Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Don't waste your life barking at the moon,
You're better off home in bed
With someone who loves your body and
Who shines with a light of their own.

This is a temporary madness.

The Werewolves upstairs are howling.

The devil's in the detail, your dinner's in the freezer -
The note said.

Death came to us when we were young, my brother and I,
But changed his mind and took our mother instead.
It was an accident, of course.

Life is... just waiting for the war to be over.
Though in a very real sense, it never is... over.
And when we die we will be, no doubt,
At war somewhere else... for eternity.

It is the strangest thing to see water on a screen.
Water, flowing and liquid, in such a real way.
Beer never looks real... not even for real!

"Destiny, Destiny," she cried, "Where are you going, Destiny."
As a girl child of 4 or so ran into the bar-room laughing, gleefully.

Sunset on The Isle of Scalpay.
Bamburgh Castle and the view across to Lindisfarne.
Dawn light and the Seal on the rocks below Ravenscar.
I have been coasting for some time now...

This winter we had a family wedding and then a funeral in the same week.
We hired the same local bus for the mourners and I asked them
Not to change the ribbons, please.
The Werewolves were vocal about that too, of course.

I have arranged my Pension be paid weekly, on a Thursday,
Like a proper wage.

My brother, Ten Bellies, says he's Pieabetic!
I told him he's having a mid-Wife Crisis.
We were in the bar and Feng Stewy laughed -
He's the guy who arranges the tables on Bingo Night
To keep the Werewolves happy.

'Casu consulto' is a Latin phrase literally translated as "accidentally on purpose."
I have been trying for some time to use it in a poem
But it always looks deliberate.

I have known a thing to be true All my life...
When something is exactly 5 inches long,
It will turn out to be, equally exactly, 1 inch too short.

A man wears a hat to hide something about himself.
A woman wears a hat so that she is not not wearing a hat when all the others are.

The truth about Werewolves is not that they were wolves.

My proposed 4th Law of Poetry is -
For every Poet they are an equal and exactly opposite Poet.
The other three laws don't add nothing much.

I asked my brother how long we had to wait for the pub to open.
He said, an hour and ninety five minutes.
When I asked him, why not two and half hours or so, he said, that seemed like a long time.

I don't spend my time writing poems anymore about getting home before dawn
****** and torn from some false encounter,  some lost cause I set my heart upon.
Seek wisdom not to be wise but for wisdom to see you and to be recognised.

Sorry, got to go... the Werewolves...
V Dec 2018
Grandmother had told me tales of the past,
Fairytales that we’ve all heard of,
The maidens in the scullery maid attire,
transforming to the princesses with the
embroidered and jeweled gowns; rivulets of silks and satins,
blue as the sea, greener than the highlands, more purple
then the dusky skylines, a true stamp
of royalty, poise, eloquence, and beauty.
And ensembles topped off with gold
encrusted and amethyst crowns.
Sure, the fairytales were what I lingered
onto during the years of my inexplicitly
innocent childhood, that I wished I still had.

I missed it, the tales, the anecdotes
that shaped my perception on love, hope, and faith,
far off from what I viewed in the looking mirror today.

I missed my grandmother’s hands, brittle and worn,
but kind and warm; I still thought about them
as I cleaned out the attic in which I’d forgotten existed.

And I grew up, my memories of it faded,
now covered in cobwebs and bristling wind
that sent a chill up my spine, but I found
much more than what my memory had allowed me to collect.

Amulets from what I assumed to be my grandmother’s youth
were stowed and tucked away in the alcove of a velvet shelf,
hidden by the splintered of decaying wood.

Next to the swell of the dresser, the door of the
furnishing remained ajar, revealing manila
colored increments of letters, some harbored
by the envelopes, some pierced out in the open.
The edges had crippled away,
flecks falling to the sandalwood bottom.

They were timeless, old, maybe not important,
to the wandering eyes of a stranger.
But to me - they held a mystery
that was waiting to be unraveled.

A story of my grandmother’s life she never shared with me,
just as private as she was open, perhaps I’d find in those envelopes
the same mindset I also had when I was young.
Perhaps she believed and dreamt of fairytales I had once done,
paraded around in the jewels and bangles hidden way,
basked in the ambiance of a sweet love
that was doomed to end in the decay of both parties.

Little figurines of silver and gold were placed under one
of the drawers parked away in the furnishing,
toys form her childhood, weighted by standard and price.

