Writing (ii)
They look bright
As light falls upon them
They seem statesmen too
As they talk incessant
Let them use pen and paper
They will uncover their
Cleverness of hiding power
Writing is a fight between
The Powers of dark and light
The Difference between an elephant
And an ant.
Writing is the impressive enormity
Among the works of tiny trivialities
Writing is a question asked to realise
The blunt indifference
Writing is like putting the sun
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poem by Abdul Wahab
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Inside Burning
Right
Or
Wrong,
Defeat
Or
Victory
among
thousand
words
and deeds
do not
believe
look inside
deep
what soul
tells
life does not
have any meanings
if your soul
does not
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poem by Abdul Wahab
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Poet's Journey
The first poem was a wonder
The second was a surprise.
The third poem made me a poet,
The fourth gave me a name and fame.
The fifth poem fetched me a fantabulous fantasy
The sixth one was a striving struggle for perfect beauty.
The seventh poem conceived the heaven's serenity,
The eighth one gave me a fly,
The ninth poem lifted me in the sky.
The tenth poem turned a touchstone for me,
This made my dream a delicate delight
Throughout the day and throughout the night.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Poet
Words are stitched
Craftily together tight
To a lei like the flower
Grand and gorgeous
On the smooth white paper
Like pure diamonds
They shine and glitter
With a sword of logic
He sits on a stallion
Rolls like a gust of wind
With the sound of music
He tills the soil
And celebrate the mind
I see with an open eye
While down on the dust
How does the storm
Sweep and clean
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poem by Abdul Wahab
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I don't afraid to die after
I have been living
For
That real
The true
Tender
Moment
When
I shall be
Chasing my dreams
And telling my tears to fall
To tell the delicate desire
For a very soft touch
For a real nice feeling
The joy of being
The being of consciousness
The feeling of belonging
The meaning of life
The essence of being alive
Just part the lips to utter
LOVE
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poem by Abdul Wahab
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My duties
I can go anywhere, anytime, in any direction
Just like the shooting stars of the sky.
Why should I go?
Did I know before I came here?
So I should ponder and turn back
And never think to go.
When there is a natural entry and exit door
Why I should use for my exit the unnatural window!
Rather I shall find the answer
Who, when, how and why
Am I here?
If I have not come here of my own,
Then Who has sent me and why?
Are there any duties for me?
If any, I have to do them.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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The Food Of Termites
Doodling deep
lightening speed
junketing whims and fancies
dispersed disconnected
far fetched imagination and images
awkward and sentimental phrases
illogical epithets
unreasonable tour of thoughts
the reader refuses to go down
or rises up to the level
of a tripped or insane
caught unwanted
he finds no association
treats them as a cheating on his emotions
full of verbal diatribe
and mental dribble
he drops the book in disgust
and let it go to be the food of termites
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Mother
A mother of all mothers is called a mother,
Provides whatever is needed whenever,
Whatever she gives, gives for better,
She never changes whatever is the matter,
Under any circumstances she is the protector,
She lives and dies with her child all together,
She is totally different, incomparable with other.
She never knows how to take, she is only the giver,
She never knows how to harm she is only the benefactor,
She is purer than pure, holier than holy, nothing is more than her,
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Fire - The Love
I know how the fire is
I burnt myself in the love
So I know what love is
I know how the rub is
As I rubbed heart against heart
So I know what the spark is
I know what thirst is
I had been sucked in lust
So I know what lust is
I know how painful it is
When blood from heart spilled
So I know what bloodlessness is
I know what waste is
I had been ruined in the greed
So I know what the greed is
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poem by Abdul Wahab
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Love 1939
Love 1939
Written on every tree
In bold the name of me
She accepts
My proposal and she writes
I love you too
As usual we teens do
In nineteen thirty nine
I leave her safe under the tree, pine
My cycle
Buckle tight to the bark
And I promise to the soil to return back quick
The cycle is eaten up half
As the missing time of mine considerably enough
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poem by Abdul Wahab
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