Moment

A silent love

A blink, a smile

A wishful dream

A hope, a mile

Never too hard

Never too shy

A simple word

Beneath the sky

A memory locked

A moment timed

Resisting the touch

The clock has chimed

A delicate presence

Some words unsaid

Heart chuckling, shivering

Satisfactory dread

Here, right now

But then, long ago

A void of pain

Sweet smiles a-tow

By- Manny D

Rose Red

A blushing rose bud blossomed that summer morning,

The sky, blessed blue, smiled down shyly,

Watching the dew shimmered on her petals,

As she opened her heart to tell a simple story,

Of her childhood, of her past, of her home,

From where she had fled,

For fear of her lecherous relatives,

To seek shelter at the earthly bed,

Yet, she grew and knew of the trap,

And hence she breathed and broke through,

Reaching out her green arms, struggling for light,

Till at last, her heart relaxed, stretched anew,

Thorny and unafraid from predators and fears,

Red lips smiling with love through dewy tears,

Now a bud, next a blossom, then a full-bloom flower,

She’ll live and love herself till her final hour.

~Manny D

Everlasting Evenings

The breeze blew through her hair,

She shut her eyes and took a deep breath,

Then blew it out, with all worry and care,

Smiling, her eyes opened and gazed at the depth

Of the orange sky above the brown-grey terraces;

The blushing sun and loving, familial embraces;

The majestic birds skimming, dodging jets and kites;

The sighing cloud witnessing the marriage of days and nights...

GoLd Is OlD

These poets of the old make no sense

Unless you seek scholarly reference,

Know their lives from birth and hence

Read every critic’s attack and defence,

And of those writers of dinosaurs’ times,

Many of whose lost works are counted in dimes

And only one single text now shines

Driven to depths with nonchalant rhymes.

To all of ye famous writers of the old,

Pardon my forwardness, may I be so bold,

Your works have a base of rusty gold,

You lustre through time, so I’ve been told.

What matters it now of Achilles’ fury?

What matters of Macbeth’s soul to free

From self-pity, guilt and a walking tree?

Must I so care for you so long dead?

Must I write a thesis on the worth of your head?

You won’t bring change, December or May,

Nor would your descriptive self save the day.

Hence, excuse me, reading classics I do dread,

I’d rather read Rowling and go to bed.

By- Manny D

02/04/14