Her words I had adored as a child,
ate them up like sickly syrup and supported
them as if they were undiscovered treasure, but
now I finally got to “see” my grandmother’s
treasures deposited in her attic, the very place she
had hidden the most interesting stories that she
left for me to discover after she left.
Sarah Oh Jul 2017
Life can be strange, sometimes
One way or another
It makes no sense, yet it rhymes

There’s no way of telling
Where our lives are going
Well,  then don’t stop trying
Amitav Radiance Feb 2015
The lines on the face
Traces back to the past
So many narratives
And many more emotions
Have made an impact
Deep furrows on the face
Remembrance of life’s events
Sometimes tears flowed
Parallel to the lines of happiness
Etched on the face and forehead
A sanctuary of bygone eras
The face tells it all
Amitav Radiance Feb 2015
So many imprints
Left behind by memories
Idle moments
Urges us to walk back
Down the path, almost faded
Time has not yet
Obliterated the territories
Inhabited, at different times in past
Now, barely manages to hold
Over time, will be completely erased
But, for now slide down, unwillingly
Revisiting the memories
Some happy and others heart wrenching
Insipid and sepia moments
Memories that the mind won’t let go
Sometimes they become a vortex
And you are siphoned off
To a known, yet now, fading events
Amitav Radiance Feb 2015
You and your shadow
In a silent rendezvous
Trying to figure out
The differences
In the images portrayed
Part of you
Many crossroads between
Within you so many events
Wants attention
Thoughts, feelings, emotions
Yet, shadow unperturbed
Unaware
Still claims to be your reflection
Maybe of contradictions
Imitating every intricate moves
But the mind and heart
Has a different story to narrate
Let’s infuse life in the shadow
And ask, how it feels
Life of a shadow
Should be an interesting anecdote
Ask the lights nearby
What the rays have nurtured
Shadow shall speak
For itself
Or about the accumulated stories
You went through
Is it a silent observer?
Or, just absorbs the negative emotions
Let it speak for itself
Unravel the truth with its narrative
Amitav Radiance Feb 2015
The humble diary
Holds the words
Usually not revealed
To the world
Lines, filled with
Deepest desires
Inexplicably, not uttered
But freely flows
Without inhibitions
Every drop of ink
Is the messenger
Carrying the messages
Encrypted for secrecy
A part of your world
Comes alive
Between the pages
Each day
Offered a blank page
New anecdote
Chronicled eagerly
Before the words
Fade away from memory
Jogging along the lines
Of the diary
The pen gives you a lease
To express
Some feelings and desires
Not audible to anyone
But finds safe haven
Between the pages
Of the humble diary
Amitav Radiance Jan 2015
Take hold of the wind
The wanderlust heart
Wants to go places
A whirlwind tour
Open skies
The valleys
Between deepest forests
Holding yesteryear secrets
Take a whiff
Of beautiful flowers
Seducing the wind
To transport it to unknown lands
Away with the birds in skies
Listening to their tales
The oceans and rivers
Becomes ecstatic
At the presence of the wind
You are the wind now
Rich with so many travels
You have so many tales
And laden with precious aromas
From the Earth’s bouquet
Sneak in through
Your lover’s window
Gently caress her from the slumber
Now that you have tales to narrate
She will listen to you in wonder
Charm her day with surprise
For you had been with the wind
The wanderlust heart
Amitav Radiance Dec 2014
Raconteur we all are
Narrating our anecdotes
Not many willing audience
You keep them close to your heart
Maybe one day someone will listen
Peering at your beautiful heart
A traveler with compassion
Willing to walk with you
Noting down every detail
Weaving a story of togetherness
Bonding over the stories
The raconteur
Will have finally met another
Sharing life’s anecdotes
Embracing every event
And celebrating together
Come what may
stargazer Nov 2014
Is there happiness hidden behind your withered bones? You've always felt everything too deeply, maybe that's why your ribs are broken.
How many mirrors have you broken since he left you? Every day is another battle between who you were with his oxygen and who you are now without it.
I think the saddest thing I had to witness was you carving his name into stone skin so you could bleed out all of him that was left in your veins.
You fill voids with sunset pictures and recordings of his voice when we both know it's killing you more than it's keeping you alive.  
How many days has it been since you overdosed on sentimental morphine?
How many times do we have to go through this until you realize he's not coming back?
He's never coming back.
Next page