dead woman returns...

dead woman roams the street searching for life
that life she abandoned unthinkingly

dead woman holds a piece of paper with a map,
of a place that is hidden from all eyes

dead woman pauses, takes a deep breathe
(I want to know how she breathes silence)

"is that dead woman merged into me, unknowingly?"

dead woman and her treasures

dead woman slept on a ground laden with read dust, abrasive to touch

abrasiveness smoothens her roughness, although she was least bothered

dead woman had a handful of belongings, one of which was a silken scarf

where did she pick it up, finely weaved silken shawl?

our dead woman, she lifted the stack of letters from the ancient chest

those letters collected over the years, none opened as yet.

dead woman opened one of those, letting lose those words

flying words had been goaled in the letter, wishing for freedom

dead woman threw some coins after the words, 

those coins which had weighed her down over the years

dead woman's loss was more than any could fathom

how does anyone know what a dead person's life is?

"a coin with no visage, I give to that dead woman, but where is she?"

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Nothing like Dead Man's Poetry to make the poetic muse come alive....

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

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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.

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

on a cold december morning, with a hot cup of tea, dead woman waits patiently

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?

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Also check out dead man and his shoe painting

dead man and his shoe painting

when the dead man wants to dabble in painting, he arranges his brushes

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?"

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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.