Laid back or laziness

                                          A laid-back life is like a breeze that moves the willow tree, It keeps you calm and gives you room to breathe and just be free. But laziness is like a fog that keeps you in your bed, It takes away the open road and leaves a cloud instead. The peaceful mind enjoys the sun and watches clouds roll past, It knows just when to take a break and when to move at last. The lazy heart forgets to plant the seeds that make us grow, And misses out on all the joy that busy people know. One is a choice to slow things down and let your spirit rest, To look around at what you have and feel that you are blest. The other is a heavy heavy weight that holds your feet in place, And keeps you from the happy path and finishes the race. So rest your bones beneath the shade when all your work is through, But do not let the sleepy dust take over all...
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The Siege

 



The air hangs thick with dust and famine’s ache,

A whispered prayer for morning never break.

The walls that held our history, our pride,

Now hold the starving and the ones who’ve died.

The water turns to bitter, brackish silt,

And every child becomes a name on guilt.

The bells that called to worship, now they toll

A constant knell for each departed soul.


The silence is a weapon, sharp and slow,

Between the sounds of mortar, wind, and woe.

A mother holds a boy with hollow eyes,

Beneath the roof where shattered plaster lies.

He asks for bread, and her own stomach cries,

She’ll weave a story filled with hopeful lies.

The last dog disappears from alleys dark,

No hunger now for just its final bark.


every face, the same despair is etched,

A map of pain the long siege has not fetched.

The lines at wells are filled with muted dread,

As buckets rise with grief in place of thread.

No laughter sounds from children at play,

Just whispered questions for a brighter day.

The sick and old, like brittle branches snap,

And fill the quiet with a gaping gap.


The market stalls are emptied, dust motes dance

Where vibrant colors gave the world a chance.

Now shadows stretch and lengthen with days,

Reflecting back the enemy’s cold gaze.

The watchmen on the parapets stand grim,

Their city’s spirit fading to a whim.

They see the enemy, a patient host,

And know what hope and history have lost.


At night, the city is a single breath,

A gasp of living in the arms of death.

The moon, a coin of cold and silver hue,

Reflects the broken things that once were new.

And every dream is filled with open doors,

And fields of green along forgotten shores.

But dawn arrives with smoke and bitter cold,

Another day for stories left untold.


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