Writer
When it rains, it pours
When it pours, close the doors
For it does not feel nice
To walk on soaking floors
Instead, look out the window
With your head upon a pillow
Oh look, swaying in the storm
is a lovely weeping willow
After the storm has passed
Raindrops cling upon the glass
And to hold this memory in time
You stop and take a photo.
I know, that you know, that the last line did not rhyme, but sometimes my dear it’s fine. 🙂
I have always loved bridges, the way they appear
More than steel and structure.. like a promise stretched across a distance.
They do not ask why there is a divide,
They simply become the answer.
There’s something deeply hopeful about bridges
People coming together to build something that brings others closer.
It is a path for the lost,
a gentle insistence to keep going
A reminder, there’s always a way forward.
To me, they’ve always felt like symbols of courage, resilience, and possibility.
A connection linking two unknowns, two stranger lands.
And then there’s the Golden Gate Bridge, a work of art!
The scarlet red, or should I say fiery orange-red or accidental “International Orange” colored bridge,
gracefully suspended in the air which looks simply striking
against the endless blue sky and blue bay on a bright sunny day.
Ask me if I speak for the snail and I will tell you
I speak for the snail.
speak of underneathedness
and the welcome of mosses,
of life that springs up,
little lives that pull back and wait for a moment.
I speak for the damselfly, water skeet, mollusk,
the caterpillar, the beetle, the spider, the ant.
I speak
from the time before spinelessness was frowned upon.
Ask me if I speak for the moon jelly. I will tell you
one thing today and another tomorrow
and I will be as consistent as anything alive
on this earth.
I move as the currents move, with the breezes.
What part of your nature drives you? You, in your cubicle
ought to understand me. I filter and filter and filter all day.
Ask me if I speak for the nautilus and I will be silent
as the nautilus shell on a shelf. I can be beautiful
and useless if that’s all you know to ask of me.
Ask me what I know of longing and I will speak of distances
between meadows of night-blooming flowers.
I will speak
the impossible hope of the firefly.
You with the candle
burning and only one chair at your table must understand
such wordless desire.
To say it is mindless is missing the point.
Filter, filter, and filter all day, anything or anyone that holds you back, just keep moving like a snail. Wordless desires that’s the way of life. Such a beautiful poem. 🙂
Passing through the day,
in a silk shirt, a pencil skirt,
hair gathered in a loose bun,
a few strands dancing with the wind.
The sky hangs grey,
autumn leaves rush by—
their colors whispering goodbye.
The grass is turning pale, the leaves begin to change,
a gradient of green, yellow, and red.
The wind grows chilly, stealing leaves of trees away
Like flowers tossed in the air,
The red and yellow leaves dance above my hair
moving with me, walking beside me,
Swirling, flying, and landing softly by my feet.
Hello October, hello autumn,
it’s a bittersweet joy to meet you again.
Mountains.
Grandest, mightiest, majestic beauties.
How silly it is to assume, we made it to the top when we stand upon you,
an insignificant tiny speck of dust.
I bow at you in awe filled with humility.
A curtain of rain,
hangs beyond the window frame,
falling in fine dotted lines,
painting the air a misty white,
turning the concrete slick and black,
the trees afresh, newly rinsed,
leaves shining lacquered green,
with birds hiding deep within.
*This is a letter I wrote last year, now finding its way to my blog, lest it be forgotten.*
Nuraine Sadaf 