Day 8: Where She Lives

Day 8: Where She Lives

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His hand-
Swipes across her face:
Once,
Twice,
Third time’s the charm,
and she crashes.

His hand-
bloodied
From the daughter he has born.
The child,
Who is made up of
Half of his genes.

His foot-
Finds the ground
upon which she lays,
Not gently
-he grazes her.
mama stands and watch.
Not a word is uttered,
Just the groans of a daughter.

His body,
Moves away to rest from 
All the work.
Each woman,
nursing,
The scars they bore.

The guilty eyes
Of a daughter
Piercing,
The tired eyes
Of a mother.
And silence hovers above them,
Into another dawn.


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I really enjoyed doing the december poetry challenge last year. Plus, I found this really inspiring prompt called “30 layers, 30 days” which many bloggers have completed now. So, I decided to use the prompts for December.

Prompt: Where I Live

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When Life Happens…

When Life Happens…

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There are some people in this world, who have learnt the art of living and loving the life they’ve been granted. They are masters in leaving yesterday in the sea of the past and welcoming each dawn with a brand new slate.
They have learnt that this world would break us if we let it, and they know how to traverse it with cracks. They know that love put into the world is never a loss.

Those are the people you meet at a bus station, in a plane; strangers meeting solely by fate. And when you come across one, you will know because they have mastered the art of spreading rainbows no matter the weather; and the sun rays they bring with their presence, last with you long after they are gone.
These people are the gems of the world.

 

The faces of depression-

The faces of depression-

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Depression is not always tears,
And sweatpants;
Staying in- all through the week.

It’s not always anger,
And weight gain;
Laying, in bed through the day.

Depression- wears many faces.
Sometimes:
It puts on a smile,
With a face,
Which lights up a room.

It puts on work clothes,
Slaying,
(Seemingly) through the day;

It loses weight,
And craves insomnia;
It fears solitude,
Depending on who you ask.

Depression is not always tears,
Sometimes,
It’s- the brightest face in the room.

Another day-

Another day-

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The stars are out,
A bedazzled sight;
The men are in,
The doors are shut;
        A blast is heard,
        In the distant- loud;
Another death,
Its time to mourn.

The sun is out,
The clouds at bay;
The tree leaves sway,
In a sorrowful trance;
        The streets are filled,
        The corpses-lifted;
A scene too common,
The people mourn.

The moon is out,
No stars tonight;
The kids are shut,
There’s little sound;
         The women pray,
         The husbands await;
Will this be the day,
Their corpses are lifted.

The sun is out;
The clouds at bay,
Another day…

The above image was gotten fromTHE MIDDLE eastern magazine

facebook page: Words of a random

Writer’s Quote: Silence

Writer’s Quote: Silence

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Welcome to another writer’s quote/poem wednesday. I just want to clear the air that Billy Collins isnt exactly my favorite poet. He writes a lot in a humorous fashion and although i love a good comedy and a good laugh, I prefer my poems sad. 

That  being said, he has written some great poems like “the litany“, “on turning ten” and the poem i’m sharing today- Silence. I hope you enjoy it, I think you will.  (P.S- the above quote is by him)

Silence by Billy Collins

There is the sudden silence of the crowd
above a player not moving on the field,
and the silence of the orchid.

The silence of the falling vase
before it strikes the floor,
the silence of the belt when it is not striking the child.

The stillness of the cup and the water in it,
the silence of the moon
and the quiet of the day far from the roar of the sun.

The silence when I hold you to my chest,
the silence of the window above us,
and the silence when you rise and turn away.

And there is the silence of this morning
which I have broken with my pen,
a silence that had piled up all night

like snow falling in the darkness of the house—
the silence before I wrote a word
and the poorer silence now.

The way it is-

The way it is-

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Somedays,
I wish I could take,
A year-
Off.
To read,
Write,
Recite
Poetry.

But-
I’ve got bills
To replace,
A degree,
To attain
(Not for my pleasure of course),
I’ve got mama
To make proud of,
I dare not
Disappoint.

And me-
Who cares about-
Me.

That’s the way,
The world works,
Always have,
Always will-
I learnt.

Facebook page: words of a random. Let’s connect!

Love & Poetry

Love & Poetry

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You tell me it’s all fiction,
the poetry you write,
That reality is far fetched,
From the land your muse resides,

The so called “love” you’d written,
Are words without much heart,
And I wonder if you think back,
To the ring on your finger.

You’d ask of my opinion,
And of course I’d say it’s great,
But I wonder, don’t you think our love,
Is worth words on a page.

So I read through every single page,
With pulse at a heightened pace,
And wonder will this be the day,
Our love inspires poetry.

Writer’s Quote: Charles Bukowski

Writer’s Quote: Charles Bukowski

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Hello again, to another Writer’s Wednesday where I share some of my favourite poems with you guys written by other authors. If you’ve been following my blog for a while now, you’d know I read a lot of Charles Bukowski’s works. I love them and I admire the realism in them, the lack of conformity with classical poetic style and the harsh truths he throws in every now and then. He is one poet who says things as they are with little sugar coating.

Below is a poem from one of his poetry books, Love is a dog from hell. I feel it reflects the situation of this world in recent times, even though this was written decades ago.My favourite lines from the entire poem are these:
the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.

And that is just the truth.

Charles Bukowski- Love Is a Dog from Hell

there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock.

people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.

people just are not good to each other
one on one.

the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.

we are afraid.

our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners.

it hasn’t told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.

or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone

untouched
unspoken to

watering a plant.”

L- Life after dusk

L- Life after dusk

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She grew up with laughter,
At the dinner table,
Holding hands across the street,
Kind of parents-
She was that kid with pink ribbons,
Daddy’s doll;

He was that kid- a replica of
hand me downs,
Wiping mama’s tears and cleaning
After papa’s mess,
He was that kid with barely average
On every test;

Life after dusk brought women-
Drowned in assortments;
Men elated for the peace at home.
Kids cradled- by soft hands
who’ve not experienced,
The touch of labour,
neither it’s sweat.

Life after dusk brought on a stench,
The kids knew too well;
An image they wish-
They could forget.

Life after dusk is different-
In every household,
Some build sweet memories,
Some dim the lights
Of Children, and their innocence.

And I wonder-

And I wonder-

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And I wonder,
If the seas,
Ever wish,
They could be me,
Free to wander,
Farther than the shore,
Unattached to the moon,
And it’s pull at dusk,

And I wonder,
If the moon at times,
Gazed at me in awe,
Dreaming up
a life
Without binds to the sun,
Free to live and shine,
Without needing a source.

And I wonder,
If the women across,
Sullen eyed,
With faces white,
Ever wonder,
What life would be like
Without a child to cater for,
Free to live and travel,
At the whim of desire.

And I wonder,
If the slates were cleaned,
And the freedom was of my choice,
Would I choose to be bound,
To be needed and need,
Would I choose my life
Or theirs..