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Winds of Comfort by Neetu

December 26, 2019 by in category Poet's Day by Neetu Malik tagged as , , ,
wind whistles
in the distance
where desert sands
meet the sky

undulating waves of sound
break the silence
of remorse—
self-inflicted wounds
soothed by softly falling night

a balm of star-speckled skies
covers them
as lulling music hums and whooshes
almost like an ocean, rhythmic

cooling blistered souls
who wander lost
in the unknown

© Neetu Malik
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The Gardener by Neetu Malik

July 26, 2019 by in category Poet's Day by Neetu Malik tagged as , , , ,
 
The Gardener

You water me 
that I may grow
lush and luxurious
 
you prune me
when my branches stray
too far out or too high
 
you mulch me when
you think I may
wilt or die
 
you nurture me as if
I’m too frail to stand
on my own
 
as if without you
I may fail to thrive
 
in truth, maybe it is you
who needs me,
to survive.
 
© Neetu Malik
 

Listen to Neetu read The Gardener


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The Hereafter by Neetu

May 26, 2019 by in category Poet's Day by Neetu Malik tagged as , , , ,

 

The Hereafter

 

They say there are
two sides of the grave

one where grass grows green
trees bloom and decay, leaves fall
winter winds blow, then
life renews again

and you can walk and breathe
watch the sky and the streets
touch and be touched

the other side, I’m told, is evergreen
peaceful and sedate

is it the dead below the ground
that whisper such tales? Or is it
the living who search for grace

in their lush imagination
of a fertile eternity?

© Neetu

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Perspective by Neetu

November 26, 2018 by in category Poet's Day by Neetu Malik tagged as , ,

Pers[ective | Neetu | A Slice of Orange

Perspective

You say life is not a poem

or a story—

I ask, “What is it then?”

“Real life”, you say.

 Of course, you know best.

You spend your days

averaging

life’s losses, its gains,

calculating

how much time is left,

working out

logistics while you lie in bed.

Real life gives you pain,

brings a scowl to your face—

you add and subtract,

make no mistakes,

and I,

I just watch

the shadows twitch and yawn

on that wall

across the window

through which the moon

winks at me, sly-faced—

“I’ll be fine”, I say.

© Neetu Malik 

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Poems by Sal–and more.

September 13, 2018 by in category From a Cabin in the Woods by Members of Bethlehem Writers Group tagged as , , , , ,

New Life | Sally Paradysz | A Slice of Orange

 

I always feel a little sad each month when the 13th rolls around, and I realize that Sal is no longer with us.

But this time I have good news. First, A Slice of Orange is pleased to publish two of Sal’s poems. Next, members of the Bethlehem Writers Group have volunteered to write columns for the 13th.

Here is the schedule so far:

October: Diane Sismour

November: A. E. Decker 

December: Carol L. Wright

January: Jodi Bogert

February: Christopher D. Ochs

March: DT Krippene

Sal was one of the founding members of Bethlehem Writers Group, and I think she would be over the moon that her fellow members are filling her spot.

Marianne


Poems by Sal

 

ANCIENT RITUALS

Sally Paradysz

Next, I heard some named penance an ancient tradition.  A struggle between senses and sense.

Lash marks bled on bare backs.  Knees on scarred hardwood, calloused and worn, bent until they screamed for relief.

Men seek to give lessons, but silence was the teacher.  Then, we are swept clean and told to go forward in purity.

Penitent, but longing still.

 

 

 

SILENT PAIN, SILENT LOVE

Sally Paradysz

  

In this world where personal

commitment, with all of its

delicate forms, seems

to be shattering apart,

 

And unconditional and

undying love has become

nothing more than a

matter of convenience,

There are some of us still,

who find the intelligence

and passion born of living…

In some who approach their

life without analysis,

which can destroy the Whole,

There is some magic in this life,

you know, where if

you only consistently

look at the pieces,

They will just as surely

blow away in the wind

and demolish the All…

Are we becoming obsolete

within a world of

organization, rules, regulations,

in “Bud” we trust,

to borrow a phrase…

Will this magic disappear

with stick-on name tags and

clothes that make us

all look alike…

It is with this passion and

controlled arrow-like intensity,

mixed with warmth,

That I will approach the time

of day when white months

are on the wing,

And in the heat of that

summer’s evening, will let

myself be taken away,

To transcend and merge in

the Light, where such certainty

comes only once, no matter how

many lifetimes you live…

In this dance with the

universe, my eagerness gives way

to shaman-like silence,

Discarding all sense of

anything linear and spiraling toward

millions of candles,

Where my constant companion

of loneliness disappears for

the last time,

And I become consumed and out

of a world that seems

to be God-abandoned…

Never again will I live with dust

on my heart, or feel

trapped by foggy mornings,

Instead I am forever grateful

for the four billion years

Of love,

Which will help me with my

systems of balance and order

in the lifetime I have left…

I have ceased being separate

and now feel free to continue

the dance of integration…

 

 

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