Wednesday, 29 December 2010
singing soprano
crumbs of bread on that table
wedge of a mango falling out
of that pickled jar
I evade the chaos
unbuckle my gloves
and sit down to make a list
leaky tap reminds me of Mozart song
that list I make goes like this..
I need a few sopranos
some notes to go with it
maybe that opera singer too
Bach will not do,
Beethoven is not what I wish for
I only need music
loud, noisy, nonsensical
that will clear the chaos you see here
Monday, 27 December 2010
patching up...last line first line
patches in snatches
patches of sunlight
I try to gather
in my palm locking all in my fingers
I also gather beads
thread them with wires of sunlight
enclosing the warmth
those snatches of wind
(fancy those!)
I collect in my hand towel
in the upcoming days of drought
I will take all of these out
and fill my emptiness
"can anyone hold transient nostalgia?"
I look the last line of the poem above, patches in snatches, and made that the first line in the poem below and let it go wherever it wanted to, all by itself.
patching up
can anyone hold transient nostalgia?
Is it not an absurd concept
dancing inside one's head
if forks toppled over
spoons held their head high
bowl of dough mixed so well
but why talk of mundane
in the midst of all this?
dancing thoughts can have a pattern
"let it sit for a while, I will find a way
out of nostalgia, absurd or not"
Saturday, 25 December 2010
solemnity marred by hilarity
I stood there outside, in that cold
but feeling the warm of happy people
I don't know what I was waiting for
but definitely not him
did you see that?
the white-bearded fat man rolled through-
the church doors broke apart from his weight
the solemn occasion was marred by hilarity
when the fat man groaned
I ran towards him
I couldn't believe what I heard?
he wanted a comb to groom his hair
the reindeer laughed while he fumbled
they were busy checking his manifesto
"was his fall in the agenda of that day?"
but feeling the warm of happy people
I don't know what I was waiting for
but definitely not him
did you see that?
the white-bearded fat man rolled through-
the church doors broke apart from his weight
the solemn occasion was marred by hilarity
when the fat man groaned
I ran towards him
I couldn't believe what I heard?
he wanted a comb to groom his hair
the reindeer laughed while he fumbled
they were busy checking his manifesto
"was his fall in the agenda of that day?"
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
dead woman and her wants
dead woman wants a clock, one that records her space in a time of her choosing
a space that can't be defined by demarcations, but by her aura
dead woman can't emit an aura, and that makes her sad and she sits down to cry
her tears can't be seen, or felt by her but they flow heedlessly
a mirror, dead woman wishes to see herself in that, all her glory revealed to herself
if only glory could be changed into an object, she would be glad to do that
silence of the dead woman is so deadening, that it scares her too
she strings in the silence, wears it on her neck, wishing someone to buy it from her
dead that she is, yet she wishes to educate us about her ghostly appearance
shadow of herself is so interesting, we can see myriads of colours reflected on sky
swift movements of the ropes topples over her, she is so dead, yet she lives
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am hooked to the dead man's poetry. I find that it gives me the freedom to pursue my thoughts in ways, I can't explain or understand. But I like the outcome. I feel so liberated after writing these pieces. And for the last two days, I was thinking maybe my muse is going to die. Dead man's poetry WILL get me out of it.
a space that can't be defined by demarcations, but by her aura
dead woman can't emit an aura, and that makes her sad and she sits down to cry
her tears can't be seen, or felt by her but they flow heedlessly
a mirror, dead woman wishes to see herself in that, all her glory revealed to herself
if only glory could be changed into an object, she would be glad to do that
silence of the dead woman is so deadening, that it scares her too
she strings in the silence, wears it on her neck, wishing someone to buy it from her
dead that she is, yet she wishes to educate us about her ghostly appearance
shadow of herself is so interesting, we can see myriads of colours reflected on sky
swift movements of the ropes topples over her, she is so dead, yet she lives
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am hooked to the dead man's poetry. I find that it gives me the freedom to pursue my thoughts in ways, I can't explain or understand. But I like the outcome. I feel so liberated after writing these pieces. And for the last two days, I was thinking maybe my muse is going to die. Dead man's poetry WILL get me out of it.
