#4 The Power of Poetry Anthology
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#4 The Power of Poetry Anthology
w.w
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.
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#4 The Power of Poetry Anthology
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