train rides south
mum missing dad
oblivious, we only enjoy
our moving playground
measured independence
childhood moments

murder on the orient express
mysteries of grey blue eyes
courtesy of Agatha Christie
hours of escape

childhood read
for dversepoets
Bill's post takes me to the time at least 40 years ago. Dad was a manager at a timber company. We had to venture hinterland to see him.
The train ride was at least 12 hours. North. South.
At least I thought so.

the philosophy of abstaining

fast, to appreciate hunger
compassion for your fellow mankind
food plays with the senses


abstain from your deepest desires
and your existence will
be pure pleasure


take a vow of silence
you will find words
too precious


disappear from the online world
for awhile, you will see clearly
the best of the best



today I celebrate Eid, after a month of fasting. And our dear Brian, is back within our fold after many months of staying away. hence, the above poem.


lover of the night
folding poems 
in a blanket of stars

daughters of the sun
drinking legends
for breakfast and tea

mother earth
milking passion
dreams on the milky way

passion legends poems
daughters mother lover 


words by ninotaziz
Copyright @ 2015 ninotaziz

In this heat, a balm for chaos

daughters put on wings,
garden turns to paradise
birds take flight -

Copyright 2015 © Zalina Abdul Aziz aka ninotaziz

My Monsoon…excerpt from NAGA

The north-eastern winds were becoming stronger and stronger until it developed into a full gale.  They arrived like a roaring tiger in the middle of the night. At times, the sound of it was deafening, you forgot time and place, it felt as if the storm that brought hail and fury would never end.    

I had forgotten the waves
crashing, hitting, arriving
against the wide beach

sandy white

at the edge of our little world
how tiny we are, this space
compared to the vastness

they travess

powerful winds
like a tiger, roar ferociously
the forces of the universe

supreme creation

to be so close
to the edge of time and matter
where it does not matter

Every sunrise. Awakened.


When the weather permitted it, I would see how the men looked out to sea, lounging with their backs against the wall on the verandah, smoking a roll of tobacco filled nipah leaf - longing to be back in their boats riding the waves. They did not speak, sometimes for hours.

But their gaze spoke volumes. They were content, for it was a time for rest.

The sea was like a drug that called out to the very soul. It whispered of adventure and played images of the vast open.  But beware! The sea severely punished those who forgot her or her mighty powers.  Even the lofty coconut trees shook this way and that in the wind, but they were hardy and did not give way to the master of the moment. 


I marveled at this life of bliss.

Life on land was unhurried, languid - full of grace. Life at sea was wrought with danger - a race against the tides, the winds, against time itself. 

When the monsoon rains and storms finally ceased, Pak Nakhoda readied his ship.  Soon, we were southbound.


For dversepoets

This is an excerpt from my novel, NAGA - A Legend of Tasik Chini. I should not say more, but at least I am happy I have the chance to share a little bit about our monsoon. It is strange and magical, devastating and powerful.

The picture was taken in Terengganu, where this portion of the story is set, and the poem was inspired by the actual waves I heard on this beach the night we arrived.

The narrator however, is at a dangerous crossroad. To sin, or not to sin.

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