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Dylan Mar 2023
Egg
Echoes of the water hymn
meander on empty boulevards -
I trod this sunken labyrinth on the sea.
I watch silk-clad cherubim
standing near the milky shards
as they join a haunted melody.

The girl sculpts lamenting statuettes
on the sunlit crown.
Countless hours within the tower
nesting angels in her lillywhite gown.

Ghosts of a shipwreck
pour into the starboard garden
and I paint their tears like pieces of an ocean.
They wander on the fore-deck
and sing as the eggshells harden.
I see to the dawn, filled with strange emotion.

She swims in the moonlight
as her body stills.
A winged flight in the fading night
while the chalice of golden wine overspills.
charlie darling Aug 2022
my chest is full of burning coals / a penitent shepherdess, dreaming / above the slumbering world the moon changes shape / through the waking-world, spring turns to summer / i kneel before the garden in sorrow / one olive in my hand
SUDHANSHU KUMAR Jun 2022
(धर्म के ठेकेदारों से परमात्मा कहते है)

दिखावटी सा लगता है ये प्रेम तुम्हारा,
जो तुम मुझे बार बार दिखलाते हो।
बनावटी सी लगती है तुम्हारी सारी बातें,
जो तुम मेरे बारे मे औरों को बतलाते हो।

पहले खुद ही लड़ते हो, फिर खुद ही डर जाते हो,
बार बार मेरे ही नाम पर, ये हथियार क्यों उठाते हो?
मै ही तुम्हारा निर्माता, मै ही जगत रचयिता,
फिर मुझको किससे भय, जो तुम हर बार मेरी रक्षा करने चले आते हो?

दिखावटी सा लगता है ये प्रेम तुम्हारा,
जो तुम मुझे बार बार दिखलाते हो।


मुझको बाँट दिया तुमने धर्मों मे, दे दिये कई भिन्न नाम,
फिर क्यों दिन ओ रात खुद के दिए उसी नाम को गलियाते हो?
तुम भी मेरे ही बच्चे, वो भी है संतानें मेरी,
फिर क्यों एक दूसरे को भाई बोलने से तुम कतराते हो?

हर मुश्किल में, हर एक मुसीबत मे साथ तुम्हारे खड़ा मैं,
बावज़ूद इसके, क्यो तुम मेरा नाम लेने से हिचकिचाते हो?
जब सत्य जानते हो कि मै ही अल्लाह, मैं ही येशु, मैं ही हुं श्रीराम,
तो इतनी सी बात को स्वीकार करने मे तुम इतना क्यों सकुचाते हो?

दिखावटी सा लगता है ये प्रेम तुम्हारा,
जो तुम मुझे बार बार दिखलाते हो।
A poem about rising religious intolerance in the name of Almighty.
thepoeticwit Apr 2022
we are wanderers in a foreign land, exiles in search of home.
nomads who shift through dirt and sand.

Is this where we belong?
A desert, a wilderness.
A path made through promise of a kingdom paradise,
so close and yet so far away.

40 days and 40 years
are but a lifetime
our lives are but a wilderness
though we fast and pray
trials and temptations come our way

Be not fooled by Devil's sweet whispers
But continue past these 40 days
and though you fail in one way

There is One who fasted and prayed
overcame, and calls to you

"Behold, the Kingdom is near"

Repent.
mindlessly passed through to the end of Lent, and I didn't really fast and pray, what more succumbing to my sins. But a firm reminder of Jesus who succeeded in His fast and prayer, right through His passion, death and ressurection. Though I fail, He succeeds on my behalf, and has mercy on me.
Nala Alfira Feb 2022
the light ripped the darkness apart
and in that daybreak i see my future

things i nurture will be taken away
dreams i want will never come true
people i love, i'll need to let go
pain i suffer, i'll have to endure

i'll lose it all,
but i'll be fine
as long as i remember you,
i'm complete
about coping with recurring traumatic life events
Filomena Jan 2022
My poetry *****
I've zero *****
To give my art
My empty heart
Devoid of feel
Has no appeal
Toward the sheep
Who watch me weep
A worthless sound
A spring unwound
Potential spent
Becoming bent
Approaching death
Jehovah saith
He shall be ******
The preacher groaned
In deep denial
We must revile
All things defiled
And we deny
That one divine
These horrors binds
Into our lives
As such we try
In faith to live
As we forgive
Ourselves alone
As He atoned
For us, but you
He would not do
Predestination
An invitation
You can't take
Unless you fake
The way we do
And say it's true
What's in our book
Just take a look
And soon you'll see
Reality
Belongs to me
--I mean to Him
His power's within
My mortal flesh
And who would guess
That it was me
Was meant to be
A chosen one
A pointed gun
At those He hates
His wrath abates
When fire is cold
And time gets old
As was foretold
By prophets bold
Great men of old
Religion sold
The people told
Their word of gold
But on inspection
Their intention
Is control
To be the sole
Proprietors
And keep the people quieter
The evening of January 15, 2022
To break my writer's block,
I decided to write a string of rhyming couplets.
This was the result.
agatha Dec 2021
on some days water would fall down
in heavy buckets; ravaging the hungry earth
stricken— a wave of drought.
the tiny specks of life swimming along
the expanse of the universe would
scatter to have a taste of the heavens
and quench the need of being human.
some would build infrastructures
as great as  lunar craters
to catch every miniscule drop
that comes from the sky,
only to keep it in their possession,
never to see another ray of light.
those who have an abundance
seem to have a hard time giving—
hands formed into fists uncaring.
what can be gripped, cannot be taken away.
in this water, there will be power.

what do the others do then?

in a morbid sense of camaraderie,
those who have their hands open, cupped,
palms facing the heavens,
can funnel grace into the palms
of another.

maybe this is where I will believe,
despite the flashes of greed and envy,
the kingdom of a god
will always belong to the poor.
the poorest have the most to give.
Mitch Prax Aug 2021
I have come to realize that
we, humans,
have a religion-shaped hole
in all of our hearts.
What do you fill yours with?
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