The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost
that their loss is no disaster.

- Elizabeth Bishop-

flips through pages and pages
words and words
exclamation marks here
and comma there
at some juncture,
ellipses,
and it was a lovely illustration
of a thousand punctuation marks
and
words
mouth agape,
I wonder
who am I penning the story of
you
or
me ?

Shadows loom in the dark
What were you thinking?
No voice, coughs coughs
Never seems too good
Maybe not that bad either
Mind's such a whirlwind
in the dark
dark
dark
Sometimes, I just wish I could ask,
Penny for your thoughts?

Ragged pile of bones
Clawing through the streets
A drop of water, a grain
Show the mercy
Bestow it upon me
Fellow brother, sister
Look down and
see me.
Help me.

It's rising within me
Sooner or later
I will explode

Imagine me
to be the
ground.
No matter how much you seem to dig,
you will only get past that one layer
and so you say mightily,
" Aha this is you"
Well,
let me tell you
Another thousand layers to dig through.

Most of the time
I would love to think
that you bring about your own destruction.
Isn't that true?
Actions you exhibit
Words you sing
of good
and bad
Everything leads to something.
Lack of
Or too much
communication
also does that to you.
Everything rebounces
right
back
at
you
and you will then find yourself at the crossroads of your own life,
guard it well,
and so,
farewell.

September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.

She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,

It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac

on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.

It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.

But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.

-Elizabeth Bishop

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanished sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
   But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
   All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.

Holed up in a bed
With a few blankets
A running nose
Temperature as hot as a fire
Poor throat, my poor throat
Letting lose of the dust at its base
A running nose
A blocked nose
Hidden ears
burning forehead
sick.

truthfully
to say
society *****.
imperfect individuals harping on the fact
that their kids grow up and mature
to the idea of perfection
and these kids
become the perfect type of imperfect individuals
each generation to sing the same type of
the perfection song.
sing to the tune, say that nobody is perfect
and they try to be perfect.
and when they reach near perfection,
when they are probably miles and miles away from it,
they preach to the song of perfection
amplify the defections of a crowd
and chaos erupts
it all becomes war and love combined
hence
society *****.

Sometimes
I think I'll
never get anywhere in
life.

Stars, stars
they shine so bright
yet so bright in
the dimly-lit sky

Stars, stars
Ever heard of shooting stars?
Well, I think I saw one
And made a wish
And then I saw it go right down

Stars, stars
Thousands and thousands
Millions of millions
collected dust
are called
stars

Dust, dust
Oh whatever happened to your other name
Stars
Thou'st don't shine so brightly anymore
By cause of dead wishes
dead dead dead dust
Then why did thy,
the shooting star,
come right up,
I wished, I wished a little wish
And then you went right d
                                               o
                                                  w
                                                     n
Hopes fell right down
The same way you fell right down


Stars, stars
they shine so bright
yet so bright in
the dimly-lit sky

Are you sure you are shining bright in the sky?

superfluous love
for a discipline
is so much to
that of
information to a gossiper
******* to a drug addict
a dangerous concoction for a aspiring witch
.

This morning
my head was filled
with so much
hard
pressured
red sizzling lava
and my body
a volcano to explode
to send so many seismic waves and
create an earthquake through my entire
soul.

Tears line the rims of
My eyes; drop by drop it goes
Into a little ocean
Beneath me
Infinity beyond
Surrounds me
Drowning in my own depression.

Warm brown curtains
The lovely sunlight bathing
The House
ensconcing it
it was beautiful, breathtaking even.
But,
the people inside were up to no good.
And so, there was a father.
who gave everybody else the cold shoulder,
eyes fixated on some steel devices
and only thing he said was hi.
And then, came the mother.
A lovely soul, but
hypocritical words created much misery.
And then, were 2 sisters,
who hung on to each other for dear life.
They loved their parents.
They loved the happy memories.
Oh, where did all that go?

What was wrong?
Oh, what was wrong?

The House
all bleak and broken walls
dimmed lights
china pieces scattered,
hearts shattered
everything was broken.
everything was bleak.
And rain,
came everyday
When will the rainbow come now?

so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens

William Carlos Williams

Gratitude:
It pays to be kind
It pays to know
that something's not gonna
be there forever
I'm serious

When that lovely lady passed away
this monster ****** all
the life
out of her
I couldn't help but think
why hadn't i treasured you before
Why oh why

So here is my gratitude poem
I love you mummy
For all the things
From sacrificing your sleep and time
To make me a good breakfast
And ironing uniforms
Which you've always hated to do
But did that all for me
So that I would look decent in school
To Staying up with me
To do homework and revision
before terrifying monsters called EXAMS
For kissing me goodnight and
telling me good things about life
Doing so many lovely things
So that I would have a better life
I love you mummy

I love my dad
No matter how much I seem to argue with you
on math or science
I really love you too.
Deep down I really appreciate your help
but you've got to dig deeper to see that
I hope you talk to me more
About your life
It's always been about my life
my studies
my health
my friends
And our talks
never about you
I never known a genius like you.

