efail ...

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Above

If I handed you,

one hundred balloons,

you would drop each one,

and float to the moons.

If I blew some bubbles

and watched as they float

you’d soar far above

and here I quote,

“If all the world,

was spinning round,

like a red balloon,

way up in the clouds,

you’d anchor me,

back down”

Well we went and we were,

two ball...

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Kohl                                                                                                                                           By : Mirza Sharafat

night has enveloped, to give me some relief
now invisible are walls of separation, and thy grief

where blood quenches the thirst
disloyalty is faith last and first
is the religion my beloved belongs to

I beckoned, red and bla...

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They say that the worst kind of grieving

is when the lost antagonist is still alive,

whether sudden as a spring swallow’s dive

or a slow wintered bewilderment in the leaving.

Buried, burnt or butchered cruelly out of heart

that did endure with vexation and veneration,  

fear of being alone or guilt of being causation

of their final yield to the wind that blows love apart.

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She pressed her hand against the marble, felt its words,
Ran her weathered finger through the crafted names.
Many faces that had long since adventured,
Left for others lingering to bear the pain.

The autumn sun caressed its face and warmed the stone,
She drew it through her skin and let it stay a while.
Her silver head was bowed, her company her own,
To spend a few more moments...

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A farewell to two poets that have only just passed on: Sandra Fowler and Sonya Florentino. R.I.P., dear friends.

 

`



Yes, I will try to be brave
just like you'd want me to be;
here I am waiting on shared memory:


Dear old friend, where might you be?
And where is it that we have arrived:
now we're quickly fading into oft-turned pag...

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On the day of her

death he didn't cry.

Everyone said,

"He doesn't care!"

On the day they

laid her to rest

he didn't cry.

Everyone said

"He never loved her!"

On the one month

anniversary of her

death he was

found lying next

to her grave.

An empty bottle of

...

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