River dreams

step into my dream
it meanders like a never-ending river


the river of my youth is a rock
it anchors me to my childhood


there is a place
where the clouds are mirrored
in flowing water

crocodiles lurk
but do not attack

floating islands invite play

riverbanks merely 
a gateway to secrets below the water

there is a place
where bamboo reeds are growing
reaching to the sky

Copyright © 2015 ninotaziz



train rides south
mum missing dad
oblivious, we only enjoy
our moving playground
measured independence
childhood moments

murder on the orient express
mysteries of grey blue eyes
courtesy of Agatha Christie
hours of escape

childhood read
for dversepoets
Bill's post takes me to the time at least 40 years ago. Dad was a manager at a timber company. We had to venture hinterland to see him.
The train ride was at least 12 hours. North. South.
At least I thought so.

the philosophy of abstaining

fast, to appreciate hunger
compassion for your fellow mankind
food plays with the senses


abstain from your deepest desires
and your existence will
be pure pleasure


take a vow of silence
you will find words
too precious


disappear from the online world
for awhile, you will see clearly
the best of the best



today I celebrate Eid, after a month of fasting. And our dear Brian, is back within our fold after many months of staying away. hence, the above poem.


lover of the night
folding poems 
in a blanket of stars

daughters of the sun
drinking legends
for breakfast and tea

mother earth
milking passion
dreams on the milky way

passion legends poems
daughters mother lover 


words by ninotaziz
Copyright @ 2015 ninotaziz

In this heat, a balm for chaos

daughters put on wings,
garden turns to paradise
birds take flight -

Copyright 2015 © Zalina Abdul Aziz aka ninotaziz

My Monsoon…excerpt from NAGA

The north-eastern winds were becoming stronger and stronger until it developed into a full gale.  They arrived like a roaring tiger in the middle of the night. At times, the sound of it was deafening, you forgot time and place, it felt as if the storm that brought hail and fury would never end.    

I had forgotten the waves
crashing, hitting, arriving
against the wide beach

sandy white

at the edge of our little world
how tiny we are, this space
compared to the vastness

they travess

powerful winds
like a tiger, roar ferociously
the forces of the universe

supreme creation

to be so close
to the edge of time and matter
where it does not matter

Every sunrise. Awakened.


When the weather permitted it, I would see how the men looked out to sea, lounging with their backs against the wall on the verandah, smoking a roll of tobacco filled nipah leaf - longing to be back in their boats riding the waves. They did not speak, sometimes for hours.

But their gaze spoke volumes. They were content, for it was a time for rest.

The sea was like a drug that called out to the very soul. It whispered of adventure and played images of the vast open.  But beware! The sea severely punished those who forgot her or her mighty powers.  Even the lofty coconut trees shook this way and that in the wind, but they were hardy and did not give way to the master of the moment. 


I marveled at this life of bliss.

Life on land was unhurried, languid - full of grace. Life at sea was wrought with danger - a race against the tides, the winds, against time itself. 

When the monsoon rains and storms finally ceased, Pak Nakhoda readied his ship.  Soon, we were southbound.


For dversepoets

This is an excerpt from my novel, NAGA - A Legend of Tasik Chini. I should not say more, but at least I am happy I have the chance to share a little bit about our monsoon. It is strange and magical, devastating and powerful.

The picture was taken in Terengganu, where this portion of the story is set, and the poem was inspired by the actual waves I heard on this beach the night we arrived.

The narrator however, is at a dangerous crossroad. To sin, or not to sin.

There was a Woman

    There was a woman who wrote all night
    We wonder why she wrote all night
    Perhaps she wanted to do what she felt was right...

    There was a woman who wrote all night
    We wonder why she wrote all night
    She wrote all night to capture thoughts
    We wonder why she captured thoughts
    Perhaps to remind those who forgot
    Perhaps to stop the rot...

    There was a woman who wrote all night
    We wonder why she wrote all night
    She wrote all night to capture thoughts
    She captured thoughts to shape her actions
    Perhaps she wanted to share the notion
    Of all that was good and beautiful and ancient

    There was a woman who wrote all night
    We wonder why she wrote all night
    She wrote all night to capture thoughts
    She captured thoughts to shape her actions
    She wanted to share the notion
    Of all that was good and beautiful and ancient
    Perhaps she truly believed
    In the wisdom of the old manuscripts
    Lie buried under fathomless seas
    Unless we seek to unravel mysteries
    Legends long past hold the key
    To our coded history

    It was never mere fiction
    Fuelled by imagination

    Copyright 2015 ©  ninotaziz
    All Rights Reserved

    The Hikayat belongs to all of us
    To love. To share. And to cherish.

                                                          Season of Reflection


                                                          a thousand days
                                                          without face or reflection
                                                          sense of self diminished



                                                          We walk the hours that make up our lives. Talk to the minutes - the hand, the dial, the markers of time. Capture the seconds, stored for days, labeled eternity.

                                                          Time, past summer
                                                          is measured in the flight
                                                          of the butterfly, so free

                                                          We take the path that leads us home. Talk to the trees - the leaves, the flowers, the gifts of the seasons. Capture the fruits, ripened and sweet, labeled health.

                                                          seasons, past chapters
                                                          measured by flight of stairs, 
                                                          increasingly painful

                                                          We face the reflection that shows us truth. Talk to the man in the mirror - the eyes, the lies, the carefully painted image. Capture the truth, staring back accusingly, labeled proper.



                                                          to live is to be thrust into the sunlight, crying - 
                                                          and to leave in the glow of moonlight, sleeping.

