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Daily Verse

Week 2,July  2023

Image by he zhu

When the Dream gets Better
By Fabrice B.  Poussin, 14th July 2023

Yellow Flower

The night seemed painted in black and white
and a few shades of gray.

As he walked in an eerie silence
the cobblestones echoed with his hesitant gait.

The air was made thick by a floating mist
heavy as the lead of cotton dreams.

An avenue narrowed into a path
through tallest memento to man’s fetes.

The knowledge of what he was to find
now set forevermore.

So long he had nurtured a vision and a wish
it was time to enter the world made for him.

Not to be alone at last a trusting soul
waited behind those imposing gates.

Decades in the making a realm real
built with the gentle illusions of slumber.

Stone Balancing


By Mona Bedi, 13th July 2023

Dove and Balloons
Knit Blanket

another winter —

I take out dad’s muffler 

for a walk

Mountainous Landscape by the Sea

balmy day

somewhere a whiff

of his perfume 


Little Verse
By R.I Karoly,  11th July 2023

Image by Sebastien Gabriel


eyes folded in dreams

opening to the water

falling from the stars

Image by Martin Katler


lilac winds of old

forgotten stories upon

secret garden’s lap

Image by Nadia Jamnik


standing worlds apart

on the shore of cresting waves

dreams the yearning heart

City View

An Ivory Song

By Debarati Sen 12th July 2023

Abstract K

In a city that has metamorphosed over the years

Dreams hung like barnacles

From the frayed edges of misspelt stories.

In the mauve twilight, catamarans carried sapphire

dreams to far-off shores

In the mind's hinterland, a chaos theory loomed large,

Blurring the gap between space and dimension

We are, but biological robots with consciousness.

Constantly fighting a battle between

 the 'self' and 'other'.

Hearts swell like the summer sea glistening

under the scorching sun

In a city that doesn't sleep

The clouds smell of dark rum

The days are hazy like a nebula

The creaks made of hyperspace fury

fill the indigo depths with vermillion poetry

An ivory song blanched in crimson

covers the fag end of a September evening

A primrose on your tongue

tasted of a repertoire of good times

Peacock blue and emerald green shades

shined with abloom aesthetics

As night set in, the moon drowned in my drink

While I shared my champagne

with the Aurora borealis!

Image by Sage Friedman

ByPriti Aisola 10 July 2023



Your public face,  

Which needs a facelift anyway, 

Deserts you completely. 



You just want to sit quietly 

With neither thoughts nor emotions, 

Just your breath for company, 

And your room as an observer. 



The mind is a spiked trap, 

Each breath a hankering cry 

For the liberating air of faith 

In life. 



Baba’s words about the mind, about everything, 

Are just so many syllables randomly juxtaposed 

In an alien language with a curious script. 



These words, ‘Meditate on me, 

Either with form or without form; 

That is pure bliss,’ are only display pieces 

On each day’s mantel shelf. 



Each moment 

Is a rough stone, 

Waiting for love 

To give it chiselled form. 



I am glad that such things that I speak of 

Only happen sometimes. 



Even as you share this poem 

You see through the game 

Of sharing memories, pictures, poems 


And ask yourself this blunt question, 

‘Why do you wish to be known, 

be remembered, at all?’ 


At such times 

You withdraw your public face 

From social spaces, 

Sit quietly, look at Baba’s face. 


And say, ‘This is how I meditate, 

Take it or leave it.’ 


Then the One who says, 

‘Love is my form, Love has no form, 

Love is God, God is love,’ 


Smiles back 

Indulgently … 


Biographies of Poets

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