*****
You are a *******
Really
I wish you were 5 all again
When you didn't have sarcastic comments
And the I-grew-up-already attitude
I love you all the same
You stay up to help your big sis
With her art work
( I **** at art)
Or type for me in tamil
You do great things, girl
And sooner or later
You are gonna be a great young lady
Just like me

I love all my friends
The ones that hurt me
The ones that love me
The ones that like me
All of you gave
me
experiences
words
advice
stories
that I've never known
What is a life without stories?

And lastly,
my grandpa
You were a great man.
You may have died
When I was one
But I'm telling you grandpa
I love you all the same
I remember your wise words
All the famous people who came to
Shower their blessings on me
And your lovely lap
Which I used to take as my personal bathroom
I'll never forget you
You have an indelible place in my heart
You have been my greatest inspiration
and strongest supporter
I love you all the same.

The things I am grateful for
It's an endless list
But I love each and
every single
one all
the same.
I will treasure you better from now on.


I love you.

LETTER FROM A MOTHER TO A DAUGHTER:

"My dear girl, the day you see I’m getting old, I ask you to please be patient, but most of all, try to understand what I’m going through.
If when we talk, I repeat the same thing a thousand times, don’t interrupt to say: “You said the same thing a minute ago”... Just listen, please. Try to remember the times when you were little and I would read the same story night after night until you would fall asleep.
When I don’t want to take a bath, don’t be mad and don’t embarrass me. Remember when I had to run after you making excuses and trying to get you to take a shower when you were just a girl?
When you see how ignorant I am when it comes to new technology, give me the time to learn and don’t look at me that way... remember, honey, I patiently taught you how to do many things like eating appropriately, getting dressed, combing your hair and dealing with life’s issues every day... the day you see I’m getting old, I ask you to please be patient, but most of all, try to understand what I’m going through.
If I occasionally lose track of what we’re talking about, give me the time to remember, and if I can’t, don’t be nervous, impatient or arrogant. Just know in your heart that the most important thing for me is to be with you.
And when my old, tired legs don’t let me move as quickly as before, give me your hand the same way that I offered mine to you when you first walked.
When those days come, don’t feel sad... just be with me, and understand me while I get to the end of my life with love.
I’ll cherish and thank you for the gift of time and joy we shared. With a big smile and the huge love I’ve always had for you, I just want to say, I love you... my darling daughter."
- Unknown

I step out of my house
Look at the path
In front of me
It's *****
Mud, Insects, Dead Leaves
The path is already a mess
What about bigger things?
Like life?

remember the times
I thought I was black and white as this page
My poems were out to represent
this black and white
and soon enough
this black and white starts to fade
with time everything starts to fade
once it had faded into the black and white
on this page
like this page
now it seems against the page
it fades into
more and more colors
the world's seems to be more than just
black and white
like on this page.

Exhausted and tired
I am
but
I don't seem to know why
10 hours of sleep
3 hours of sleep
I still feel tired
Sleep
doesn't seem like sleep
anymore.
Oh oh
something is
wrong.

it is apparently in
one's skin
the skin of a thousand generations
the gene structure of an ancestor
that holds the ultimate key
to their benign characteristics and thoughts
they rage, rage at the seemingly regret of
thousands of generations underneath
the pain, the fury, the happiness, the sadness,
all one in many
they pass down and down
and when they reached me,
I wondered.
Is everything still under my delicate skin?
Repent, repent
of a thousand generations more
Repent, repent my
own
skin,
the layer above many
and the layer below many more.

Where did you go?
Where is your spirit?
Remembered that you told me
that you'll be behind me all the way
That's what you said
The special connection we shared
Where did that go?
Have I changed to a somebody you didn't care about?
My mother , grandmother - all would have been better
if you didn't succumb to the weight of your heart on your shoulders
Why, why
Why do you do this
Was Heaven a far better place than Earth?
If that is so, tell me
how to get there
Or tell me
How to solve everything that comes my way
Life's been going downhill
Since the day you left us
Come back, grandpa
Come back
I miss you
and I love you.

Hey wallflower
So this is a poem for you
It's fine to reply back in a poem
Yes, it is?

