Tag: poem writing

The pale waters
of the board
were colored by
the spectral starry paints.

Canvas
turned from
a haunted hill house
to a wanted sunset sea
or a tea.

From morn
to eventide
winds dried
the wet wishes
of the paint.

The trees in the scene
though
were dull and bleeding
with boredom.

and the shrub
with no relevance
akin to a deleted tweet
but again has this
hunger of a rumor
ready to spread its rage.

The Couple and the cottage
have no relevance as such
except to break the bareness.

however
Mr. Gilbert
the old man in the park
do have a role in this
with his cracked hat.

To show the
sentiment
of family man
and the smoker art
and televise the personality
of whosoever watches it.

---

Gladder and Gladder
I rested the cosmic ass.
Oftener and Oftener
the ants crawled up the wall.
Deeper and Deeper
were the musings.
Quicker and Quicker
the may light went down.
Hazier and Hazier
the LED’s shot up.
Sooner and Sooner
the comets of doubts showed up.
Poorer and Poorer
were the pages.
Calmer and Calmer
were the plants.
Humour and Humor
was the life.
Duller and Duller
was the fate.
Cleverer and Cleverer
were the manoeuvres.
Bluer and Bluer
were the eyes
of that seducer kitty.
Blacker and Blacker
were the wild vices.

---

Who are you?
a puny crack and
an in-between
in the thoughts
that pass by.

I came
as a naked bum
as an illusion
trying to find illumination.

Someone a second ago.
Some a second after.
From the land of everything
to the sea of nothing
is the short run of my breath.
A smoke that
never left the home.

(^^^^)

---

Humans yearn
for freedom
and thunderous thrills
in pissing off the
pack of people.

Hungry to fill
“essence” in the
existence.

Yet
the rebel
after tucking in the glasses
lulls the blood
when
the weight of
liability
blame
and the likes of it
reveal themselves.

From the nebula of
liberty and free rein
comes
the creeps
angst and
unresting nerves.

Man
being
who he is
doesn’t yet have the
bare bravery
for the roar.

(Muse – Jean-Paul Sartre)

---

Tossing the pebble of pain
aside
I drown in the gathering wave
like a floating womb.

The neural workers went on a strike
as soon as
I ate nautical emptiness
with the fellow reefs
and the kelp forests.

The heights of eros were
as raw as the Bull shark
as down as the trenches
as up as the ridges.

Fat seagulls chasing
the Juve fish
with a banality of evil
and the blue whales
whistling the winds
with their blowholes
while cleaning up
the food chains.

And the national geographic
diver is cruising through
the salty waters
with a dry lens.

— Drunken Monk

---

Failures stabbed the forwards
Fears hummed the failures
Doubts rhymed the fifty-fifty
Pestilence buried the persistence.
Yet
The smile
The shine
The mile
went on.
That’s how
you climb
your way.

(Observations)

---

Grief struck like a classy arrow hitting the bullseye,
it warranted a visit to the Arab girl,
yes, I was hoping to hack the hap.
it was a sultry Sunday,
Apollo, in his casual cruelties,
embracing the ecstasy of the earth.
anyway,
oh — it’s you again,
said the seer,
in her stained eyes.
did the stars shine right?
was the question,
only to show the pain brightly,
was the response.
_____________________________________________
Johnny, only pain’s pilgrimage is pure,
try, not treading it with tears.
said the seer.
In a husky voice,
I spoke —
I crossed the sun, the moon,
summer, and the winter,
day and the night,
ebb and the flows,
mountains and the valleys,
in rectitude.
regardless,
the clocks did not move,
the stars never aligned to pacify,
the dreams are half-eaten and half-rusted,
the roads not taken, too ended in dead-ends,
the heart was never stretched,
the lungs never loosened,
and the breath still heavy and hectic.
____________________________________________
Look,
said the seer,
all stories die in the end,
even the sad ones,
especially, them, said the old kitten around her.
your clouds are heavy,
yes,
but, soon they shall wet the marshes.
ha,
the roads,
every highway shall meet a crossroad,
you are supposed to enjoy the drive,
not count the miles along the path.
now,
put that god damn smile,
and take a breath.
____________________________________________
well, that sanitized my soul,
I thought —
and took the up-road,
cycling across the un-lit streets,
whistling and eating the emptiness of winds.
____________________________________________

(Playing with the fates)

---

Asleep under a long hat
with weedy wind
and pointed shadows.
I have a fear
of the un-fallen fruit
and of the still snail
beneath the hammock.
My hair and beard
driving with the breeze
without a final direction
going north-south-east-west.
Wait!
The tree is trembling
The Chameleon dissembling
The bees bumbling
The ants assembling
The river meddling
The insects troubling
The child babbling
And I was settling
into the nap
La La La La
La La La La
La La La La
…………

---

The photons went off
and darktons came in.
Like a blind prince of Persia
I searched for the old fuel
in the sands of the neoteric world.

From the wax light
came so many
shadowy creatures
and a lot of umbrae, penumbra.

In a trice, I was remembering
the 18th-century four-horsemen — 
Pestilence, war, famine and death
and other such sins of that world.

How the other gender
was a dark matter —
so out of touch with light.

How poor were the poets
as they could not employ
their quills on the bed.
Everyone goes to
night mode
when the sun kicks the bucket.

When the light came in
I realised what
light means — 
A whole new world,
A restored world,
and a more humane world.

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