Shivam-S - Hello Poetry

What does death look like to you? To me it is two protruding feet (No shoes on them, just bare feet) out of a white ambassador window on a chill september morning. The legs of my father's father shrunk in demeanour and their toe fingers tout & white as storks, evenly spaced on the surface of a village summer pond. His body inflated as if in water like a toad floating in space his clay skin a bit brighter and a wry smile (and a fly) on his face.

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Mar 26, 2020

Mar 26, 2020 at 2:35 AM UTC

A poem about death.

What does death look like to you? To me it is two protruding feet (No shoes on them, just bare feet) out of a white ambassador window on a chill september morning. The legs of my father's father shrunk in demeanour and their toe fingers tout & white as storks, evenly spaced on the surface of a village summer pond. His body inflated as if in water like a toad floating in space his clay skin a bit brighter and a wry smile (and a fly) on his face.

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Does a prayer require a god sitting above? Or can an agnostic whisper a few words Not knowing to whom but for. Pray for the child who slept hungry this night And many a nights before. Pray for the mother who could not sleep after the beating she never asked for. And pray for all the sick and the dying and the downtrodden and the poor. Pray for the rich and the kings and beggars for despair knows no bounds. You can hear the anguish, the cry if you listen closely enough. I can hear it amidst the sound of a clock trumpeting the endless journey of time. I can hear the soft murmur of thriving lives around me, some alive , some waiting to die. I pray to all the gods I have never seen, that I will never see. I pray to the kind, the cruel, the altruists and the selfish to be more. Tell me, does a prayer require a god above or just the one for whom these words are for?

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Mar 22, 2020

Mar 22, 2020 at 2:05 AM UTC

A prayer.

Does a prayer require a god sitting above? Or can an agnostic whisper a few words Not knowing to whom but for. Pray for the child who slept hungry this night And many a nights before. Pray for the mother who could not sleep after the beating she never asked for. And pray for all the sick and the dying and the downtrodden and the poor. Pray for the rich and the kings and beggars for despair knows no bounds. You can hear the anguish, the cry if you listen closely enough. I can hear it amidst the sound of a clock trumpeting the endless journey of time. I can hear the soft murmur of thriving lives around me, some alive , some waiting to die. I pray to all the gods I have never seen, that I will never see. I pray to the kind, the cruel, the altruists and the selfish to be more. Tell me, does a prayer require a god above or just the one for whom these words are for?

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What makes a man tick? What reduces him to **** to go berserk and run Creating art and guns, what makes him hate? I have seen men banging their heads against a wall. I have seen men not once crying taking the greatest of falls. I have seen men, cheaper than cheapest, kinder than what you and I can ever be. I have seen men, give away their lives, for reasons lost, lost in the sea. What makes a man sick ? What eats him to death, to go so numb and frail To build bridges and rails, and to write Macbeth?

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Mar 10, 2020

Mar 10, 2020 at 4:53 PM UTC

What makes a man, man?

What makes a man tick? What reduces him to **** to go berserk and run Creating art and guns, what makes him hate? I have seen men banging their heads against a wall. I have seen men not once crying taking the greatest of falls. I have seen men, cheaper than cheapest, kinder than what you and I can ever be. I have seen men, give away their lives, for reasons lost, lost in the sea. What makes a man sick ? What eats him to death, to go so numb and frail To build bridges and rails, and to write Macbeth?

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It's 3.20 A.M And I hear birds Maybe lost. Crooning for what God knows. One hour from now 40 years back Mr. Marley will be Rolling his blunt Rolling in his grave For what? Only god knows. It's 3.24 A.M And I am writing A poem. For What? God knows.

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Mar 7, 2020

Mar 7, 2020 at 5:04 PM UTC

3.20 A.M. - 3.24 A.M.

It's 3.20 A.M And I hear birds Maybe lost. Crooning for what God knows. One hour from now 40 years back Mr. Marley will be Rolling his blunt Rolling in his grave For what? Only god knows. It's 3.24 A.M And I am writing A poem. For What? God knows.

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I see a woman in the woods sitting by her hut kneading dough. She is bonny, sultry and country-side, her face radiant with a glorious glow, like the sky bleeding crimson with a tranquil halo. Only the trees in the backdrop are bit scraggy. But what is she doing alone in the wilderness ? No woman of our time in her right mind would go to the woods, let alone live there. Maybe this is why, Its for good that she is in a painting hung on the wall in my room --not real nor alive, luckier than those who were ***** last fortnight, and their bodies left to rot here in the forest. Who is gonna paint those women in the woods ?

