megha-saha - Hello Poetry

**The glass bowl stands-a fragile shell For puny, puffing orange swimmers Flimsy as the frosting on a wedding cake You, an endearing fool care too much For goldfish- that on a bleak Sunday evening When the weather’s offbeat and the curtains Appear especially dull- and you slouch back on Your favorite divan regretting the choice of Wall-color and some slightly more cardinal matters Will die on you- All you asked was for the dumb goldfish to keep Scurrying about- but no, today’s not your day. Your heart is a shore pebble and your lips are As twisted as a winding hill road As you regret ever having brought in the goldfish that die.**

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Apr 23, 2015

Apr 23, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC

The Goldfish that Die (A Metaphorical Catastrophe)

**The glass bowl stands-a fragile shell For puny, puffing orange swimmers Flimsy as the frosting on a wedding cake You, an endearing fool care too much For goldfish- that on a bleak Sunday evening When the weather’s offbeat and the curtains Appear especially dull- and you slouch back on Your favorite divan regretting the choice of Wall-color and some slightly more cardinal matters Will die on you- All you asked was for the dumb goldfish to keep Scurrying about- but no, today’s not your day. Your heart is a shore pebble and your lips are As twisted as a winding hill road As you regret ever having brought in the goldfish that die.**

15

**What is poetry to you? The faceless man’s obituary on the newspaper nobody cares about? Or is it just what I write? What do songs mean to you? Nothing much, just sounds and rigmaroles Or is it just when I sing? Don’t you like a quiet drive- no radio no honking- or is it just a drag? Or do you only hate it when I drive?**

0

Apr 20, 2015

Apr 20, 2015 at 3:03 AM UTC

you hate it when I.

**What is poetry to you? The faceless man’s obituary on the newspaper nobody cares about? Or is it just what I write? What do songs mean to you? Nothing much, just sounds and rigmaroles Or is it just when I sing? Don’t you like a quiet drive- no radio no honking- or is it just a drag? Or do you only hate it when I drive?**

8

Were you awake when the night turned purple? **And battleships invaded the silent civilization Of mystical beings Army men-like grass blades stung the sky at the horizon The gravel road shone like a milk white drape Out there, a faceless man escorted creatures of the moon Down where you and I stand There was a shiver down my spine and I called soundlessly All sounds dampened by this heavy droning that swooned everyone , but me. A cloaked man stood by my window, hitched breathing, As my throbbing head paced in double time, I thought that was you. Next moment, I was out cold.**

0

Apr 20, 2015

Apr 20, 2015 at 2:43 AM UTC

Purple Night Tale

Were you awake when the night turned purple? **And battleships invaded the silent civilization Of mystical beings Army men-like grass blades stung the sky at the horizon The gravel road shone like a milk white drape Out there, a faceless man escorted creatures of the moon Down where you and I stand There was a shiver down my spine and I called soundlessly All sounds dampened by this heavy droning that swooned everyone , but me. A cloaked man stood by my window, hitched breathing, As my throbbing head paced in double time, I thought that was you. Next moment, I was out cold.**

13

**There was never a soiree without her- Until the day everything changed. Strangely that night, all too blatantly Glasses clinked’, giggles echoed Inane but spirited chatter Churned together with the air The very air that had usurped her being And not left a trace behind Pallid evenings gave way to pallid daylight But like an inkblot in the night sky Her bright eyes and ever so fervent smile Were beclouded irreversibly Her pictures vanished and so did her memoirs So did keepsakes of her bleak existence A familiar kind of existence She breathed in every word ever said to her Cried with the morose, bumbled with the inebriated loner Cordially marveled at the disillusioned old man’s jokes Not too high-spirited and never overbearing An ever-smiling sponge- a beast of the worst kind of burden Devoid of desires, complains, broken dreams-apparently No one seemed to remember her at all Or notice she was gone. A raven sweeps over- a little boy stares, everything’s still the same No wretched tears about the girl who’d never bother a soul Never mind that she’s gone.**

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Apr 18, 2015

Apr 18, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC

Never Mind

**There was never a soiree without her- Until the day everything changed. Strangely that night, all too blatantly Glasses clinked’, giggles echoed Inane but spirited chatter Churned together with the air The very air that had usurped her being And not left a trace behind Pallid evenings gave way to pallid daylight But like an inkblot in the night sky Her bright eyes and ever so fervent smile Were beclouded irreversibly Her pictures vanished and so did her memoirs So did keepsakes of her bleak existence A familiar kind of existence She breathed in every word ever said to her Cried with the morose, bumbled with the inebriated loner Cordially marveled at the disillusioned old man’s jokes Not too high-spirited and never overbearing An ever-smiling sponge- a beast of the worst kind of burden Devoid of desires, complains, broken dreams-apparently No one seemed to remember her at all Or notice she was gone. A raven sweeps over- a little boy stares, everything’s still the same No wretched tears about the girl who’d never bother a soul Never mind that she’s gone.**

26

The bogeyman from my dreams is halfway down the street.

