Storm brewing off Bass Strait at sunset
Why run away from the dark clouds?
Why escape the drizzle that is to arrive?
Why be afraid of the thunder?
When all you need is lightning inside?
Category Archives: Writings
Poem + Food
Hot Coffee with chocolate,
a packet of chips,
screw the diet plan,
ignorance is the bliss,
writing is easy,
with food around,
I think better when,
my stomach is sound,
chocolates and cakes,
truffles and shakes,
I now wonder why,
GRRM has such a good waist,
(George R.R.Martin,Writer, A Song of Ice and Fire)
with so much eating,
and keyboard on fire,
i feel the urge to sleep,
my utmost desire,
stuffed till the neck,
with food and love,
the heart sings a rhythm,
so melodious,
as I pass to my dreamy world,
I see words dancing,
all-seeing me at once,
like cute puppies glancing,
I pick the one, whose rhythm matches my heart,
the writing isn’t over,it’s about to start,
as soon as I wake up, keyboard’s again on fire
with words all over from the dreamy world supplier,
Tears of the Valley.(Kashmir)
A valley somewhere,
cries for the lost soul,
the soul wanders,
in the snow-capped mountains,
over the beautiful lakes,
picks a colourful flower,
amidst the gunshots,
amidst the pain,
be it the freezing wind,
or the incessant rain,
he comes back,
seeing himself lie, bullet-ridden,
with no one to bury,
he keeps the flower,
and ponders,
Heaven was made for everyone,
for those who have love in the heart,
it’s the greed that made me die,
when I could have lived,
at the “Heaven on the Earth.”
Ice cubes
What if we were ice cubes,
floating in a bowl of life,
some drift to the edge ,
some drift to the right,
all waiting to melt,
some untimely day,
life would be felt,
as we disappear,
and become a part of it,
to let others float,
in a colder place,
better for others and
more of life.
The Kid
2014 © Christopher Martin
A Blizzard,
where winds howl,
like a direwolf,
missing his master,
where light is consumed,
even in the layers of white,
no living seen out,
no dead can be seen,
only sheer darkness,
ruling in the cold.
a boy cries strolling,
in the snow,
they say he was lost,
a few years ago,
his cries are not of pain,
but a whimsical laughter,
to bring out the living,
and play in snow,
those who go,
never come back,
but their cries are heard,
like the howlings,
every same day,
the child got lost.
It’s easy
It’s easy to float dead,
in a pool of mistakes,
to float till the bottom,
to be choked by,
filth of one actions,
than to,
to swim to the brim,
wash the mistakes,
with water of repentance,
this mucky pool,
that has drown you so long,
in a suffocating trip to the bottom,
to come out,
is not easy,
but it’s worth it.
Writings to Heaven 