Thought Poems
Question
by Sobhan Ganji
Think that
Jesus
Was born dead
Would God
Take Mary
Back to bed?
He Never Sleeps
by Aryan Bhardwaj
They say he never sleeps,
Eyes wide, a steady gaze,
Not from the buzz of late-night thoughts,
But from the quiet pace of days.
Yet something lingers in his stillness,
A shadow wrapped in light,
A flicker of a restless mind,
Too quiet in the night.
......
My land’s orphan
by Kira Rodionova
Peaches heated by my sun
A dress so simple and so cotton
Would that child ever come
Back home
Where she is forgotten
Would the wind caress the ankles
Like it did so many times before
Would that land eventually remember
That her daughter is left outdoors?
......
My own thoughts
by Suhaila Bawar
My own thoughts
Filling me , I founder
Pushing me backwards
They Hit me like a thunder
My own thoughts
Laid down on a pile
And I went their under
Griped me from my collar
Dragged me , I surrender
......
happy ending
by anne anonymoussometimes the happy ending is the ending itself
Continue readingHe Never Sleeps
by Aryan Bhardwaj
They say he never sleeps,
Eyes wide, a steady gaze,
Not from the buzz of late-night thoughts,
But from the quiet pace of days.
Yet something lingers in his stillness,
A shadow wrapped in light,
A flicker of a restless mind,
Too quiet in the night.
......
Am Schluss
by Mario Odekerken
Ein Raum wird leer,
kein Laut,kein Schatten,
nur Staub in der Luft,
vom Licht getragen.
Die Schritte verhallen,
zurück bleibt nichts,
nur die Erinnerung,
verblasst wie Nebel im Morgen.
......
The idle child
by Sanjana N J
Gratitude knots in my throat.
I am surrounded by the bounty of her sacrifices, yet I let it slip through my fingers.
My heart aches with the weight of her expectations, each one a burden I fail to shoulder.
I am the idle child in the garden of plenty, the squanderer of every gift bestowed upon me.
happy ending
by anne anonymoussometimes the happy ending is the ending itself
Continue readingPlight of the Poet
by Christopher Kolmen
Is brevity not the soul of wit
So why then dilute the words which we spit
Is it perchance some performative urge
Some selfish ambition to a little longer be heard
What cause do we have to slight our creations
If not entitlement to our meaningless station
Am I not but a jester who wears a tin crown
Yet speaks of it as gold with the hope that my mouth is not bound