                                                          Copyright © 2015 ninotaziz


                                                          Dune dreamers

                                                          Painting by Daria Petrilli

                                                          if only you could see
                                                          the world I fear hidden
                                                          we would sail away down 

                                                          the duncan idaho

                                                          march with fish speakers
                                                          who keep peace for 
                                                          love of humanity

                                                          Leto II


                                                          It's World Book Day soon and so, this month I pay tribute to my favorite dreamers and thinkers.

                                                          Carved in repose

                                                          He : 
                                                          I will stay by your side

                                                          She : 
                                                          Until ?

                                                          He : 
                                                          Until the world forgets
                                                          the trees and forest
                                                          the stars forget to shine
                                                          the wind forgets to sigh

                                                          She :
                                                          What kind of world would that be?

                                                          He :

                                                          She :
                                                          Not mine. 
                                                          I need beauty to exist.


                                                          THE MANY ROADS

                                                          Dedicated to my daughter, Inas, who just turned twenty

                                                          the many roads that you choose to take
                                                          will lead you to the unknown
                                                          and what such excitement awaits
                                                          discovering little treasures of your own

                                                          do not stop to talk to strangers
                                                          yet do remember to make new friends
                                                          do not pick the wild red roses
                                                          but linger over delicate white's scent

                                                          dreams pass us by like clouds that drift
                                                          while you build your treehouse on sturdiest boughs
                                                          and in this way, your life will be lived
                                                          hopes and hard work and love... for now

                                                          hopes and hard work and love... for now


                                                          For magpietales

                                                          Ever since Inas was ten, she decided she wanted to become an architect to 'build a treehouse hotel'. She is in second year university doing architecture and I miss her.

                                                          A HAIBUN | WIND

                                                          © 2014 ninotaziz


                                                          to understand the world and the how the wind lifts us up high, 
                                                          simply remove the elements and then -  perceive a moment
                                                          a day, a month, a year

                                                          still endless summer
                                                          no breeze to sooth tired limbs
                                                          out on empty fields


                                                          to grasp the importance of the wind at sea, climbing mountains
                                                          laden with rain to nourish the earth - perceive a time
                                                          a decade, a century, a millennia

                                                          no ships to sail across
                                                          the wide open seas
                                                          no more oceans to conquer


                                                          crystal like droplets 
                                                          remain heavily floating upon
                                                          raging waves

                                                          never to miraculously ride the wind to the highlands,
                                                          or turn to dew upon the grass in the morning sun


                                                          to imagine legends long forgotten, the absent wind
                                                          fails to carry tales around the world - perceive that tradition
                                                          a story told at bedtime

                                                          who would take 
                                                          the princess seeking her love
                                                          to the West of the Moon -


                                                          don quixote would no longer have -
                                                          his imaginary foes


                                                          when the sun climbs the sky
                                                          to play with clouds
                                                          flying horses ride no more

                                                          flying horses ride no more


                                                          to grasp the importance of the wind, snaking through the forest
                                                          no longer rustling in between trees - perceive eternity denied

                                                          birds grounded
                                                          with nest on forest floors
                                                          easy prey to all


                                                          our world without the caressing breeze, is not our world at all -

                                                          Copyright © 2015 ninotaziz


                                                          for dversepoets

                                                          I imagine this is better as four poems. It seems a tad too clumsy being strung together like this. But the idea behind this poem was to show how the wind influenced so many aspects of our lives.
                                                          Our psyche. Our history. Our traditions.


                                                          I have made some changes. I hope it reads better.

                                                          Remember to play kites this weekend, everyone!

                                                          What lies beyond

                                                          morning dew disappears
                                                          the sun wonders
                                                          why should I appear



                                                          Tess Kincaid brings us to York
                                                          a haiku for magpietales


                                                          Fragile is our existence of peace

                                                          broken glass
                                                          a cut in the garden
                                                          words that are crass

                                                          cracked egg
                                                          answers that are vague

                                                          empty milk bottle
                                                          makes you fly off the handle

                                                          slipping on melting snow

                                                          Fragile is our existence

                                                          by ninotaziz

                                                          Copyright © 2015 ninotaziz


                                                          LEGENDS, AND THE TRUTH THEY TELL

                                                          the seas remain constant
                                                          throughout all millenium
                                                          long after we are gone
                                                          people, cities and kingdoms

                                                          but the lores remain
                                                          to be called upon again
                                                          like the sea, they return
                                                          we pray, never in vain

                                                          epics young and old
                                                          lessons of yesterday, retold
                                                          the need to believe
                                                          keeps them within our fold

                                                          legends, the truth we try to tell
                                                          our visions of heaven and hell
                                                          yesteryears' tolling bells
                                                          and that, they will teach us well

                                                           and that, they will teach us well.

                                                          Copyright © 2015 Zalina Abdul Aziz @ ninotaziz
                                                          All Rights Reserved.


                                                          I see

                                                          I sense the velvet like
                                                          fragility of a moth
                                                          when I close my eyes

                                                           I feel the tremors
                                                          of the earth
                                                          when I close my fist

                                                          I hear the eagles 
                                                          flying high
                                                          when I close my ears

                                                           I recognize the rapid
                                                          flutter of dying love
                                                          when I close my heart

                                                          I dream of the senseless
                                                          march to destruction
                                                          when I close my world

                                                          I see the velvet like
                                                          fragility of a moth
                                                          when I close my eyes


                                                          (what do you see?)

                                                          by ninotaziz

                                                          Copyright © 2015 Zalina Abdul Aziz @ ninotaziz
                                                          All Rights Reserved.


                                                          First poem for 2015

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