Sunday, 19 December 2010
plastering
writing dead man's poetry
I think of the alive too
when spirits dance-
ghosts bridge it
I see those shadows
so Santa, help me plaster myself
on a wall forever
I think of the alive too
when spirits dance-
ghosts bridge it
I see those shadows
so Santa, help me plaster myself
on a wall forever
Saturday, 18 December 2010
dead woman and her stillness on a cold december morning
dead woman waits for a word, a word that comes from him
it can be any anything but it will make her alive
being dead is so liberating, she can go anywhere
but she stops short of going to him, waiting for a sign, a signal
stillness of her dead circumstances shows her new heights
certain heights she can climb by herself, but for some she needs him
in the corner of death, she turns around, walks in circles
circles don't really take her back to the same place, she finds the tangents too
she jingles her bangles, loves the sound, but prefers him tangling with her
dead, she can't see her feet, she can see his, and thinks of those as her own
"if only she could embrace what he possesses, and knows he is aware of that"
dead man and his bottle of wine
dead man gets out a bottle of wine, one he had given up when he was alive
when he was alive he was more dead, shunning wine and fine dine
dead man takes a swig, grimaces and spits it out at his own feet
his feet feel so heavy, he had walked miles and miles before his final sleep
dead man is thinking, what is he thinking? OMG, elves are sooo 2009!
that was the year he died, elves carried his body, buried him in a hole
dead man throws away the empty bottle, picks another to drink all night
he doesn't wish to remember how his mind triumphed over his desires,
dead man plans to drink as long as he wants, no one can stop him
death was a welcome diversion, and where have the elves gone?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Also check out dead man and his shoe painting
when he was alive he was more dead, shunning wine and fine dine
dead man takes a swig, grimaces and spits it out at his own feet
his feet feel so heavy, he had walked miles and miles before his final sleep
dead man is thinking, what is he thinking? OMG, elves are sooo 2009!
that was the year he died, elves carried his body, buried him in a hole
dead man throws away the empty bottle, picks another to drink all night
he doesn't wish to remember how his mind triumphed over his desires,
dead man plans to drink as long as he wants, no one can stop him
death was a welcome diversion, and where have the elves gone?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Also check out dead man and his shoe painting
Wednesday, 15 December 2010
a picture
dead man and his shoe painting
when the dead man wants to dabble in painting, he arranges his brushes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thanks to Big Tent Poetry, I got to know about Marvin Bell and his Dead Man Poetry. For more Dead Man poems by Marvin Bell, do check out the Poetry.org site.
he brushes away the dirt from those shoes, applies a base coat, leaves them to dry
the dead man takes out a charcoal, that piece he pilfered from a pyre,
he sketches on the shoes, a design so chaotic, but orderly for him
on a palette, the dead man mixes paints, and first fills the cracks
(but why paint on a shoe, he utters loudly, he has misgivings too)
the dead man knows, shoes denote freedom, that journey which goes on and on
one shoe can fall apart, other one might last longer, as did his twin
thinking of his zygoted part, dead man becomes sad and melancholic
but his brush never stops, it goes over corners, makes lines, curves and dots
the dead man's lean brush tells a story on the uppers of shoes
he makes it as easy for us, as complicated as it was for him
"our dead man knows his story needs to be told but where has he gone?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thanks to Big Tent Poetry, I got to know about Marvin Bell and his Dead Man Poetry. For more Dead Man poems by Marvin Bell, do check out the Poetry.org site.
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
places
place I used to be
when I was on the threshold of youth
that oak tree
where a three legged dog slept at night
on the edge of the lake
holding hands with a boy
I kissed in the dark nights
the dog is gone
boy is gone
I go there to find palpable emptiness
see you standing in the shadows
your arms reaching out for me
"you bring newness to this place of forgotten era"
Saturday, 11 December 2010
melted
broken breath, I left it
shivering on the stairs
icicles as its innards
burnt by frost
now see fire
engulfing dirt
my aorta can take it
while I bleed happiness
shivering on the stairs
icicles as its innards
burnt by frost
now see fire
engulfing dirt
my aorta can take it
while I bleed happiness
winning me over with pointy-toed shoes
to staid for too long
I needed a makeover
I painted my nails green
designed them with dots and lines
when I showed those to you
you smirked
and handed me something
I unwrapped it
an involuntary gasp of shock
escaped my lips
when I opened the shoe box
and saw the pointy-toed shoes
I turned around
and hit you hard with those heels
"If you had got me boots, you wouldn't have been booted"
I needed a makeover
I painted my nails green
designed them with dots and lines
when I showed those to you
you smirked
and handed me something
I unwrapped it
an involuntary gasp of shock
escaped my lips
when I opened the shoe box
and saw the pointy-toed shoes
I turned around
and hit you hard with those heels
"If you had got me boots, you wouldn't have been booted"
Thursday, 9 December 2010
who hid that story for us to find
gaps bolted to metal-
I search for nuts
dropping the key,
while you align walls.