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Mar 12, 2015

Mar 12, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC

..10 words?

The bogeyman from my dreams is halfway down the street.

1

**Damsel in distress but in Indian streets. Look how she walks and, look how she speaks she takes too much pride in her being she's asking for it, isn't it? Look how she talks- her hands fluttering Look how she weeps now Her hands quivering.**

0

Mar 12, 2015

Mar 12, 2015 at 9:52 AM UTC

Indigenous

**Damsel in distress but in Indian streets. Look how she walks and, look how she speaks she takes too much pride in her being she's asking for it, isn't it? Look how she talks- her hands fluttering Look how she weeps now Her hands quivering.**

9

**If I pen down why I'm this way now, will it be a sad truth? If the yellow-ochre walls turn grey somehow, can I call this a gloomy day? Can all people bear the sickness inflicted upon them- Or are some of us superhumans and the rest just ordinary men? If I scribble some things I saw in a dream and feel better about today- Will you tell me why the last day we met was the last day I wept- yet I'm not doing better now anyway?**

0

Mar 12, 2015

Mar 12, 2015 at 2:59 AM UTC

Ramblings

**If I pen down why I'm this way now, will it be a sad truth? If the yellow-ochre walls turn grey somehow, can I call this a gloomy day? Can all people bear the sickness inflicted upon them- Or are some of us superhumans and the rest just ordinary men? If I scribble some things I saw in a dream and feel better about today- Will you tell me why the last day we met was the last day I wept- yet I'm not doing better now anyway?**

7

**The hot wind's soaring and I can't rhyme dastardly pedestrians stare from time to time. It's a beautiful conundrum- this madness. As I stand here now, in your old address.**

0

Mar 12, 2015

Mar 12, 2015 at 1:10 AM UTC

OLD ADDRESS

**The hot wind's soaring and I can't rhyme dastardly pedestrians stare from time to time. It's a beautiful conundrum- this madness. As I stand here now, in your old address.**

4

**The author of my favorite book would’ve never said ‘favorite’ He does talk about sacrifice and really deep things And that word can’t explain any of it. He says we always choose what we can’t have and cry over it But now all that just sounds like a pop song about a pretty girl With flaxen hair and long –long legs figuring out her way I wish my tale was more cinematic, but it is dry as hell. Today is no better than yesterday Just a different shade of sickly blue I deliberately keep avoiding the context of love Because it’s so basal and we’ve refined tastes Or so I think I know little boys don’t think that much and Little girls are told good girls don’t play with fire Wretched, needy begging bowl of a soul Invested too much on a gambler’s lucky streak Now I’ve woken up to an endless sabbatical from relevance I hold on to a smile One that remains long after it’s gone Like the sudden flicker of street lights in a rainy day Doesn’t make a big deal about itself And eyes that don’t melt concrete or anything but Eyes that could make a cold-blooded killer cry And they hoodwinked me Perhaps we’re naked in heaven To make up for all the deception in our lifetime.**

0

Mar 12, 2015

Mar 12, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC

Not About Love

**The author of my favorite book would’ve never said ‘favorite’ He does talk about sacrifice and really deep things And that word can’t explain any of it. He says we always choose what we can’t have and cry over it But now all that just sounds like a pop song about a pretty girl With flaxen hair and long –long legs figuring out her way I wish my tale was more cinematic, but it is dry as hell. Today is no better than yesterday Just a different shade of sickly blue I deliberately keep avoiding the context of love Because it’s so basal and we’ve refined tastes Or so I think I know little boys don’t think that much and Little girls are told good girls don’t play with fire Wretched, needy begging bowl of a soul Invested too much on a gambler’s lucky streak Now I’ve woken up to an endless sabbatical from relevance I hold on to a smile One that remains long after it’s gone Like the sudden flicker of street lights in a rainy day Doesn’t make a big deal about itself And eyes that don’t melt concrete or anything but Eyes that could make a cold-blooded killer cry And they hoodwinked me Perhaps we’re naked in heaven To make up for all the deception in our lifetime.**

26

Tonight like every night, the lonely crow will visit my windowsill. I can almost hear him breathe if I keep very still. It peers, never breaking the ice- Not a sound provoking the serenity If it's not here tomorrow I'll probably spare some time wondering why and peer at the windowsill like a creep.

0

Mar 11, 2015

Mar 11, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC

Every Night

Tonight like every night, the lonely crow will visit my windowsill. I can almost hear him breathe if I keep very still. It peers, never breaking the ice- Not a sound provoking the serenity If it's not here tomorrow I'll probably spare some time wondering why and peer at the windowsill like a creep.

9