Poems

One day I was dreaming,
about the night sky, the stars bright and gleaming
and all gathering by,
the comets whizzing past,
the shooting stars that blast
across the night sky

Mums are kind
Mums are helpful
Mums help you in bad times
Mums are the most unique people ever

As leaves fall
Under the trees
To your enjoyment
Everyone can love autumn

Grab your pens and pencils and notepads

and grab your backpack

Get ready for your teachers

to give you a pop quiz

You will hand it back when it’s done

and your teacher will say good job

By the end of the day your job’s done

Each person has a color palette
A variety of talents
But if you don’t know how to use a brush
You can’t paint a beautiful picture

If a person is extremely talented at one thing
They have many different shades
And if they know how to use the colors
A black and white picture
Can be better than a colorful one

The crimson of the rose shimmers in the grassland
The sun drops upon the soft petals
The flower is a splash of color in my hand
A drop of life, in the palms of death
The crimson red of the roses represents love
It is the comforting feel of affection
It is a gift from the gods above
Its petals like tender hands of a mother

The blood on my fingers calls out my crimes
The crimson red yet another reminder
It shows pain at happy times
Though hue mixes well with me
The tainted lies, the sinful words, all like the blood
They hurt, yet they remind me of my heart
But carelessly, as I cut deeper, I cause a flood
A pool of crimson red; it scars my eyes

Death and love
Both shown by a crimson red
Albeit their differences
If you look close enough
They are one and the same

His record’s clean, as pure as his soul
His world revolves around a bright light
All he knows is to cry and laugh
Without a clue of the things in his sight
He knows no difference between black and white
His eyes filter out the grey
He embraces the world with utmost joy
He doesn’t care what anyone says
His being bursts with potential
His history has no rights or wrongs
His vision is innocent of scars and paints
But a pen will hit him, before long

And it’s upon the parent to let him bloom
It’s upon the writer to enhance the beautiful white page
Or to spoil it

Butterflies enjoying the summer day’s freedom
Colours reflecting from them
As they beat their wings rays of coloured light shone from them
Loop the loop and cartwheeling in the air
A display of colours here and there

Summer has started,
Arrows have darted,
Time for the beach,
No one will teach.