I move that metallic eyesore,
paring dirt-
we find a hidden era,
in an unbelievable quiet.
when I lock it up again
we turn around
to see something,
maybe for the last time
"I savour that thread which ties us"
I search for nuts
dropping the key,
while you align walls.
I move that metallic eyesore,
paring dirt-
we find a hidden era,
in an unbelievable quiet.
when I lock it up again
we turn around
to see something,
maybe for the last time
"I savour that thread which ties us"
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
point
from the tangents,
I take apart the circle
that point stands out as a judge
scared, the arrows scatter away
I bring back the ray,
plant it near the point
bereft, circle stands alone
(point was its safety valve)
I give it a triangle,
yet it refuses to look at me
I feel the windless icy chill
while circle collapses
ignoring me,
the point runs towards it,
when it embraces the circle,
it comes alive,
ray, tangent and triangle
dance to their beats in nightfall
"out of their periphery, I draw the curtains"
Tuesday, 7 December 2010
destined wanderings
going from one place to the other
each day, every passing day
he longs for the complacent days
to feel the morning entering his bones
turning into lazy afternoons
and cozy evenings
to meet his friends
to walk the sidewalks
to ponder over the lake
when the chug of the train
bring hims to his destination
he walks the asphalt
and sees her at the window
a book in her hand
but a pause in her demeanour
when their eyes meet
she disappears from his vision-
at the door she ruffles his hair
"when he encloses into her, he finds in her, his lucidity"
Sunday, 5 December 2010
fairy tale
golden wings
it stood there near that stream
creature so beautiful
I circled from it
it was gone
I felt an itch on my shoulder blades
had I turned to a fairy?
it stood there near that stream
creature so beautiful
I circled from it
it was gone
I felt an itch on my shoulder blades
had I turned to a fairy?
Saturday, 4 December 2010
plateau
in the bin of tangled up holiday,
lights switch off all by themselves.
my fingers cut into my palm
but I search for my platinum ring.
in the darkness
when a soft breath moves against me;
I push it to the plateau
of shaking rattle of my body.
I fill the leaks,
while you free me with your tenseness.
"when my solitaire falls to ground, my plateau becomes a mountain"
lights switch off all by themselves.
my fingers cut into my palm
but I search for my platinum ring.
in the darkness
when a soft breath moves against me;
I push it to the plateau
of shaking rattle of my body.
I fill the leaks,
while you free me with your tenseness.
"when my solitaire falls to ground, my plateau becomes a mountain"
Friday, 3 December 2010
astral music
I nudge corners
into the centre
they resist
I persist
my hammer hits again
a column resonates
I hear astral music
in a sandbox
door frames shake
as I chisel away the concrete
I want mud walls
on which I can do finger painting
"enough space you saved for me, give it to me now"
into the centre
they resist
I persist
my hammer hits again
a column resonates
I hear astral music
in a sandbox
door frames shake
as I chisel away the concrete
I want mud walls
on which I can do finger painting
"enough space you saved for me, give it to me now"
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
snowed out
I counted the rows of buttons
on my overcoat
some ungodly reason
I found three missing
I shivered outside the door
window reflecting the dour outside
my breath misted my eyes
it was an effort to see the walls
I felt the demise of my memories
you know all the details
someday you will help me
in the revival of those
now I wouldn't change my life.
"how absurd, that I can think like this standing in the snow"
on my overcoat
some ungodly reason
I found three missing
I shivered outside the door
window reflecting the dour outside
my breath misted my eyes
it was an effort to see the walls
I felt the demise of my memories
you know all the details
someday you will help me
in the revival of those
now I wouldn't change my life.
