Month: November 2014

Explain- an original poem

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"Fear of The Unknown" by Muhammed Ilham
“Fear of The Unknown” by Muhammed Ilham

He seems afraid of what he can’t explain,
of spirit and color he has been drained,
like a bow bound to snap ‘neath arrow’s strain,
maybe it’s the truth or maybe it’s pain
that wracks and reaps him of blood in his veins–
for the unknown, you know, can’t be contained,
and sometimes its shadows are hardly sane,
and then there’s the question on what’s humane–
for how can we gauge the blackened and stained
when from our eyes the pure truth’s been abstained;
sure, you can toss windward all things mundane,
sharpen esteem so confidence can be feigned,
but in the end despair is still maintained…
because he’s afraid of what he can’t explain.

© 2014 Stellular Scribe

With Winter In Heart- an original poem

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"Pray" by Wang Ling
“Pray” by Wang Ling

Here at the end of this smoke-strung land,
where the wind drags its teeth ‘cross my skin,
my grasp on reality numbs in my hands
as the blighting hoarfrost buries in.

Cold is custom at the end of the world,
and betwixt my blue fingers I warm,
a bloodstone, a sunstone, polished and pearled,
to thaw off the sleet and the storm.

I dream of a fire at the end of the night
that’ll soften the ice in my marrow;
I dream of a love shed in sweet silver light,
who’ll return to me from the barrow.

Here at the end of this bitter white land
I search through endless freeze for the dawn;
I cannot reclaim the warmth in my hands,
so with winter in heart, I march on.

© 2014 Stellular Scribe

A Bittersweet Color- an original poem

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a bittersweet
color
red is

the shade of passion
deep and drawn out as a kiss
yet fiery as the glint in your eye
the untold breath of innocence
sweet as a summer rose
and studded in thorns and sties
red as love
red as sin
red as want
red as warmth
a blush a beam a scar a slash
a goblet of wine
a brutal blood bath
a graze a grin a grief a gash
flames and fear and fondness and famine
and wanting to possess and living for desire
and gentle dear darlings and funeral pyres
and hate and healing and fury and feeling
and singing
and crying
and
living
and
dying
and

red
is
a
bittersweet
color

Silence- an original poem

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It’s the silence that wakes me in the end.

The wind’s final gasp as it gives way to hush,
the thunder’s last groan as it shakes from the sky,
the rain’s waning beat at the end of the flush,
the fire’s closing streak as it lights its goodbye.

The absence of noise is my nudge into waking,
the alarm of my slumber garners no cruel beeps,
for in the pith of the storm’s cracking and quaking
is the only night hour in which I can sleep.