The greatest agony
The fearful falconry
having, belonging
Chat with the pain
ahead with the vain
but the felicity brings its limited edition
Grab the authority
Dream Kishontly
Unrevealed
Category: Headspace
Wrote some songs
Thought I never loved lullabies Even when they are singing for the kids. Now I know that I need them for myself 21 and no one’s willing A little hope For my life ahead I feel it for those who cherish I wish and I’ve begged Wrote some songs Wrong time right person Right time wrong person It’s a treason Wanna be a baby Oh I wanna be my momma’s baby As she would sing ‘em Undoubtedly. -Ima-
This poem explores the speaker’s evolving perception of lullabies and their longing for comfort and nurturing. The speaker initially dismisses lullabies as something only meant for children but soon realizes their own need for solace and reassurance. At the age of 21, the speaker feels a lack of support and hopes for a brighter future. They empathize with those who cherish lullabies and express a desire to experience the innocence and unconditional love associated with being a baby. The poem touches on the conflicting dynamics of timing and compatibility in relationships, highlighting the feelings of betrayal and longing that can arise. Ultimately, the speaker yearns for the warmth and security that a lullaby, particularly one sung by their mother, can provide
– Ima –
I
Just a thought……
A lullaby is defined traditionally and more realistically as a song sung by a mother to soothe a crying child. Could a lullaby, in a not-so-much-traditional sense, be defined as an acoustically pleasant sequence of sounds (can be quite subjective in my opinion), any sound, that possesses a certain quality that is somehow capable of taking your worries away in an instance, puts you in a better mood, calms you down, uplifts you from the depths of depression, liberates you from the clutches of anxiety. Could simply be, in all agreement, the sound of your mother’s voice or your father’s; or could it be the voice of any loved one comforting you at the right time in the right way, your dog’s own specific playful whine, the sound of a piano tune, a strong patter of rain outside the window in a stormy night, the therapeutic purrs of your feline companion? In acceptance of my definition, can we, even as beaten-down adults, somehow be included in this category of “children” who are in need of a maternal touch, as we discover new avenues in life? I in particular, as an immature child trapped in an adult body, wouldn’t at any cost, dismiss the lulling, soothing words of my dear mother (quite the contrary of melodious in my case) in times when that single voice is all I need to hear. Anyhow, I would like to consider us all “children” of some sort, no matter how old we get, in need of our very own specific form of “lullaby” during any given phase of this crazy ride of life. [shane]
For the love of Haiku (2)
August charm imbued, A tombstone that marks the dead, Mushrooms bind us all
Lush green carpets and A cerulean ceiling Make my vernal dreams
Books, hot coffee and A warm blanket in winter Heaven in my room
Music in my ears The path, rolling on for miles It's my perfect mood
Valencian sea, Mediterranean air Still, something’s amiss
I see you shine, but How do I comprehend the Far side of the moon
For the love of Haiku… (1)
Fly caught up mid-flight
On a silken lattice weave,
The spider eats lunch
He painted the Earth Spilled orange paint all around As he bade farewell
Omnipresent sun Even in the darkest nights Shining through the moon
She loved the sun, which Burnt her eyes and made her blind So she loved the moon
A heartfelt Haiku Locked up in her collection He'll read it someday
Just three simple lines Plain seventeen syllabels Five seven and five
A View in Time
Göttingen
Within the tiny speck of a force-dependent world, One life which is a million too small, Valued by the power of many oxygen atoms, All riding on the resonating sound of a breathing flute, A furious odour dancing recklessly around two huge hairy caves, Amused by the resilience of a gentle heart intimidated by shameless beauty, Its crowded imaginations zigzagging to the tune of fear, While hungry pigeons don’t care to twirl towards creamy ice, Wondering why two energies sat side by side, A bell singing, a castle on guard, yet the universe is aware, That there’s glamour in the eternal harmony of selfless love, Whose melody makes sense to none but all, Eyes clashing, hearts discussing, words colliding, The end from the beginning is no one’s concern, The moment is the priority… living now than past or future, Still, all prisoners of silent time who chuckle at our pride of comfort, Nothing new to the constellations, same old story: Everyone, everything, is but one little mystery travelling into history.
Freedom of knowledge
It is 18:02 on a gloomy evening within a necessary cube,
Sprinting words race out of living humus,
Breathing homos are enslaved to the spirit of boredom,
Innocent eyes faced with intimidation from the giant called sleep,
Brains screaming voiceless words “Come on, give me a break”,
Time taking the form of a slow parasite on our will,
All Pasteurians never mind getting famous for a moment,
A hypo-question of a virus seeking applause,
A can of Coca-cola taking a fearless stance on a flat mountain,
Yet the euro casts a spell to keep souls on their seats,
Tireless logos seem to endlessly dictate our very freedom,
But time smiles in anticipation of our emancipation,
For soon, the voiceless shall speak a melody,
And we shall be truly human again.
