Will my love always be in vain?
Poetry
Two, three tulips bloom and it brings me hope,
But the mellow men around look sad and mope;
The brief breeze is pleasant and devoid of the chill,
A devotee is spurned due to lack of skill;
Burdened love birds fight rather than sing,
The queasy queen seems upset with her king;
I look at her and wonder again,
Will my love always be in vain?
Her healthy hair bright as daffodils,
Like the March sun spread over a green hidden hill;
Her eyebrows like blackberries isles set apart,
The newborn lambs on her lap look for a start;
The aching April skies reminds me of her eyes,
Harmonious honeysuckle scents mingled with sighs;
I look at her and wonder again,
Will my love always be in vain?
Her forehead wide and cheeky cheeks that blush,
A familiar fragrance of violets so plush;
Her noticeable nose so perfect and pert,
I hum soft songs as heart is hurt;
Lips redder than rubies and even the roses,
Like the night Nile turned crimson by Moses;
I look at her and wonder again,
Will my love always be in vain?
Her teeth like pretty pearls worth their weight,
The taste of her kind kiss may have me checkmate;
Next is her neck, so elegant like a swan,
Reminds of the mazing matins sung before dawn;
Her throat like a throne with diamonds that shine,
A miracle to behold like wasted water turned to wine;
I look at her and wonder again,
Will my love always be in vain?
Her shoulders stand firm, slender and thin,
The sinking sin we inherit, I can feel from within;
Slender arms swish and swing as she waltz,
Like silky smooth lilies littered outside its box;
Perfectly figured fingers throw water in splashes,
My heart not the foetal phoenix that rises from its ashes;
I look at her and wonder again,
Will my love always be in vain?
Her breasts like apples from the garden of gospels with a view,
The earnest earth looks parched without any dew;
Her slender waist and feminine ways,
The green grass feels like hay after seven days;
The length of lean legs invites me to follow,
Her lavender breath makes my heavy heart hollow;
I look at her and wonder again,
Will my love always be in vain?
Her pygmy, pixie-like feet look so complete,
If only I were the heir to a king’s kingdom seat;
As Paris loved helpless Helen without being clever;
Cupid’s arrow cut deep and I’m in this forever;
Aphrodite accuses her of being the perfect prize,
Nothing but locks of her love will prevent my demise;
I look at her and wonder again,
Will my love always be in vain?
About the Creator
Binayak Khatri
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Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins7 days ago in Fiction
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