THE SKETCH OF MIDNIGHT

At night there is no moon
In which you adore her forever
As Tarub for Nawangwulan

At night there is no wind
In which you send message forever
As the fragrant incense for your deceased lover

At night there is no owl sound
In which you crave her forever
As  the clue your heart will be stolen again

At night there is no love poem
After the words are just empty talk
From drunkard having at the edge of street

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

IN FRONT OF THE GRAVEYARD

When awakened

We've a nice dream

When fallen asleep

We think that it's real

We're those people

Liking to fly the kite of dream away

Tending to worship more for the full moon

Than for the sun teaching reality

Behind its extreme hot

When became away, we feel

Having stayed in the building of reversed life

Having no doors, in which we look at the sun

: The guest that will tell

"The fight's happened in battlefield!"

When awakened

We're everlasting dreamers

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

THE POEM

The poem is as pretty mummy

Resting gracefully in the crystal coffin, when

People prefer to worship for darkness sculpture

Sparkling in their temple of heart

As lonely preacher staying in the noisy city

The poem is just drunkard's boast

Worshiping for itself in the night cafe

Of the alienated island

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

SUNDAY BROAD DAYLIGHT

Through the opened window

I look at the vacant houses

People have gone since morning

Calling on the sun

Freed from the night's jail

When the evening comes

People will go back to their houses

Felt as the jail of silence

Repressing them in the nightmare

Before the clock awakes as cruel jailer

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

IN MY HOUSE OF POEM

My poem my house

Look for me where I'm

No in the diction, but

In the psyche when you peruse

If you can't look at me in my poem           

open your heart's eye widely

Cause I am the wind

Blowing without leaving of vestige

In my house of poem

You'll find me by the lantern of love

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

POEM FOR THE VISIONARIES

In the locked room

You spend time for smoking

The cigarette' smoke going through

Like visionaries' dream

Hovering no direction

As the room-poets

You prefer worship the silence

Than tumult changing you to be rock

Being tough attacked by wave and storm

In a locked room

You're like silence mummy

Killed by yourself dream

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

ABOUT YOUR HATEFULNESS

Your hatefulness for the clock

Making the needles to move for similar numbers

In the circle having no latest dot

Your hatefulness for the clock' sound

The rhythmic beat which disturbs you before sleeping

Making you to wake when early morning

Your hatefulness for yourself

As one of the clock's needles

Moving forever for the similar numbers

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

ABOUT THE POEM

The poem has been jail for words

Caused that no readers

For attending them

The poem's like hermit in cave

Appeared be graceful

In their silence

For the poem, people have assumed

As the historic inscription of poet's life

Built at an isolated village

-Sri Wintala Achmd-

THE INTERLUDE OF EARLY TWILIGHT

The blowing wind brought leaves down

No tears were made as sign

No poems were created as grief inscription

The wind, the time plundered your leaves of age

Up to, you looked like hairless old man

No tasks but waiting for the long rest night

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

POET'S NIGHTMARE

The cigarette left for butt

But no poems the poet had created

The poet, you whom was burnt by time's fire

Up to your face that appeared at the mirror

As gray as ash on the useless ashtray

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

A LITTLE GIRL AND HER BALLOON

A little girl cries

Her balloon is escaped

From her clenched hand

A little girl cries, caused

The balloon is like her future

Floating in air no direction

A little girl cries

She has suffered a loss

her balloon, herself

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

THE METAPHOR OF STATUE

The old night

As old as my age

No awful poems

I'd created

The morning time

Will come soon

But MS Word's page

Still having no words

If the sun's come

Tell that I'm just a statue

Be nice if you see at a glance

in my death of life

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

CHILDREN STUDIED DRAWING IN THE CITY

All buildings the children had drawn in the city
: Their tombstone of death, after
They were killed by the teachers
In a slaughter school

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

PLAYING OF GUITAR

Being have fallen in love, the man
Plays guitar up to the highest scale
Bringing about one of its broken strings
tore to rags his heart

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

MY SON AND HIS PC

In front of the PC, my son peeped at his God
Beyond the perforated windows
:"He sings love, whilst
Drinks off some bottles of Vodka, Dad!"

My son had been angry, since
the peeped God wasn't as great as the praised
in his grandfather's old Holy Script. Then

He put thousands macros into the PC, so that
the godliness would be killed intelligently

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

THE LITTLE BOY

In the room all hands of o'clock
Hunted the little boy drooping beside steel door
Locked by his father having work for a day

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

IN THE OLD NIGHT

As a best night's friend
The poet buried his dream for all stars
Into the poetry dug as a tomb
Before the sun would kill him again
In the other fighting

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

THE MACHINE MOUSE’S DEATH

Struck against the truck, the machine-mouse
His blood that flew on the street
: As smile as farmers' sweat

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

AFTER MAKING LOVE WITH NIGHT

The waste of coffee in the cup
And the worst dream
Fried by the sun

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

THE LITTLE PIGEON

Pagupon I let to be opened its door widely
As my house of love for the little pigeon
Which shall paint by blue color
On the canvas of sky, my white silence

Before the twilight, she
shall come back to your house, my heart
In which we will give light for dark night
Like a couple of proton and electron related each other

-Sri Wintala Achmad-

Note:
Pagupon: pigeon's house made by wood