Call me
Text me
Means a lot
Really

It shows that someone truly cares about you
And you know what
It's a nice feeling
I just saw the poem you wrote

And you said that
call me
text me
were just words
not actions

But they are words
With meaning
Words to show
that you truly care

Thank you for the note.
I love you.
( In a friendly way)

To my lovely girl
The ever-so-beautiful wallflower
I love you
And thank you so much for the lovely letter
I think you caught me reading the letter
Over and over again
Cuz' it was like you giving me a piece of your heart
And it felt good to read it
And the extinguished little flame of hope
has lit up again.
Thank you so much.
And I loved the quote you wrote.
It had so much of meaning in it;
I could appreciate its true essence.
Hey wallflower, you're a
beautiful girl
inside and out.
Keep smiling
And I will smile along with you!

Oh dear villanelle
You seem to be the death of me
Trying to write you, all seems unwell

Stubborn mademoiselle
You are, only wanting a very specific rhyme scheme
Oh dear villanelle

Why can’t you be kinder, my voice yells
Word play seems a challenge
Trying to write you, all seems unwell

All lines to end with an –elle?
Why not a –eek, or a – yike or an -ouch
Oh dear villanelle

What a villain –elle
You seem to be
Trying to write you, all seems unwell

I do wish that villanelles
Will never be confined to one specific form
Oh dear villanelle
Trying to write you, all seems unwell

Oh dear Villanelle, I tried, I tried, I tried
To cure you of a stubborn disease; a form
So onerous, it hurts both my eyes

To see you bleeding tears out of your sullen eyes
Words would always have their power to ****
Oh dear Villanelle, I tried, I tried, I tried

My closet holds no aba aba
If I’ve only known better medicine, there seems
No cure for you , so onerous it hurts both my eyes

Iambic pentameter you say, NO
Such remedy I say
Oh dear Villanelle, I tried, I tried, I tried

Your crumpled form, my eyes cried
Tears that I’ve never known
Dear Villanelle, I tried , I tried , I tried
This villanelle, so onerous, it hurts both my eyes.

people around me
are
over-achievers
all cut from the same cloth
OVER ACHIEVERS
people leading groups of people
getting As
involved in a million different things
and I sit here
with just one thing
and that one thing isn't even complete.

Sacred place, it is
I lay on the ground
Soaking in the moisture and
the very green smell
I look to the white canopy above
and smile
sheepishly
my heart being caressed by the lovely words
uttered by thy soul
It's a lovely place
Close the door, opening my castle on the clouds
Closed from all bad days and bad nights
Closed from the monstrous glares and tiring faces
The endless criticisms
I can never run away to such beautiful places
Because monsters from my either world barge in
Bang the door
And scream
And pull
And drag me out.
O' ain't I the tired soul?

*Why can't you see?

So I stared at the mirror
talked to that little girl,
*"Oh where did you go?"

doors clashing
voices echoing
off walls
right there
yes,there
I realised something is happening.
but I choose not to open my door
to see another door close,
but I must stay calm
and keep my composure
For I know, if words spoken more,
the more it might hurt.
And so I keep quiet
and let the silence accompany me.

chilled to the core of the bone
with a myriad snowflakes
and beautiful beautiful shaven ice
around me
falling through my tousled hair
all bathing in the sun's glory
Wish I could be there.

by margaret atwood


I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen
I would like to watch you
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head 
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear 
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway 
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in 
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

Shel Silverstein

I stroll along a fragrant country lane
With honeysuckle perfume on the air -
And feathered crooner's warble to revere -
Then cross a golden sea of flowing grain
In empathy - it seems to sense my pain
Of knowing all was done with my affair -
Her empty meaning now the solitaire
She cast away - betrothment all in vain.
But oceans team with many fish to catch
So I must up and hoist another sail
And seek the one that really waits for me,
For soon auspicious breezes will prevail
In guiding forth to find a truer match:
The one to take my hand as wife to be.

Mark R Slaughter

let my broken hair cascade across my face,
letting the wind take my place
I let the little hair strands straddle the soft contours of my face
watch them all
dance to the rhythm of the wind
touch the warm air
I sit here,
watching the wind take its place.

Had a way with words
Had a way with these many letters
All scrunched together
Scrambled to the edges that hold them together
I don't know what I'm writing
Don't care enough to know
that I am writing.
Confusion and confusion
beguiles me
as I scrunch and scramble more words.

Wouldst thou not be content to die
When low-hung fruit is hardly clinging
And golden Autumn passes by?

Beneath this delicate rose-gray sky,
While sunset bells are faintly ringing,
Wouldst thou not be content to die?

For wintry webs of mist on high
Out of the muffled earth are springing,
And golden Autumn passes by.

O now when pleasures fade and fly,
And Hope her southward flight is winging,
Wouldst thou not be content to die?

Lest Winter come, with wailing cry
His cruel icy ******* bringing,
When golden Autumn hath passed by;

And thou with many a tear and sigh,
While life her wasted hands is wringing,
Shall pray in vain for leave to die
When golden Autumn hath passed by.

Edmund Gosse (1877)