Nirvana,
Ice grows over your mirrored surface;
yet reflections only grow clearer,
images busied and refracted, hungry.
The view from my window; spent light
in streaming eyes. Sorrow is not gone
in this place. Do not be mistaken.
Babies cry with their first breath; do
you blame them? The days layered
like folded sheets spell a tragedy.
For whom? Not I. My tea is warm,
my door open. Crickets call my name.
©
In this exquisite poem,
reveals an uncanny ability to blend stark reality with profound beauty. Each line unfolds like a delicate work of art, offering readers glimpses of both the earthly and the transcendent. , your poetic finesse in weaving raw emotions with the comforting notes of everyday life is nothing short of inspiring. Your work is a gentle reminder of the nirvana that can be found in life's simple moments.Please continue to share your remarkable gift, lighting the way in the vast sky of contemporary poetry.
Pleated cotton kisses the cold concrete step,
I'm too young to understand meditation,
I stare at ants,
A bag of books,
Homework can wait,
Sweets stuck to corners in my pockets,
Every corner on the street has an adventure,
Curtains dancing, eyes spying,
I could have gone to town on a half torn bus pass,
But I'd miss the metal key turning,
The sign that waiting is over,
Hours have passed
But I'm used to the waiting.
post traumatic observation #2
I keep going to the moment when he produced the gun
the the steel pressed the flesh of my temple
his crazy eyes
mouth screaming "I'll drop you"
I have no control in this moment it seems
I'm doomed to live it over and over and over
despite the fact that Nico never pulled the trigger
he is a trigger
gateway into the rush of anxiety
that yields explosiveness far exceeding
any gunpowder and hammer.
by Edward Storm