Huzaifa’s heart-rending poem speaks of the angst, the silent, frustrating, regretful wait of entire generations.
In Ronald’s poem, life is a state of ever-wait, layers of hope and sadness chipping away at the corners of stillness.
The poem intends to expose the hollowness of Goddess worship in a society that disrespects women daily.
Emily Brontë's birthday is on July 30th. Here is a poetry to celebrate this unassuming poet of the Victorian era.
Moon came to the forge in her petticoat of nard The boy looks and looks the boy looks at the Moon In the turbulent air
Living in and out of this body I always wondered What makes a house a home...
Gravel crunches, A pebble thrown to the side. A leaf in parabolic flight, Swirling with the gusts of nature’s breath. Inhale, exhale, and a boot
I try not to think/Of the setting sun by the Mediterranean/And the New York Times bestseller/On my chest/ like a baby clinging to her mother’s
I Try to hide behind the dark curtains of indifference/But can’t avoid the loving caress of the dying sun’s rays...
My grandmother has a box/Filled with dolls/Dirty, broken dolls/That were once whole/Friends for my mother/My mother was once a little girl
18 May is celebrated worldwide as International Museum Day. Thomas Hardy's poem celebrates the British Museum.
You were there when that little child fell,/She bruised her leg and cried./ You felt for her, rustled your leaves,/Until her eyes dried.
The night’s a complete washout/ The eyes can’t hold the ocean/Flooding the parched soil/And does its own thing/with the mascara, the eyeliner
The spirit of enjoyment and desire,/And hopes and wishes, from all living things/Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.
They say forgetting will render you free,/But that's not the case with you and me./I like to believe that I have known you long,/But truth
A pale yellow light, stirring dust motes/Fragrant, playful, brushes across my face/The air cooler, brighter, rain drop fresh/Cobwebs quivering, released from dark corners