"how absurd, that I can think like this standing in the snow"
Tuesday, 30 November 2010
retrieval
how does one retrieve you
from wherever you have gone
shall I serenade ballads
or sing sopranos
maybe you like opera
none of those are my talents
poetry is what is latent
I can't write similes
but seasonings of metaphors
can garnish it well
a few words from you
I can weave into my tapestry
thinking of it as embroidery-
(if you wish I can put numbers)
so help me retrieve you
Sunday, 28 November 2010
Wednesday, 24 November 2010
marked
I advanced into the graveyard
hang out behind granite markers,
wondered how something marks ones life,
I did not pander to my instincts
words invoked action-
I shuffled those around
things you wish you hadn't done.
so much time passed
before you knew the difference,
I looked back for flames
that I never believed in.
hang out behind granite markers,
wondered how something marks ones life,
I did not pander to my instincts
words invoked action-
I shuffled those around
things you wish you hadn't done.
so much time passed
before you knew the difference,
I looked back for flames
that I never believed in.
Monday, 22 November 2010
shifting with the winds
with utmost care
he rubbed the tarnished trophy
and summoned the ghosts.
he never expected to find his own mother
in that mist of shadows-
shifting with the wind
which came out of nowhere.
he reached out,
shaking as he silently cried,
to embrace that ghost,
but he found no flesh nor blood nor bone, '
closing his eyes he swam back in time
and reached home
in his mind, he saw his mother-
thinking how she once she gathered her purse,
looked around, but did not see him.
she sobbed and cried, where are you, my son?
"son and mother, lost from each other,
unaware who is the ghost,
both silently crying into that trophy"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Do visit One Stop Poetry, Magpie Tales and We Write Poems
Saturday, 20 November 2010
glittering gloom
on a gloomy and windy day
I need an apprentice
(for what you may ask)
someone has to
paint stars in to the gloom,
fill it with glitters;
rewind the wind
to let it flow above
so as to reach the sky
and make it peerless
"I will towel the ground,
let that stranger watch me,
little knowing he is my apprentice"
I need an apprentice
(for what you may ask)
someone has to
paint stars in to the gloom,
fill it with glitters;
rewind the wind
to let it flow above
so as to reach the sky
and make it peerless
"I will towel the ground,
let that stranger watch me,
little knowing he is my apprentice"
inferno
I was calm
amidst the hissing sound
"pardon me," said Tom T. Urkee,
my nearest neighbor,
"I could only save this journal."
"thanks, that is all I need,"
I said.
amidst the hissing sound
"pardon me," said Tom T. Urkee,
my nearest neighbor,
"I could only save this journal."
"thanks, that is all I need,"
I said.
Thursday, 18 November 2010
claustrophobia
the train enters that tunnel
I expect it to grab me
my ears ring with muffled sound
in dimmed light
shadows become apparitions when
the train enters that tunnel
coldness seeps into me
inaudible movement scares me
I expect it to grab me
daylight becomes night
each sound resonates
my ears ring with muffled sound
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Cascade Poem is like this:
1st Stanza: line 1, line 2, line 3
2nd Stanza: line a, line b, repeat line 1
3rd Stanza: line c, line d, repeat line 2
4th Stanza: line e, line f, repeat line 3
I expect it to grab me
my ears ring with muffled sound
in dimmed light
shadows become apparitions when
the train enters that tunnel
coldness seeps into me
inaudible movement scares me
I expect it to grab me
daylight becomes night
each sound resonates
my ears ring with muffled sound
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Cascade Poem is like this:
1st Stanza: line 1, line 2, line 3
2nd Stanza: line a, line b, repeat line 1
3rd Stanza: line c, line d, repeat line 2
4th Stanza: line e, line f, repeat line 3
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
intriguing walls
at midnight, I hear
a latch fall open
in an attic closet, and then
a profound silence
a latch fall open
in an attic closet, and then
a profound silence
dark stucco of low clouds
clutch the sky
clutch the sky
a branch falls into the street.
a snail travels up a tree-
a long happy journey.
a little water drips with delight
a long happy journey.
a little water drips with delight
from a tap in the park nearby
I look at the changing walls
stories hidden there intrigue me
"reflections of such proportions
are more important than sleep"
Tuesday, 16 November 2010
foregone and forgotten
night hour makes a mockery
of forgotten wisdom
resident death within life
is an ancient inevitability
(we forget that in the quest of immortality)
I pour divine wine
into a receptacle of floating waves
know this....
In my younger and more vulnerable years
I also gave my blood
which mingled with the earth
"violet of violence somehow fills the void"
of forgotten wisdom
resident death within life
is an ancient inevitability
(we forget that in the quest of immortality)
I pour divine wine
into a receptacle of floating waves
know this....
