When You Think Of Her ~ Neil Gaiman

There are a hundred things she has tried to chase away the things she won’t remember and that she can’t even let herself think about because that’s when the birds scream and the worms crawl and somewhere in her mind it’s always raining a slow and endless drizzle.

You will hear that she has left the country, that there was a gift she wanted you to have, but it is lost before it reaches you. Late one night the telephone will sign, and a voice that might be hers will say something that you cannot interpret before the connection crackles and is broken.

Several years later, from a taxi, you will see someone in a doorway who looks like her, but she will be gone by the time you persuade the driver to stop. You will never see her again.

Whenever it rains you will think of her.

Neil Gaiman

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Gems And Stars- Poetry and Prose

What do you when you’re drowning
Do you pull every branch out there
Do you hold on to the shallow ends in the hope they’ll keep you safe
Do you let someone try to keep you from drowning
And take them down with you

When you’re falling
Do you panic and ruin everything around you like the storm that you are
Do you avoid the deep ends
Or do you take every rope extended to you that makes you stayz

When you’re running away
Do you take those you love with you
Or do you leave them behind for their own good
Do you kiss them goodbye

So when you’re drowning
Falling
And running away
How do you stumble upon your perserverance and indefatigable efforts and stay where you are?

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Shane Koyczan: The Story Of Now From GRID13

this wind

Leonard Durso

this wind that howls
outside my windows
spraying rain at times
on the terraces the balconies
this wind that moans
beyond my windows
is the only music
I listen to
and for reasons unexplained
comforts me
more than Sibelius
or Ralph Vaughan Williams
could today

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no. 23

(re)imagining the mundane

sunday music

the people downstairs are singing

their piano thrums through my floor

maybe it is a rehearsal for they are far from perfect

still, it is endearing, the hint of harmony

the love that resonates in their vocals

the pianist slowly sheds performance anxiety

for authoritativeness as the holder of the

rhythm, tempo and dynamics

i listen, i imagine myself there with them

from my upstairs chair

i open my mouth and harmonize with

ooohs and aahs even though i know the words

but then, their music peters out:

i wonder did they hear me and take offense

next time i will just listen, an imaginary audience,

and wrap myself in the music of their lazy sunday afternoon.

(written 28 january 2018)

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An Artist

Life is all about PAIN

IMG_20170202_130113.jpg

Pale fingers

filled with nicotine

On the white paper moved well..

Red eyes

In the imaginary world

glanced and gazed !

I wonder

How far your imaginations reach?

But they never fly over my roof

Where I stand

Each night

With a wish to feel you !!!


Come out of my dreams and imaginations.

Thank you dear Artist. Please contact me, if you ever see this !

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Atop of the World, Mom! (two)

Rantings Of A Third Kind

Posted in the Daily Post: Atop

“Climbing to the top demands strength,
whether it is to the top of Mount Everest
or to the top of your career”
A. P. J. Abdul Kalam

Atop of the World, Mom!

Fully glass plated houses
All the way up to the very top
This is no place for louses
Nothing hidden, nothing secret
But soon enough, some regrets
As the gazes will never stop

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That Boy is a Pane of Glass

Unto Dogs

That boy is a pane of glass,
He is seen right through with ease.
That boy is a blade of grass,
Unable to stand among the trees.

The boy is an old floor mat,
Unseen as you step in the door.
That boy is a plank of wood,
An identical piece of the floor.

That boy leaves no impression,
Forgotten as soon as his words are done.
That boy never shows his aggression,
For it would be noticed by no one and none.

That boy is a shadow at night,
Unremarkable, barely pronounced.
That boy is an infrared light,
Invisible data left all unannounced.

That boy is a poem unfurled,
Unread ’cause it’s crumpled and dirty.
That boy is alone in the world,
With no one to ask where it’s hurting.

That boy is a pane of glass.
A victim of thousand-yard stares.
That boy is a pane of glass.

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THE MYSTERY OF STORYTELLING (JULIAN FRIEDMANN)