I wish flowers would sprout from our bones,
not ashes or dust, forgotten in the cold ground.
Our essence then coated with a thousand colors,
not with the tears of those who remain behind.
May our enlightened spirit then fly free,
as ravens within the light of the full moon.
In the hopes you
might be kind I became
the flower
that you blasted away
In the hopes you
smithy redeem, I nestled
my body to the earth
and you became a train
I became a morsel
you chewed
I became a thread
you ripped
I gave up, stepped back
said no, moved out of the way, and you did not
know or see I could do so
Until you found yourself
speaking to the air.
In the blue yonder
there is under
the sky, earth and cover
misty dark-eyed lover
I cower
at love this tower
and over the wind blows
the wind blows
dark secrets
is the lover
doe-eyed
once espied
lover shatters
what else matters
under dark deep seas
is the lover
naked as a body
knows nobody
Seeing, as standing on my cherished place.
Thinking, as the time passed, everything changed.
Once, there was chirping of birds.
Once, there, butterflies fluttered.
As the breeze touched my skin, tranquillised my soul.
That feeling was best of all.
As the green leaves of a tree,
danced in that breeze.
There was, Carpet of green grass
With shining of morning dew, like shining of the stars.
Gazing constantly, the open blue sky,
was the best part of my life.
Only residing in my memory now, mesmerizing view of this dreamland.
But in reality, all lost into the forgotten sands.
No birds chirping anymore.
No butterflies fluttering anymore.
That breeze, can’t tranquillise me anymore.
Mesmerizing beauty, i can’t see anymore.
Now, standing in that place alone.
Everything is barren now, i see, everything has gone.
More at https://poetriesonreality.home.blog/.
Hate is a geography
A floating continent really.
It spends most of its time
In the Far East (the Orient)
And moves west with the sun
To nourish its flowers and vines.
Its beasts will forever feed on your indignities
Catholic and otherwise.
Like every continent
Its got its rat eat rat cities.
These cities
The legal apparatuses
are always unhinged
And points towards
The punishment of the sleepless.
Punishment
That is
After all
the Catholic way
The endless sport
With no true winners
In the mind of the guilty.
Only you have declared
The residents of this town
As sexless
Unwashed
And uncultured.
A city of peasants
Who spend their time in church
Or behind a typewriter,
Computer and spewing
All vile and forgotten things
From the outdated theater of
Black and white ideas.
All with the grace of apes.
A city of apes
Whose lone desire
Is to break the backs of their youth
And be forgiven in a Sunday confessional.
Their backs were to be broken forward so
they can always bend at the foot of the cross
Of the holy
And rotting corpse.
As one great writer put it
“Does Christ ever get tired of bleeding?”
Though you have declared the rock n’ roll soul can heal anything
A dubious claim if you ask me,
As long as you can escape this city
And find a natural home
In another town where depravity
And sex flourishes.
But sooner or later
This continent will sink below the waterline
Until the next great
Betrayal.
Highly venomous serpents
Here, there and everywhere in the society
in broods and broods of huge numbers
Living in the darkened hidings of the underworld
The most innocent appearance
and perfect nature,
they bring to reflection
blinding us to the sight of the truth
The coil made of their abnormally phosphorous body
measuring a great length
In the midst, there is the shimmering face
gleaming with luminous, beady eyes,
half closed in trance of meditation,
the meditation of stalking
An intensely poisonous snare their coil is
The prey gets drilled by their fangs
Yet noticeable to none of us
is the torturing trap in that coil of harmless beauty
At the face of anger with a shrill sizzle
they would make a noose of themselves
around your neck and wring it
until vomit comes out of your mouth,
until your eyes lunge into the last sleep
These phantom serpents
with their hungry, thirsty stomach
which never gets satisfied
though huge quantities of food
slip into their cord like body
Still flickering their forked tongue
wanting more and more
Deft tricksters for hoodwinking
Totally apt to the instant
as if in a fancy dress parade
Year by year sloughing their skin
discarding the old one
So the identification getting crumpled
Their incurable sting, if hurts you
befalls the dreadful birth of another serpent
Or, otherwise, death will catch you
May be the serpent is the closest of yours
You will never perceive the one
till the havoc tumbles on you,
having been stung by the very serpent
So, beware of serpents!
Comrades and skeptics:
two months (February)
a lifetime ago of weather
preceded a tease of muddy melt
as wagging tails and charming chirps
renew our annual trust
that crocuses will bravely rise
daring her to stay Winter
while mud puppies muzzle deep
shovels sleep and ice melt hardens
breathers sneeze, rakes awake
New England spring
rewards our trust
golden forsythia asking
why we doubted
the sound of snow plows
faintly echoed by red wings come home
cold winds, now welcomed breeze
our call to cultivate
aerate, sow and sing aloud
are lilacs far behind?
When she arrives in sunlight,
orchid ribbons flowing in her hair,
an orchid dress rising,
she finds the rest of us
standing there
simply unaware
that only she can hear
the applause
of a thousand orchids
break the air.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/.
—Shifting, Shifting, Shifting—
Shifting worlds separated by but one
Endlessly running parallel
Destined to never meet
Half way yet never complete
Shifting, Shifting, Shifting
Crash, Collide
All destroyed
—Shifting, Shifting, Shifting—
An urge always exists to relive our days,
Wind back the clock to observe selves
Reliving regrets in silent movie frames,
No color to our lives. Instead, we tiredly
Move as underworld shades physically mute
To the past pain of thoughtless words that we
Cast on others like reams of sticky cobwebs,
Magician forming in those days the tomorrow
Template that clings like foul smoke.
Our present, beads of spit, oil, sour tastes
Tilled from that salted earth.