In my younger and more vulnerable years
I also gave my blood
which mingled with the earth
"violet of violence somehow fills the void"
Saturday, 13 November 2010
echoing parenthesis
parenthesis meets its match
in apostrophe
I listen to echoes.
after a drab October,
the early November sunshine
cast golden rays on comma
another absurdity
in apostrophe
I listen to echoes.
after a drab October,
the early November sunshine
cast golden rays on comma
another absurdity
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
echoed sky
grey pearls;
unevenly hued
un-rounded
hold my ethnic pendant;
the monkey God sleeps serenely
when he awakes
he will fly through the thick clouds
pluck through the echoed air-
get me the scented sky
I will cherish it,
also the blue background
to show the true me to myself
"totally absurd ideas suddenly make sense"
unevenly hued
un-rounded
hold my ethnic pendant;
the monkey God sleeps serenely
when he awakes
he will fly through the thick clouds
pluck through the echoed air-
get me the scented sky
I will cherish it,
also the blue background
to show the true me to myself
"totally absurd ideas suddenly make sense"
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
electronically yours
tiny electrons,
arrayed into words-
jump into my page
I play around with them
the fire reaches out
melting me immediately
a seed, fruition
at its fringe-
is a gesture no more
inside walls of my skull
tackle a patchy tattoo
myriads of treasure
"tiny electrons enthrall me, always"
arrayed into words-
jump into my page
I play around with them
the fire reaches out
melting me immediately
a seed, fruition
at its fringe-
is a gesture no more
inside walls of my skull
tackle a patchy tattoo
myriads of treasure
"tiny electrons enthrall me, always"
certainity of the uncertainity
I see the remains
in the aftermath of the event
she was but all limbs
she was but all limbs
behind the yellow track.
no, stop no passengers
they are travelling
with uncertainty,
different entities,
varied needs
related to each other by motion.
coming back to these remains,
I look again disjointly thinking
that it guarantees to bequeath sight
to someone unknown.
"death, despite its enormity, can also heal someone"
Saturday, 6 November 2010
nothingness
pause gives me
so much pain
I try to engulf it
but it spills,
enters the cores
and the pores
I can deal with anger
numbness scares me
"leaving me with nothing"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Again I needed to write here that not all I pen is a personal reflection. Please do bear that in mind while reading and commenting. Remember, poets/writers have very vivid imaginations and have the insight for empathy too. You will agree with that if you are either or both. However, many a times we forget the distinction and presume and assume.
so much pain
I try to engulf it
but it spills,
enters the cores
and the pores
I can deal with anger
numbness scares me
"leaving me with nothing"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Again I needed to write here that not all I pen is a personal reflection. Please do bear that in mind while reading and commenting. Remember, poets/writers have very vivid imaginations and have the insight for empathy too. You will agree with that if you are either or both. However, many a times we forget the distinction and presume and assume.
embracing weeds
I saw the message in the sky
arrived as soon as I could
weeds embraced her lovingly
ignoring her raucous breathing
her closed eyes were strung together
(I wanted those to open and look at me)
I took a blanket, covered her carefully
although I knew it was a lost cause
it was the 11th Anniversary of 10th day
of I don't recall what (wait while I think)
she obviously had forgotten it too
or I wouldn't have found her in water
I had been anticipating to meet her
those words had already formed in my mind
"do you remember what we promised when we met...?
certainly not your inevitable death "
arrived as soon as I could
weeds embraced her lovingly
ignoring her raucous breathing
her closed eyes were strung together
(I wanted those to open and look at me)
I took a blanket, covered her carefully
although I knew it was a lost cause
it was the 11th Anniversary of 10th day
of I don't recall what (wait while I think)
she obviously had forgotten it too
or I wouldn't have found her in water
I had been anticipating to meet her
those words had already formed in my mind
"do you remember what we promised when we met...?
certainly not your inevitable death "
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
charcoal shadows
just a drawing
charcoal on a piece of paper
a butterfly flits over hills
that spider calls out to me
into its parlour
the lovers that we are
together we make shadows
charcoal on a piece of paper
a butterfly flits over hills
that spider calls out to me
into its parlour
the lovers that we are
together we make shadows
oblivious to the fact
we have been immortalized
in this yellowed paper
"when the rooster enters it,
I almost resent its presence
what does he see that I can't"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"together we made shadows" is the line contributed by Mallery. I changed made to make.
