Essence of Love

Thee, heavenly eyes,

Astonishingly invites,

the butterflies to flight

and invades the engaging delight

Yet, When my heart strikes 

Sensuously Thee, impression excites

Again, our memories reunite

And echoes the enjoyable night

Thee, the dazzling sensations!

Multiples the frenzy attractions

O’ Silk and soft redemptions

Unlash and splash the attention  

Ah! Transparency reveals 

When thee, heavenly heal

And yes, our generosity ever deals

As thee, enthrallingly appeal

Yes! The Love senses!

Thee, mysterious smile, unveil the mate

The essence of loveliness encapsulates 

And altogether the imprints activate

Ah! Every instant trace my sight

Yet then, I am delicately alight

Cuddle with a pigeon often at night

Oh! make me live a thousand might

Thee, Beautifies the beauty

And slightly mesmerize the duty

Joy and jumble in a fragrance of fumes

Cup and cure the color of resumes

Smiles

Yes! Essence of emotions

Whispers every single night

Like an exciting notion in flight.

 

A Floral Fragrance

You are a Fragrance embedded in my mind

You are a Fragrance of an exceptional kind

Fragrance of beautiful red roses 

Fragrance of cherry blossoms in poses 

Intensifying to the heaven

Fragrance extended and embedded at eleven

That is always fresh, pleasant,

and cherished the fumes of his scent

Yet, a sensation, an affection

And musical memories of discussion

Still imprinted and implanted

Glint and softly granted

You are a Fragrance fused with zenith and Zeit

Wrap with loveliness and yet too quiet

Polishing an underdone art

Bringing a light to the sensitive sight

Pleasure, pain, struggle, and delight

O’ The lesson of all kinds

Just like the embedded fragrance forever in my mind

Invisibly color the uncolored

And fade away the veiling blurred

Sparkling eyes having visions inside

Innocence offers ravishing rides

O’ The fragrance of generosity and humble

Regards, Respect, and dignified dale make it a bubble

A feeling of expressing is now double

Fragrance of all styles

Fragrance that touches the unheard miles

Grooming the dimness into eager lights

O’ the Dazzlingly fragranced like a hearth

Dispersal at the end of your breath.

Tajalla Qureshi, a radiant literary gem from Pakistan, stands as a beacon of creative brilliance. A wordsmith par excellence, she masterfully blends introspection, devotion, and creativity into compelling narratives that transport readers to enchanting dimensions. Her art lies in weaving words into wonders.

 Additionally, a true polymath in the literary world, Tajalla’s portfolio spans poetry, creative columns, essays, and flash fiction. Each piece is a testament to her unyielding passion and finesse, intricately designed to evoke profound emotions, spark vivid imagination, and inspire the human spirit. 

On the flip, celebrated as an international interviewer, columnist, and editor, Tajalla’s voice resonates far and wide, captivating audiences around the globe. Her unique perspective, lyrical style, and profound insights have cemented her place as a leading figure in contemporary literature. Furthermore, her work exemplifies the transformative power of words. With every sentence, she crafts an intricate tapestry of emotions, ideas, and lived experiences, inviting readers to embark on a journey of introspection, growth, and boundless wonder.

Sacred Mountain

I. Dark Prologue
Walking through the hillside,
with a hiking bag slung over my shoulder
and a pair of dusty shoes, I feel the cold
seep into my bones, making me shiver.
The dim night, the howling wind. I drag my heavy feet,
continuing along the mountain’s flank.
My consciousness gradually fades,
blurring the boundary between reality and illusion.

II. Debris Narrative Piece
Perhaps I have returned to a reality
long buried in my memories.
My classmates turned my back into an ant’s paradise.
When their pranks crossed a certain point,
it felt as if an engine roared in my mind.
Powerless and angry, only cold and flame remained.
Mocking laughter was like the stench of rotting corpses.
Vultures might love it, but I detest it. Perhaps,
the vultures are the classmates themselves. Perhaps
they find joy in teasing one another. Perhaps,
the classmates: one, two, three, more.
Vultures: one, two, three, more.
The Sacred Mountain reappears before my eyes.

III. Rebel Sonata
Shadows flicker; the road is rugged;
the heavy snow strikes my face,
stretching endlessly before me.
I dream, I pray, hoping there aren’t
so many vultures attacking.
I dream, I pray to become a black-clad warrior,
to withstand all forms of malice.
I dream, I pray to reach the mountaintop
and find a tranquil realm—a place without
discrimination, war, or divisions.
Bellies, teeth, and fur. The vultures’ bodies
come into focus before me.
Their long claws shoot flames,
swift as lightning, like Wolverine’s in the movie,
longer than the epic of the Mahabharata.
The earth splits, and the shrubwood is destroyed.
Flames stab across my down coat,
almost scorching my hiking bag with violent burns.
The flames, like serpentine trails, dart everywhere,
burning everything. Their wings whirl,
bringing a huge chill wind,
akin to this arctic climate.
Fear is a tangible reality,
yet the shadow of fear within me
is more terrible than fear itself.
The vultures are the enemies;
fear is instant, always present in life.
They attack, they revel, they laugh madly.
I struggle madly to resist.

IV. Freedom Rhapsody
Unsolved math problems sway like classmates’ proud heads,
always presenting puzzles instead of solutions.
Their voices echoed in the classroom,
turning into atonal music,
reminiscent of Igor Stravinsky.
With blades drawn in my imagination,
I cut away my incompetent self.
Whatever the cost, I hope to achieve one thing.
I aspire, I pray, I cannot fall on this treacherous journey.
I aspire, I pray, to keep marching forward.
My flashlight not only illuminates the path ahead,
it also becomes a sword, slaying my weaknesses
on the frigid trail to the Sacred Mountain.

