This is my first POD. I'm dizzy with happiness. Thank you so much for the repost @writersnetwork and @mirakee . I'm honoured. Also thanks to everyone, for their feedback and support. A special shout out to @jerry_21 for unknowingly being an amazing inspiration
Her mother Opened the bottle of Coconut oil effortlessly and Pouring onto her palm a generous Amount of the sticky golden Oil rubbed it onto her scalp. Her mother hummed songs while she weaned The despair out her body like magic. Her hold soft , deliberate and fully alive.
Her father Held her hand. The traffic light glowed bright red. The road safe. She old enough to find this unnecessary . But he held on. As though Holding onto her hand was a habit his heart had gotten used to. His hold strong , concerned and fully alive.
Her sister Stood gaping at her. In her hand was The last piece of chocolate cake from her birthday party. They had just fought over it. They had just decided to never forgive each other over it. She had hated that she had to finally give it up being the eldest. But here her sister stood. Holding the plate in her hand. Her hold gentle , forgiving and fully alive.
Her lover Sat next to her silently. Not a word filled The space. Nothing to be declared. Her heart heavy , his heart willing to hold the heaviness . The day had been cruel. The light in her heart dimmed. The darkness overwhelming. He knew. And so he held onto her hand. His hold safe , compassionate and fully alive.
Life held her In her many many ways. So many ways that It almost seemed that the universe That held her did so because that was all It was designed to do. To hold and nurture . And maybe that is all life is. A gentle act of holding onto our bodies and minds and spirits and each other.
Until Even letting go Becomes an act of holding onto A greater hope for Our lives.
Monuments, centuries old all tell tales of people, kings, queens and slaves that lived within majestic walls of fame and torture; the dungeons have seen humans rot away alive and those buried in beds of white precious stone have lived in gold pennies and silver linings.
We walk on steps, elephants laiden with royals have walked upon! Our heart races backwards in time, mind runs into a pile of wonder as fingers trace faded art patterns on walls and eyes gawk at portraits of those who lived, by those who lived.
When was art born? Sometime, long before the lives of those who painted, constructed and carved stone into artifacts and hearts into stone.
Gardens extend as far as eyes reach with harems on far ends of empires, of all the empresses of one (great?) emperor.
History tells us a story, wealth saw those, who lived within castles and not even health saw those who lived in mud houses Pride brought down empires, wars killed humanity and selfishness ate up all the kings and now we walk amongst monuments, that cry more than they speak, tales of poisonous souls, that even killed the snakes when bitten and those with pure hearts were murdered by swords.
And now we walk, between worn out walls, with a different poem in our head- twisted and wrecked, like our history.
@mirakee, @writersnetwork thank you for your kind reposts. I really haven't been writing for months and I don't know if this is really a dream. Thank you everyone for your very generous comments and reposts. This means a lot. ❤️
I see mirrors, A lot of them. In the dead, the old, the decayed and the ones about to be deceased. I see mirrors in poems I read about the little girl in the meadows in her little white frock, with golden locks hanging down her shoulders The faint brown freckles on her face Dancing with the wind on her toes Like ballerinas she went to see last spring.
I see mirrors In the old women I hear about, Sleeping in her coffin, with her tranquility. I walk past her huge door everyday With the faded bijou letter plate, all brozed up with dust of mystery and the gold of love. The wooden door to her tiny abode of remenisce, where she fondly slept on the couch in her last days. For the king size bed her husband brought home Has been lonely for 22 years of him bygone. She swaps in the drapes and the sheets everyday, for him to sleep comfortably in her memories.
I see mirrors In the old library where pretty faces Take a bit of it with them in the photographs, The old shelves with books of those whose bones might have been loamed soil by now, Covered with webs of miniscule creatures and the shores they sank their feet in. It's been just years they've espied sunlight and held hands For those who come to read stand by the newspapers, too old to remember and too weak to bend down for them.
I see mirrors, In the houses near the shores For it's walls have glimmered with french Margherita splashes on the fond nights And have been scraped at times when the kids mastered to draw. The gardens remember the young father teaching his baby boy how to peddle, And now the birds pay their visit to the undomesticated feral grass. The radio on the china table now, never announces victory For the unrepaired gobs Haven't touched a human since the boy wedded maturity.
No rainbow can be more colourful than his words No portrait can be more beautiful than his face No song can be more beautiful than his voice No sculpture can be more perfect than his entirety No galaxy can be larger than his heart
The sun brings light to day And the moon radiates the night Whilst he illuminates my life
Some describe their beloved as beautiful heaven I describe beauty by the name of my beloved Some say their beloved is perfect I say perfection is my beloved
I heard them say their beloved's smile twinkles like the stars I say the stars twinkle as brightly as his smile They say their beloved is as radiant as a gem I say a gem is as radiant as my beloved
Many say praise is an exaggeration of one's excellence I say praise is a belittlement of his excellence.