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Aug 8, 2018

Aug 8, 2018 at 6:17 AM UTC

Women in the woods

I see a woman in the woods sitting by her hut kneading dough. She is bonny, sultry and country-side, her face radiant with a glorious glow, like the sky bleeding crimson with a tranquil halo. Only the trees in the backdrop are bit scraggy. But what is she doing alone in the wilderness ? No woman of our time in her right mind would go to the woods, let alone live there. Maybe this is why, Its for good that she is in a painting hung on the wall in my room --not real nor alive, luckier than those who were ***** last fortnight, and their bodies left to rot here in the forest. Who is gonna paint those women in the woods ?

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She gave me hope of a love she never felt, She snatched it again, And again & again. We would tell each other Our dreams of us, In which she was mine And I was hers. Now we don't talk much, It may seem. But after all She was just a dream.

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Nov 23, 2017

Nov 23, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC

Just a dream.

She gave me hope of a love she never felt, She snatched it again, And again & again. We would tell each other Our dreams of us, In which she was mine And I was hers. Now we don't talk much, It may seem. But after all She was just a dream.

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To let go is beautiful To let go is to change, Come this fall when trees shed their leaves Letting go of a season, waiting for a new spring and their flowers to blossom.

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Nov 19, 2017

Nov 19, 2017 at 1:37 AM UTC

Letting go.

To let go is beautiful To let go is to change, Come this fall when trees shed their leaves Letting go of a season, waiting for a new spring and their flowers to blossom.

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All of us change. Time is not moving but we are, measuring this stillnes within our petty clocks only helps us count our days until that final second strikes. I prefer to remain firm but humble passing away into this silent space. Revolving and rotating, Changing my seasons, Witnessing Death & Sadness, Feeling Happiness & Love. Living this single second of the infinite time which engulfs us, I keep breathing.

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Nov 2, 2017

Nov 2, 2017 at 2:57 AM UTC

In a river called time.

All of us change. Time is not moving but we are, measuring this stillnes within our petty clocks only helps us count our days until that final second strikes. I prefer to remain firm but humble passing away into this silent space. Revolving and rotating, Changing my seasons, Witnessing Death & Sadness, Feeling Happiness & Love. Living this single second of the infinite time which engulfs us, I keep breathing.

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Dearest Father, I know you are sad For i am the son No one would really have. Still you love me And gods know its true For no one would do As much as you Have done for me My dearest father. Father, I remember the story of a poet Who died hungry, And how only a few Acclaim fame in this virtue, But, He did not die angry Father As many people do. As many people do. I know not Father, Of what would become of me. Literature has bit me and set my mind free. Of all things uncertain in this world Poetry is the purest of love, For it makes me write about you My dearest Father, The only man I love. The only man I love.

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Aug 8, 2017

Aug 8, 2017 at 8:34 AM UTC

To Father

Dearest Father, I know you are sad For i am the son No one would really have. Still you love me And gods know its true For no one would do As much as you Have done for me My dearest father. Father, I remember the story of a poet Who died hungry, And how only a few Acclaim fame in this virtue, But, He did not die angry Father As many people do. As many people do. I know not Father, Of what would become of me. Literature has bit me and set my mind free. Of all things uncertain in this world Poetry is the purest of love, For it makes me write about you My dearest Father, The only man I love. The only man I love.

30

I miss her tonight but then I realize that we share the same sky. I miss how her eyes glittered that night we met as the stars do, And oh the way She looked at me I remember my heart fleeting, sinking, beating under her lovely starlights. I don't sleep at nights and wonder if I am awake in her dreams of us wandering across our moonlit sky and how our silhouettes against the moon for once eclipses the majesty of the space and it's infinite starlights. I miss her every night looking at our sky dreaming of my starlight.

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Aug 5, 2017

Aug 5, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC

Starlights

I miss her tonight but then I realize that we share the same sky. I miss how her eyes glittered that night we met as the stars do, And oh the way She looked at me I remember my heart fleeting, sinking, beating under her lovely starlights. I don't sleep at nights and wonder if I am awake in her dreams of us wandering across our moonlit sky and how our silhouettes against the moon for once eclipses the majesty of the space and it's infinite starlights. I miss her every night looking at our sky dreaming of my starlight.

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