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Vivekanshu Verma Apr 2020
Riddle in Rhymes,
During Corona Times
By Toxic Detective for Indian Society of Toxicology (IST)
Vomiting is nature's protective reflex against ingested toxins with my bitter alkaloids, accidental by innocent kids,
Bitter is Killer đź’€, As a thumb's #rule, in medical science; but most of life saving medications are also bitter đź‘…, instead;
Vomiting after ingesting me, protects you medically as well as legally, in court of law leads;
Prehistoric #judicial systems determined guilt or innocence in a legal #trial, for human misdeeds;
By subjecting the accused to a dangerous experience, traditionally known as “trial by #ordeal” misusing my seeds;
Whether one survived such an ordeal poison of mine,
was left to control of divine,
to be freed;
and escape or survival was taken to indicate innocence on behalf of the defendant, instead;
The roots of this custom lie in the Code of #Hammurabi and the Code of Ur-Nammu, the oldest known systems of law, reads;
Numerous West African tribes from #Calabar, depended on my toxic bean in jurisprudence, in needs;
Also renowned as ordeal poison or #lie-detector bean, for rulings in their early courts, impledes;
Tribal #Nigerians, misused toxic action of my beans to detect witches & people possessed by evil spirits, who concedes;
#Judicators, would feed numerous seeds, what they called “ordeal poison,” to the accused; if he or she was innocent, indeed;
Hypothetically, God would perform a miracle and allow the accused to live—and the court would have its ruling, proceeds;
If the reverse was true, of course, guilt would be “proven” the moment its sentence was successfully carried out, in recede;
I am a climbing leguminous plant in forests, can be poisonous to humans when chewed, as beads;
I am a large, herbaceous perennial vine, with a woody stem at the base, as natural weeds;
I produces a large, purplish flower with intricate visible veins; attracting innocent Kids;
My flowers yield a thick brown pod of a fruit, contains 2-3 kidney-shaped seeds;
it’s not until rainy season (June through September) that my fatal plant Breeds;
In monsoons, my fruits, capable to produce its best, most toxic beans; indeed;
I am named botanically by appearance of my fruit “a snooping beak-like solid appendage” physo- means “bladder,” at the end of the stigma Beaked;
My toxin is reversible cholinesterase inhibitor, which acts on the autonomic nervous system, leads;
My poison disrupts communication between the nerves and organs of victims, it needs;
In this regard, I acts similarly to nerve gas, which results in contraction of the pupils, recedes;
Profuse salivation, convulsions, seizures, spontaneous urination and defecation, exceeds
Loss of control over the respiratory system, and ultimately death by asphyxiation, as due to secretions, airway blocks & impedes;
Antidote to my poisoning is the slightly less toxic tropane alkaloid atropine, which may often succeeds;
Though myself toxic, my alkaloid proves an effective antidote for poisoning from another deadly plant, Atropa Belladonna seeds;
Guess my name, causing Vomiting, as Lie detector for your means: when an Ordeal poison, impleads;
1. Pillay, VV. Comprehensive Medical Toxicology. 3rd Ed. Jaypee. 2018 p612-15
Hsenura Jun 2019
"I love you",
I wish to send,
Blowing my cover
And my missions.
"Is it worth it?",
You make me ask,
To leave it all behind,
And run to you.
"Reply anything!",
Yes, I've read.
You know I do, always,
Yet I hold myself back.
"Trust me, I'll return",
I almost sent, but,
Reality suddenly struck
Where promises fail.
"Bye", a last text,
Before the bullet
Kissed my heart,
Soothed my senses;
"Thank you darling",
I thought, unspoken,
As her face flashed
For one last time.
Anya May 2019
What tends to happen with many a poem is
You hop in, then land up somewhere else
Like driving to Texas and landing in Maine Or
Going to India but ending up in the Caribbean

And it’s not nonsensical
Certainly not,
The poet is very much as sane as
You or me

But rather,
That walking or jogging at a
Steady pace as you’d do in a novel
Or essay or racing through a
Movie The poet instead likes to hop and skip and
Jump and race and dance and
Twirl and roll and fly

So much so that those whose minds would rather
Stick to a steady pace
Are absolutely ******* in knots

In this case,
One of two things may occur
Some may scratch their heads and give up, deeming poetry “not their thing”
While others,
May read the poem in bits,
At their own pace,
Maintaining a slow and steady while acknowledging and appreciating and analyzing the hops and leaps and twirls-
They are like detectives,
Tracing the possible routes through which the poet may have traversed

Coming up with theories,
And although a theory may or may not be accurate...

