Posted in Poetry

VIBEZ

Sipping my drink casually as I drowned in my own thoughts,
I felt a certain pressure and goosebumps on my body
At that moment I heard a low husky voice close to my ear
Turning only to see a glorious sight before me
A six feet tall solid mass of a man
Casually wearing a Brioni piece
With his full boned body that seemed to be a very comfortable place for me to nestle
As he stooped closer in conversation
My words sounded to me as if it cake out in restrained breath
The scent of his after shave intoxicated me
Making it more harder to express my opinions on the issue set on motion

His hazel nut brown eyes looked down on me warming my heart
Couldn’t help my self but trace the contours of his face in awe
His whiskers trimmed so neatly that my hands itched to trace
How interesting his face was, sprinkled with little brown spots
He seemed so relaxed yet giving an air of seriousness
Looked at his full lipped smile that enchanted my spirit
Possessed my body stiff

My lips parted to welcome the warmth he offered
I grabbed the sit edges and ached my heart upwards for him to receive
I could hear an echo of disagreement building at the back of my mind
But I was falling so hard that they were shattered by gravity
I wonder in which aspects of fairness is one permitted to have such control over another
That one could compel my being to total obedience against my rationality.

 

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Posted in Uncategorized

THE OLD TIMES

The wind blows, the sound is nostalgic,

Of the old days when rains, used to be plenty

And children played outside, and herded cattle in the fields

 

The trees whistle in the forest

In a reminiscence of the whistling of the herder in the green fields

When the herd was plenty and the rain dropped from the sky

The land was fertile and the plains were never dry

 

The rain drops, on the metal sheet

Very intense but for a short time

Unlike the old times when, we had more than plenty

When we had bumper harvests and our gannaries were ever full

 

Now on the wind blows, and brushes past the dry trees

The trees whistle a mournful sound, like a funeral procession

the rain drops are scarse, and very feeble, like a candle fire in the wind

The children never play outside, they are never amused by the sun and the desolate land

And the fire place has no fire, only ashes remain, because the corn has since dried in the farm land

 

words by,

anonymous writer