lingers between the hills and the mountain a sniff to overcome a dismay, a snippet of a saint through the threads of fragile life. Jasmine- a floral drop of snow now between my knuckles, rubbing against my pillow a cry for dreams, a lotus shaped prayer. Jasmine- a quiet nostalgic hope, prayers about fairies and daydreams, The sun and the waters, echoing wool of the sunburn. The sniff- my mother's voice an elastic memory of tales and despair. Hi, Do check out my published book, available on Kindle also. Let me know what you think of this one?
Crimson skins – US Crimson Skins- POTHI My newsletters are filled with poetry, worksheets, mindfulness etc. Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou
I sit quietly,
observing the silent curves of this Plumeria,
a life extending like an infant.
No lament today,
only the surreal fire of this body,
listening to the hanging exhilaration.
As if, it digests the broken star
running across it’s face of thawed bone.
It shifts it’s mouth
to a better pathway.
It has a space to collect water,
to extend a chin of its part
biting this orange earth sipping sunlight.
This flower disobeys my myth
in small portions for me to eat.
There is a half – eaten Poetry
that I saw today,
hidden in the soft folds of life.
I think of keeping it’s lesson
soft as a summer grass
on my productive legs today.
Change my atoms of body.
make a sin out of this floating skin.
A lotus. Inhale my vapours like a sun kissed windowsill.
A slice of moon sits on my neck watching your toes circling my platonic waist.
a waist that hold your liquids, your solids.
A moment of sigh and resemblance.
Make me your thread of conjectures of dreams and skins.
a poets habitual routine.
Slit my thigh, a green antena.
suck my thoughts, a spiritual dot.
a map depicts your mind, soft and beautiful, here.
Details emerge as a florescent green bush,
beneath my thumb of silver weeps.
Sip my thoughts. Decorate. Redraw my body.
Hold my toenail. Be careful.
Be careful, I might slip like a fallen star.
NaPoWriMo # 16
image credits- Kelly Smith
i peel off my orange skin,
there is a black spot
like the dust of an ebb.
in the soils, i see mundane butterflies
can beauty be insipid?
so what about the moon?
i know, you will say it has the insane spot.
so, why do people sprinkle beauty?
if beauty can be foul.
©My Valiant Soul
P.S- MY NEW ONLINE PUBLISHED WORK CAN BE CHECKED
Thanks to the Editor!