And have our freedom from knowledge.
Is This the World I asked for?
by Joshua Benjamin
In a time when I was made, in a moment when I came to be; A naive being anticipated an innocent world; Filled with the sunshine of love and pure bliss; While in the dark chambers of an earthy balloon; Meditating in such light of speechless serenity; Curiosity forces it out of the bloody cave; Finally, it sees its imaginations but cries; Not in response to new life but rather to a dead world; Is this the world I asked for, whispered its wailing? But no one cared, its mourning was their dancing. Time strolled in to give it a brief journey; Many sights, many voices and many words; And soon the “it” believed it was a she or he; Claiming the wisdom of foolishness and the humility of pride; The greed of ambition and the rage of passion; Time paying a visit again and alas I was on the streets of my cosmos; Now a living and spiritual matter willed a slave to reason and belief; Beholding the hilarious laughter of suffering on my kind? Nature groaning with me as I silently wailed “Is this the world I asked for?” The trees moved by the broken tears of my heart; Helpless were they to comfort my obscure agony; They likewise victims of the hatred of my intelligence; How I wished I had another world to call my cosmos before I came to be. ~shua~
Black Homo sapiens
In the history of existence, the clouds cry; Denied justice in the courts of the sky, it has to rain; Revealed by the segregated ponds of tears on a cloud of breathing dust; What a necessary pain to experience the paradox of foolish wisdom; The inventions of white opinions for a black breed; A biased landscape of helpless biology clothed with perceived virtue; Still the cheat of racial intelligence powered by an ancestral neuron; Footprints along the rugged walkway of imposed speciation, Alas, what a beautiful shame that humanity dictates my survival; The complexity of blended colour in the face of normalized horror; Pretence coating the admiration of superiority with a bitter smile; Yet, it’s all one mother cell, same soil and a common end Finding comfort in the confidence of humble and divine originality; Though dead by the passion of sacrifice, yet alive on the strength of reason; Endangered cultivars of my black Homo sapiens? Never mind. We can never go extinct. -shua-
My Hidden Smile
By Joshua Benjamin
A sunny smile shaded by a thick cloud; My guten morgen were but a mere hallo; No true revelation of my electrifying excitement at humanity; No one can tell if I truly care, it’s just a clash of innocent pairs of eyes; Whose true love are revealed by the gesture of the facial nerves; I am but a stranger to my own kind in a vast world; My identity forcefully imprisoned behind the bar of fabrics; Because a microbe decided to become strikingly famous; A piece of fiber punishing my nasal opening; An aggressive blockage to its helpful holes; My oxygen rationed into unreasonable portions; Can imagine my cells seeking to wage a large protest; But calmed by the parental comfort of my neurons; My stylistic ears given an undesired posture; The odour of my mouth now the prevalent visitor at the doorsteps of my lungs; Alas, when shall it end? Do we hope for relief or do we expect to believe? That some prophecy has risen from its knees, to demonstrate ruthless dominion; Yet my body cares less in a mess of many stress; Seeing its sensory entry is forcefully denied nakedness; In hope I hope that I might gain my freedom; To again breathe the air of the Creator’s nature; Freely given, even if I wish to pay a cent for a bit; While a wait, let me but enjoy the reality of my hidden smile.
Walking Wisdom
by Joshua Benjamin
Earthly life, a speck in eternity, with such strange briefness; Yet what a spectacle to behold the beauty of the aged mind; An abstract entity to consider when it speaks from the lips of walking wisdom; Every word depicting the scars of suffering, the hurts and the hates, the miracles and mistakes; The memories of a priceless love for a symbiotic relationship; The ornament of a friendly rod and the jewelry of a rough smile; The fine grassland of white beards on an undulating facial landmass; With the snowy eyebrow dancing to the tune of poor sight; Yet it’s all a superficiality of the true worth of the aged mind; Having tasted the bitterest goodies of life, it sure can tell what really sweet pain is; The aged, the aged, in the fullness of his weak strength, is prone to silence; A page-less book within a few words, a reflection of wisdom’s might in the aged mind; Alas, every earthen vessel must experience the reality of this despised phase of life; Much more a greater desire to anticipate it; not as a burden but rather a fountain of wise wisdom; Let me prepare to be an irresistible walking wisdom in my season of patient steps towards eternity.
MyCuppaTea 