V. Solo Piece
When they prepared their mischief once more,
I rose, statuesque, with a voice like rolling thunder,
and said, “No.” My voice was loud: once, twice, thrice.
It drove away the vultures before they could plunge me
off the cliff. Yes, I can.
“I believe I can say no to the malice in life.
I can become my black-clad warrior,
driving away bothersome vultures
and all manner of monsters.
I try, try,
again, like Sisyphus confronting his boulder.”

Red Blood

Blood rain is dripping

from the battlefield in the Far East now.

Every second. Every ruin.

Every window. Every child.

The blood moon makes someone shiver

with a special prophecy.

Women varnish a bloody red with painted nails.

An American friend has a bloody floor.

He was scratched by a bloody-haired cat,

his arm bleeding red over the screen

of his phone, smeared with blood last week.

The sunset, “暮” in Chinese words,

turns at dusk into a giant, red blood egg.

The yolk spills into the mushroom soup,

becoming a red-blood delicacy

with a juicy, rare, blood-spattered steak.

A medical-themed drink— Blood Energy Potion,

popular in 2014. Back in 1957, A painting—

“Black in Deep Red” an abstract collision from.

Yukio Mishima’s self-martyrdom

was an avant-garde show.

A display of red, an art of blood.

The uncanny cup my teacher,

bought yesterday, seeping blood.

The Bombax ceiba blooms with a vital red.

The sudden snow last year in Portland

dropped red on my blood-covered poetry,

a memory of a deceased friend.

The friend’s name is pronounced like blood.

He was soaked in a bloody past.

A bleeding rose now grows before my eyes.

The red won’t let me forget.

It will flow into him at the grave,

whispering longing to him.

But Life Goes On 

 No one can touch my heart

 It is as cold as the Arctic Frost

 Friendship in the tech age 

 is Higanbana of flowers

 Unreachable – 

 Unattainable –

 My desire is lost 

I stand on the Tower Bridge 

amidst the dense fog

Faded memories drift through

not this foggy day

The vivid past has faded, somehow

And the party on the lawn

the dance during the party

the laughter of peals

echoed from yesterday

That’s yours, theirs and

is a blurred world 

Where everyone is near

As I reach out the misty rain 

like pine needles

it pierces my skin into London’s fogs

I can touch the raindrops

not grasp the joyous past

nor the distant future

within the fleeting mist

I want to ask

Will Men be one?

Will wars be none?

Will all races come together

And exist as one?

As the fog lifts

I am still here

  

Nothingness

Nothingness is silent,
yet contains all sounds,
empty, yet empty of nothing.

Nothingness is water—
water without shape.

Pour it into an indigo cup,
and the water takes the shape of the cup—
that is emptiness,
like someone truly seeing reality.

But nothingness is something
that reaches emptily toward itself.

Yucheng Tao, from China, is studying songwriting at the MI College of Contemporary Music in Los Angeles. His poetry has appeared in multiple literary venues, including three Wingless Dreamer’s Open Theme contest selections. NonBinary Review later reprinted his poem” Blue Horse” alongside an author interview. Synchronized Chaos featured three of his poems, while his work also appeared in Ink Nest, The Arcanist, Moonstone Art Center, Poetry Potion, and Literary Yard, Spillwords.

An Ecstasy

Whether beloved

Buddha or saint

Your breath quickens

Lips part pulse

Races your lids grow

Heavy so heavy

You aren’t bothered by

Your hair a bit disheveled

(I wonder if Saint

Teresa’s toes curled)

We cannot help ourselves

We ache for bliss

Mystical or corporal

Seek out an ecstasy

Seek to lose

Ourselves in the vast

Expanse of another

For a moment euphoria

Unburdening our identity

Setting aside agenda

Ownership power

The shame of suffering

Unleashing devotion in

Willingly relinquishing

Our bodies our souls.

How It Is

Here’s how it is

As I understand it

(Have I got this right?)

We go about our business

Scurrying about the planet

Clumsily clamoring for a spot

Spinning round the sun

Occasionally looking up

All crowded into a precious

Little space worshipping

Pondering upon the stars

And of course God who

Resides beyond those stars:

A lanky decrepit white man

Dementia setting in

At the very least quaintly

Absent-minded though still

Omnipotent and omniscient

Who merely surveils

Suffering from afar

Lazy old voyeur

And once in a great while

Sends someone special

When we get a bit untidy

On the seasonal precipice

Of self-destruction when 

We slaughter one another

Over slight differences 

In interpreting God’s

Incompetence God’s love

Another Silence

For those sages

Lao or Chuang Tzu

(Maybe even Siddhartha)

Silence came naturally

Nirvana turned slowly

Silence now requires

The unattainable –

Far too much patience

To be at all effective

To have any impact

Upon our lives

Our intricate elaborately

Constructed karma

The well-intentioned

Vows of silence

Of monks and nuns

In serene monasteries

Seem quaint but futile

Solutions to the clamor

Of a peevish throng

And I am thinking

Anymore silence

Is rather irresponsible

A reckless wu-wei

An obsequious inaction 

All spins too swiftly

Suffering too pervasive

Comes hard and fast

Though priceless

We’ve run out of time

For mute circumspection

To adequately flourish

David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.

Night Passage

Driving all night

nobody out on the road

listening to my truck radio

old songs singing along

remembering the old days

all my friends passed away

party times and praying for others

when it was okay

to speak your mind

heart loving

wife and kids

smoking my cigar

blowing the smoke out

exhilarated

in the freedom of America.