"when the rooster enters it,
I almost resent its presence
what does he see that I can't"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"together we made shadows" is the line contributed by Mallery. I changed made to make.
panorama
intoxicated
I sway into the circle
bending that crooked arc
green lattice eyes
deflect the sun
gravitate towards me
kernels of truth
abruptly try to escape
but I catch them from space
I wield a camera
and my panorama
is psychedelic
I sway into the circle
bending that crooked arc
green lattice eyes
deflect the sun
gravitate towards me
kernels of truth
abruptly try to escape
but I catch them from space
I wield a camera
and my panorama
is psychedelic
Tuesday, 2 November 2010
bits and pieces
if you check through carefully
you will find scattered pieces
all over your house.
they belong to me
a tarnished coin
(you had picked it for me from a roadside)
a roll of scotch tape
(almost finished),
a tiny pair of scissors
(you clipped your nails with that)
half finished bar of soap
(that lavender scent drove you crazy)
a chipped mug with my zodiac sign
(Aries love the Ram!)
torn piece of a tissue with my poetry
(a mushy love poetry, I cringe I wrote that)
"I want those all, along with the chunk of me
that you never realized you had"
you will find scattered pieces
all over your house.
they belong to me
a tarnished coin
(you had picked it for me from a roadside)
a roll of scotch tape
(almost finished),
a tiny pair of scissors
(you clipped your nails with that)
half finished bar of soap
(that lavender scent drove you crazy)
a chipped mug with my zodiac sign
(Aries love the Ram!)
torn piece of a tissue with my poetry
(a mushy love poetry, I cringe I wrote that)
"I want those all, along with the chunk of me
that you never realized you had"
Saturday, 30 October 2010
patches in snatches
patches of sunlight
I try to gather
in my palm locking all in my fingers
I also gather beads
thread them with wires of sunlight
enclosing the warmth
those snatches of wind
(fancy those!)
I collect in my hand towel
in the upcoming days of drought
I will take all of these out
and fill my emptiness
"can anyone hold transient nostalgia?
I try to gather
in my palm locking all in my fingers
I also gather beads
thread them with wires of sunlight
enclosing the warmth
those snatches of wind
(fancy those!)
I collect in my hand towel
in the upcoming days of drought
I will take all of these out
and fill my emptiness
"can anyone hold transient nostalgia?
a legend
his stature carries through centuries
not a legacy of one country,
transcends boundary
yet I find
"Abraham Lincoln was a lot shorter than I thought he would be"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Abraham Lincoln was a lot shorter than I thought he would be..." is from Saturday Centus...
not a legacy of one country,
transcends boundary
yet I find
"Abraham Lincoln was a lot shorter than I thought he would be"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Abraham Lincoln was a lot shorter than I thought he would be..." is from Saturday Centus...
Friday, 29 October 2010
a postcard
in today's world of emailing
I send you a postcard
my e-words are tactile
but I send more concrete
as you are aware
words do get lost in the cyber world
but my postcard you can touch,
savour or even inhale
those crooked words speak
(if you read between the lines),
of my recondite emotions
I send you a postcard
my e-words are tactile
but I send more concrete
as you are aware
words do get lost in the cyber world
but my postcard you can touch,
savour or even inhale
those crooked words speak
(if you read between the lines),
of my recondite emotions
Thursday, 28 October 2010
tablet of time
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
corners
corners I have covered
with statues which stand tall
a flower vase with a fragile flower
looks soulfully at me
I never had noticed its rampant growth
I touch it gently
feels its tremors
the photo frame from the shelf
falls on the floor
the wooden corners are chipped
I pick the pieces from the floor
set back the photo frame on the shelf
tremors are gone now
my gentleness soothes the flower
its rampant growth is stopped
it still touches my soul
the fragile vase will hold it still
statues will watch indulgently
I will still have my corners covered
with statues which stand tall
a flower vase with a fragile flower
looks soulfully at me
I never had noticed its rampant growth
I touch it gently
feels its tremors
the photo frame from the shelf
falls on the floor
the wooden corners are chipped
I pick the pieces from the floor
set back the photo frame on the shelf
tremors are gone now
my gentleness soothes the flower
its rampant growth is stopped
it still touches my soul
the fragile vase will hold it still
statues will watch indulgently
I will still have my corners covered
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