My Poetry

Sayantan Datta

I write of blue, red and green, and sometimes of yellow and grey,
Sometimes I write of fields and mountains, and sometimes of dried rivers, instead.
Some days I write of battles and wars, and other days of duels raging in my mind,
All shades, and hues, and corners and caves, you will find in the rhymes I penned.

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I Am Eighty

Afzal Khan

singing birds and lovely sun
dancing flowers, breeze, heaven
outside much much fun
I would like run run run
barring me this lockdown zone
I am eighty and I am alone

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Ode To A Virus

Jem Tovey

Corona doesn’t care if you’re atheist or Anglican,
Whether you’re a Buddhist or have visited the Vatican.
This pathogen’s not fussy, there’s no discernment in a virus,
Not bothered who you vote for or that you don’t like Miley Cyrus.

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Connect

Sahera Patel

Have you ever felt the melodious bird song lifting up your tired wings?
Have you ever felt the power of sunbeams healing every aching limb?
Have you ever felt the celestial hymn easing the chaos in your mind?
Have you ever felt the strength of hope replacing despair with a smile?

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Rioteous Rant

Khareef

I live in anger, in hatred, I was born into
shouting, vile insults and outbursts,
and when I step out into the world
the world spits back just as worse.
The grass is only greener on the planet
where confusion, ammunition, panic,
murder, explosions, execution,
are non-existent,

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Stay Angry

Yorkshireman

Stay angry
Let it drive your actions and deeds
Stay angry
Do not fade gently into old age

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A Game Of Two Halves

Jem Tovey

You don’t need to drink from puddles to thirst for fresh, clean water,
You don’t have to suffer homelessness to value bricks and mortar.
You must experience bondage to free yourself from slavery,
You must learn to hate addiction to truly love sobriety.

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Gazing

Bilal Saloo

Gazing, into this small window of time,
I see stories unfold on crisp pages,
I see beauty in this window of mine,
Butterflies escaping cocoon cages,
Bright eyed wings uncurl all in a flutter,
on the branch of the tree with the green leaf
Browning, drifting, crinkling, joining clutter.
Dear window, in mind’s eye, such a brief
journey, to glimpse a faraway place
I know not when I shall see once again,
or feel the cold pinch, the hot slither lace
down to the fingers, wrapped around a pen;
In need I am of the window I see,     
That gathers dust and is locked with a key.