Seazy Inkwell

Seazy Inkwell Apr 2018

The bed breathed deeply.
The furnitures covered with
your luminescent fingerprints.
The silverware died slowly,
in the grey sink.
The house tried to talk to me/

I was afraid to step out,
Outside the sympathy of my house.
Into the streets spilled with
people of your asymmetric eyes
My house tried to talk to me.

I now have nobody left to lose,
As I lay on the carpet with a sense of sooth,
The chandelier finally sang its vocal cord loose,
The wires looped instinctively like prehistoric noose.
My house tried to talk to me.

Then I know I am not alone,
The house teems with your pulse,
The glass splits from echo of your voice.
The house tells me so.

I broke through the door,
torn away from the umbilical cord of my solitude.
Melted through the heat of the cheering multitude.
My house tells me, taking care of each word.

My house tells me,
I am not alone,
And you will always
be with me in spirit only.

Apr 2018

Pradip Chattopadhyay

Small Change

She stands where the river blows her hair wild

no youth and no favor for her
no hands to clean the salt licks on her skin
her palms are dreams wrinkled dry
yet craving an offer.

You come from a distant land, she says,
heavens bless you.

I got no small change, I respond,
my mind drifts to ponder,

a small change, I need that too,
always hungered for
and faltered through
like I missed the vessel narrowly
to be on the river's other side.

Maybe when I come back,
I turn toward her.

She was gone.

Harwood Point, Dec 5, 2017
An abortive river trip, a chance encounter

Apr 2018

Pradip Chattopadhyay

Her Poetry

No, she isn't a poet
has never inked one
she takes off my weight
gets my things done

so I have enough time
to afford in a way
the luxury of rhyme
clever wordplay!

No, she isn't a poet
not written one line
clean is her slate
sees I'm fine

so I have enough space
and hour of my own
to indulge the grace
of thoughts mind grown!

No, she isn't a poet
no way she would be
she does her best
to see I'm happy

so my words run smooth
poems are easy born
truth and half truth
are spun night and morn!

No, she isn't a poet
cares not a bit
from her toil's sweat
my poems birth sweet

poems aren't her art
in the sun and showers
she grows from her heart
our garden's best flowers!

A tribute to the great gardener she is.
(5 years on hp this day, thanks to all my poet friends, you gifted me a rewarding journey)

Apr 2018

Mister Granger

tHE cAGED bIRD

I know why the caged bird sings.

It's not because his song
is as vibrant
as his feathers, that he plucks away
each day because he doesn't
feel beautiful.

It's not because of the majesty
that exist in the freedom
of being able to spread his wings
though he knows
he'll never rise to the occasion.

He sings because he believes
that this cage
was made for a king
because he has never tasted
freedom with a side order of skies.

He's never flown past the sun
on a cool morning
or hung with the moon
on a warm night.

He's only ever known
the comfort of a prison
that his thoughts have
become accustomed
to calling home.

He would never venture
beyond the "welcome" mat
because what's beyond the threshold
holds no promise
the way these bars and metal locks do.

He sings because he knows
that no one is listening
so if he makes a mistake
he doesn't have to live with the regret
or embarrassment of knowing that he missed his note.

The caged bird
never believes that he's caged
because behind these walls
he's safe
and he prefers it this way.

I know why the caged bird sings.

A twist on a title by one of my favorite authors...

#cage #bird #sings #revelation

Apr 2018

r

Splintered

All of these words
formed without breath
is magic against death
and all of this ends
with to be continued
I wave so long
with a handkerchief
to the horses on the range
of my dreams
and every scene is sculptured
from wood with splintered
fingers ruptured
with the blood of my brothers.

Apr 2018

r

Constant Stranger

I visualize you
who I will never know,
Constant Stranger
I call you, I imagine
you when I write
and to think, you
will never know me
like the few who
I am close to, those
who say: I don't
understand what you
are talking about,
but I know what you
mean...you know
there is no other poet
on earth like me
and I know there is
no other poem in the uni-
verse just like you
and every two folks
have there own way
of loving, the poet
and the poem know
what they like, like
the kind that takes us
into different and strange
countries until we realize
at midnight, we are alone,
you and I, Constant Stranger,
anonymous mates whose love
can never be consummated.

This poem speaks of love between the poet and the poem not yet written, but wanted in the way we find ourselves wanting that anonymous, perfect lover somewhere out there in the uni-
verse. Or something like that. You may not understand what I'm saying, but I hope you know what I mean, Constant Strangers, poets and poems all, friends in our uni-verse, write me that perfect pome.