When I Die
by Sonia H.
When I die I will be a ghost
and discover the world’s secrets.
When I die and become a ghost
I will return to my body and live.
When I die I will be on earth
and choose to be in heaven.
When I die and I have revenge
I will live to seek it.
When I die
I will live.
by Theodora Onken
Like a melodramatic tsunami-
You self destruct our: ‘To Be’-
Your harbor-wave of monumental catastrophe-
Washes away, the only remnant of me.
I was the shore of your discontent-
My alibaster sands were never to become a pearl-
You were the rage inside the eye of the storm-
An Earthquake of The World…
Disasters take our breath away-
Floods of grand intensity-
Come whirling and roaring over and over-
Stripping the very essence of me.
Bays and inlets of our cacophony remain-
Dissonance reverberates over our disaster-
While you continue to wear your diadem-
Unmoved, you remain, a diva-male dischord master…
The melodic motif crosses and
uncrosses itself, like a pair of silk
stockings set atingle with static by
the composer’s high-strung calves.
His chariot branlant, suspended
from jouncing corner posts by stays,
hooks, and leather straps, lurches
from side to side like a pregnant cow.
Two horses hoof a brisk tempo into
a rutted lane, and iron hoop wheels
sling mud into the footman’s livery.
Axles gripe and bits jingle. Horse-
sweat, leather, grease, wood, iron,
silk; all rub together with the twangy
over-tones of a baroque harpsichord.
The composer’s periwig is skewed;
spilt cordial has sullied his breeches.
He mops his brow with drab linen
and beseeches, ‘Rallentando! Legato!
Cantabile! Decrescendo! ’ His white
stockings are still perfectly clean.
Perhaps the soft warm nostrils of
winged horses should flute this airy
melody, while the tips of their long-
shafted feathers skim the strings
of cirriform harps.
But I’m the carriage driver.
I play it how I like.
by Dillip K Swain
Used as a
Poets use hyperbole
Things to put
On the taken theme
Through loftiest imagination!
We find great use
In works of
John Donne and Pablo Neruda
by Sadiqullah Khan
Psychedelic, the tree barks
On yellow and green tiny lights
Thrown from above.
Catching the stems, hanging
From the sky’s red horizons.
A sunset at Thames,
Her nakedness was like words
Flowing paperless, and as un-usual.
Keat’s melancholy, neither Orwell’s quote
Down the conveyor, on a belt
Would these thoughts, be recycled?
The folds of fancy has to cross over
Things, as barriers, in the mind.
From the expansion
How to recoil
Has travelled, far, how to be back.
In the crows’ nest
The happenings’ dilemma.