The waiting


The afternoon sun

Warms up my fingers
Like little kisses planted
On beach pebbles

Memories of waves
Throughout the night
Never really fade

Now, the morning chill
Is completely replaced
By tingling anticipation,

Unbearable.

________________________________


Inspired by Tess Kincaid, over at Magpie Tales


The colours of this emotion



Red.

Light flickers
A long sigh escapes
The modern city never sleeps
Busy overkill


Blue.

Skies overhead
Lazy clouds swirl
Endless empty thoughts 
Drudgery kills


Green.

Waves arrive 
Never ceasing its rhythm
The seagulls cry
My fate sealed.



by ninotaziz


_____________________________


Claudia of dversepoets has asked us to talk about an emotion. Can you read between the lines?

More poems on emotions here

Human Nature



 Seasons turn crimson
 Skies smell of rust, yet
The moon ignites passion.

Still.

by ninotaziz

For Magpietales. All rights reserved

Lost



We are caught
In turmoil, and continue to seek
For answers, that will surely
One way or the other
Devastate us.

It is time for prayers
#MH370

by ninotaziz
______________________________


Malaysia is at the centre of an international hunt for the missing Boeing 777. There are more questions, that lead to even more speculations. We seek for closure and God's guidance in this difficult time.


The Lighthouse




“There are times when the ocean is not the ocean - not blue, not even water, but some violent explosion of energy and danger: ferocity on a scale only gods can summon. It hurls itself at the island, sending spray right over the top of the lighthouse, biting pieces off the cliff. And the sound is a roaring of a beast whose anger knows no limits. Those are the nights the light is needed most.”
― M. L. Stedman - The Light Between Oceans


Poetry escapes me
And my world is a desert
I long for the island,

where it rains words and flights of fancy

by ninotaziz

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The painting is a gift , a work of art by dear Sir Hanks who writes ferociously. Today, like the lighthouse within its stern and stark frame, it stared at me accusingly. "Write Ninot, write whatever comes to mind." But my mind is a desert that refuses to obey my ever eager fingers, my exhausted poet self. I am chasing dreams, and spinning stories. Instead, I found the words of M L Stedman, which does the painting justice.

 I am lost in the real world. And my true Eden lies in wait.


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