No words are enough to describe how powerful you are, black man. I cried writing this, because mine are inadequate. What can I do, to stop their fear of you from taking you from us? They see your power, innate and beautiful and they panic. Black man, you are everything. I love you.
This is an extremely sad poem, much like the life of Emily Dickinson. A poem about her appraisal of the sadness and grief that she meets, and I bet she meets many. This poem just keeps getting sad until the last couple of paragraphs, where she reveals that other’s grief gives her comfort. It is others too, who have suffered. And some of the pains are like hers.
They plucked my petals, And called it love. Caged me in a vessel, And called it care. Cherished me rotting, And called it vintage. So I grew thorns and Became cactus. The one they couldn’t…
ask not to the homeless, “where do you live?” ask not to the atheist, “In which god do you believe?” ask not to the fireman, “does fire burn?” ask not to the beggar, “how much do you earn?”
It is quite scary, isn’t it? How much I know about you, All the quirks and habits. I wish you at least tried one bit To get to know me too. You have no time for me. No patience left in you to know me. So I am going to allow my intuition To guide me to a decision.
The beauty of motherhood, The best of love ever understood. The one who gives us our first home, Brings us to life after carrying us for so long As we slowly grow in the comfort of a womb, Protected, nurtured, raised and loved like we belong. But apart from the mother-daughter And the mother-son relationship, There are relations of many others That we forget are not always of kinship.
Saansein toh tham chuki hain, Phir dil dhadak raha hai kiske liye? Shayad ek umeed saans le rahi hai mujhme, Jiyunga kisi din apne liye.
Artist, by J. W. Cassandra, a short drama. I haven’t put it to any of my volumes yet. I made a figure of an artist generalized, even I didn’t give the artist’s partner. They may occur and live, talk to each other in any part of the world… I put it here in the category Stories.
Artist, by J. W. Cassandra, a short drama. I haven’t put it to any of my volumes yet. I made a figure of an artist generalized, even I didn’t give the artist’s partner. They may occur and live, talk to each other in any part of the world… I put it here in the category Stories.
The beauty of this poem lies in its simplicity. How the writer is able to find the greatest of the virtues in the simplest of things.
Everything that we witness daily, the things that are doing nothing more than the routine things are the biggest epitome of patience.
