Wind

Cold wind
wraps around her like a
blanket
instead of warmth
it chills her to the bone
and for a second
a short, quiet second
her icy cold heart
shivers
the gush of wind
reaching the core
of her soul

Before we fight each other...

Before we fight each other
Before we preach and then kill
Before we organize meetings
Before we form armies

We must find solutions
We must be kind
We must learn to love
We must give and give even more



Beggars lie on pavement
Skin clinging to bone
Hands unused to the feeling of coin
Life knowing nothing but pain

Scared, the boy runs away from
Rarely-present-at-home father
The strong smell of cheap liquor
Coating each beating, each abusive word

Her feet fail her
Unable to take her any further
She falls on the hot gravel
Looks back to see if he's still chasing her

Innocent animal, large wondering eyes
He's scared and backs away on to a wall
He feels the cool blade slicing through his neck
Blood spills as life leaves him, now a mere chunk of meat

Mosquito flies from man to man
Looking for a sip of blood
Hungry for food she lands on skin
Only to be slapped by man

Whimpering, it howls and cries
Orders and loud voices don't help it calm down
It yelps when broom hits him
A silent night follows

half-kiss

A light touch
of lips on cheek
a kiss, it was not
half-kiss, maybe

She leans in
towards him
feeling the warmth
wanting more

He sighs
moves away
looks at her
then leaves

She reaches out
but he's gone
all that's left is
a half-kiss

Gentleness of death

He doesn't feel the gentleness of death

As it slows his breath, his heartbeat

Of destination he is oblivious

As he takes steps to his plot in a graveyard

He smiles as though life is never ending

Lives through each day dreaming of eternity

A firm believer in forever

He doesn't know his story is soon ending

Death though forgets not a single man

To have ever been born

He smiles with the baby, moments ago born

Tells him with life, also comes death

The baby forgets Death's words as he grows older

And so doesn't believe he will soon be dust and ashes

In denial he lives of the dark, dead future

And so Death takes him by surprise always

Last year

Last year

You asked me to stay

When I wanted to leave

This year

You told me I could leave

Anytime I wanted to

Last year

You were someone I

Respected and even loved

This year

You are someone I

Detest and have no respect for

Last year

I was happy

Always smiling

This year

It's difficult to get through

A day without crying

Last year

You asked me

If everything was alright

This year

You walk past me

Without even noticing

Poems written aren't always read

I can put together words
that follow the rhythm
I have in mind
Words that paint the picture
of the scene
I have in mind
Of all the things
that remain hidden
in my mind
The few that find
their way on to paper
brings relief to my mind

Poems, although written
don't always make the writer
a poet
Can we compare our silly words
to those in textbooks
waiting to be torn apart by eager students?
For this reason
word-creations are called
poetry and 'poetry'
The punctuation
an indication that the word is used
for the lack of something better
An indication that although
fitting of the definition of poetry
they aren't worthy of the title

And yet these poems and 'poems'
are written by
lovers of words, lovers of thought
They are shoved in our faces
to be read, liked, commented on
and of course, shared
And yet, readers struggle
reading them
understanding them
A 'like' is thoughtlessly given
when reading get tough
and words seem to have lost all sense

So who is a poet
worthy of
the title?
What poems
can be called poems
instead of 'poems'?
Who placed the line
between poetry and
good poetry?
How good do you need to be
or how good can you be
to 'publish' your creations?