Some Unseen Miracles

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Touch the tides and feel their ebb.
Wait for the summer, let the sun rays sieve through your hairs.
Listen to the song of cuckoo and be her whistler.
Welcome the autumn,let him bury your thoughts.
Touch the trees and feel the pain of his boughs.
Wait for the day,see the waking up of shameplants.
Hide in the darkness,see the bad dreams being entrapped by dreamcatchers.
Wake up and listen the song of crickets.
Listen to the lullaby of moon for the stars.
Pretend sleeping,find out the filler of stockings with gifts.
Trap the spring on the first day.
Appreciate the oyster for its pearls.
Talk to the seahorses,defeat them in a race.
Find out the spirits of unicorns,let them make a potion with the long horn.
Gift some baby's-breath to the dead ones.
Gather all the miracles of nature in a cauldron, spell the magical words.
Get the paste done and heal the miseries of globe.
Let the lava and gases sleep peacefully.
Let the clouds shelter earth tightly.
Let the oceans speak softly.
And let the seasons be obedient to its audiences,
For I see redemption hovering upon man.

A.C

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Shuli’s Love

Shuli washed her hair twice that day. One for her love to cleanse all impurities of reality and one for herself. She took a nap twice that day. One for love that took her melatonin, And another to forget. Shuli laughed twice that day. One on behalf of her tainted Love, And another on her botched brain cells. She cried a quarter that day. Half a quarter filled with anger, and the other half with shame. She danced twice that day, One for lost time on love, And another for her love for dance. Shuli wrote twice that day, One for her heart and Other for her brain. She gave two hugs that day, One for her wet pillow And another for herself. Shuli played hostess twice that day, One for her pain and the last for her sanity.

Little Poem

My procrastination ends here, While the urge to write chokes my throat, My hands get paralysed as in a trance, I find excuses to write a little poem, I make up a lonely man, a distressed woman, a lovers’ quarrel, an unrequited love, But they are reluctant to play the part, Maybe i should give them a raise, Or throw a party at midnight, Maybe a few drinks might work, Only if they don’t puke. I can expect a little vandalism, Some damage to the property and a mini scandal, Possibly out of rage. But at the end when I bring my weapons, Sometimes they get scared and back off, Some may never come back, Others find it funny and mock at me, And opportunists, seeing my desperation, Attacks me with manipulation. And all these while, my three panic attacks talk to me in a different language, I try to write a little poem With a racing heart and flowing eyes, I write my little poem, tortured and broken, I end my little poem, Like a mighty warrior, Who had a pyrrhic victory.

Madeline’s Mirror

Madeline’s mirror told her she’s fat, It appalled at her shapeless dress, Covering a chunk of flesh. She looked at her broad shoulders And big breasts, which reminded her of a pile of clothes that no longer fits her. But Madeline smiled and applied her eyeliner effortlessly. Her mirror sneered at her chafing thighs kissing each other when she moves. Madeline’s mirror found her plush lips contradicting the pair of flesh on either side of it. It spotted the two chins fighting for space like contestants in the combat zone. Madeline admired her freckleless skin, and applied her favourite lipstick. The mirror reflected her flabby arms complementing her saggy belly. Madeline moved closer to her mirror, which still in oblivion, started to produce sympathetic smiles at her legs. It mirrored how her legs carry all the weight, hiding under her flowy dress. Appreciating her silky hair and perfectly manicured...

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