We don’t know how humans evolved
But we appreciate it all the same
(Feel free to comment with a different title suggestion, I’m not sure the one I currently have embodies what I’m going for)
Sadness needs no invitation
no open house
or big party
sadness shows up on your doorstep
whenever it chooses
4am on a snowy night
or 3pm on a sunny day
It has no reason or rhyme sometimes
It just seeks you out
and decides to crash on your couch
an unwelcome guest, sadness is
often overstaying any welcome given

You can move homes
You can run away
but sadness is quite the detective
even in the best hiding spots
it will eventually seek you out
and invite itself back into your life
Sharon Talbot Aug 2018
Fingerprints and fibers,
Accumulated talk,
Whispers in the corners,
Bodies demarcated in chalk
On the marble courtroom stairs.
His misery became a pall.
With mourning signs in splattered pairs,
Red flowers on the wall.

All that he had left behind was grief
And powerless rage,
A Tansu chest in high relief,
A coiled brass clock fatigued with age.

Retreating to a white house in Simrishamn,
He’d walk his dog along the shore,
Find sterile clues amongst the sands,
And travel a ferry between two lands.

And now: An experiment! Blame Google Translate for this weird (?) Swedish translation: Please tell me if this is a bad translation!

Fingeravtryck och fibrer,
Ackumulerat samtal,
Viskar i hörnen,
Kroppar avgränsad i krita
På marmor rättssal trappor.
Hans elände blev en pall.
Med sorgsignaler i splatterade par,
Röda blommor på väggen.

Allt som han hade lämnat var sorg
Och maktlös raseri,
En Tansu bröst i hög lättnad,
En spolad mässingsklocka utmanad med åldern.

Att återvända till ett vitt hus i Simrishamn,
Han skulle gå sin hund längs stranden,
Hitta sterila ledtrĂĄdar bland sandarna,
Based on the show and novels of Henning Mankell, "Wallander", an existential, chronically depressed detective from Ystad, Sweden, is unable to leave his police work at the office. He alienates everyone and loses anyone who gets close. In the end, he is left burdened with Alzheimer's and tragic memories.

Och resa en färja mellan två länder.
Baserat på showen och romanen Henning Mankell, "Wallander", kan en existentiell kronisk deprimerad detektiv från Ystad, Sverige, inte lämna sitt polisarbete på kontoret. Han alieniserar alla och förlorar den som kommer nära. Till sist lämnas han av Alzheimers och tragiska minnen.
Steelyvibe Jun 2018
In the solitude of London trying to forget the past
The chaotic mess of my life played out at last
A forgotten trench coat steps out the shadows
Towards a romance of glorious tomorrows

Standing tall by the lamppost at twilight
Cigerette in hand, collar turned up tight
The pale moon shines down onto the street
And lights a faint mist around your feet

He pulls back his hat by its brim
Grey eyes beckon me over to him
He takes me in the folds of his coat
I swoon as my heart starts to float
Written through the eyes of a women
Zero Nine Nov 2017
5 0 0 pieces or more
spill over six accounts
5 0 0 holes for fingers
opened over my skin
so  when  will i learn
to use my feet to seek?
so  when  will i learn
the blood  i  squeeze
will in time run dry?
the gills  that i cut
will swallow the knife?
no time better than now
no time like the present
  to remember to breathe
remember to walk toward
  not away
a comet on legs leaving
trails of  meteorites
no  time  better than now
the ropes of the past lace
through the toes to the wrists
how long has it taken?
how lucky am i that i
filled the flesh canvas
with angry scars and
still  have the  knife?
5 0 0 pieces or more
spill over six accounts
5 0 0 holes for fingers
opened over my skin
the detective is done
with the cold  case  blues
the detective is done
penning I 2 U s
there are enough mountains today
tomorrow and on for the detective
to be insane as long as they want
the detective is done
  with  the  cold  case  blues
   so case closed
So many pieces over so many accounts. I've hit so many angles, conjured so many demons, found so much harmony in the echoes of an old, rightfully retired dissonance. I'm at another point in life where I'm ready to initiate a paradigm shift and say a so long. This is the last personal narrative I plan on writing for as long as I can help it. I'm really looking forward to putting all that crap in containment and concentrating on creative projects. If you've liked what you've read so far, keep an eye out for a collaborative project with Toby (of HP) sometime in the future.

Thanks for reading. Thanks for writing.
- Zan
A little bit of ***
In a canvas bag
And a wallet full of notes
And a piece of rag
A tooth brush and comb
And a letter pack
And a bit of paper
With a number on the back
And a crisp old sheet
From a writing pad
Is a folded memory
And a poem so sad
Yet with joy in the lines
That live on still
While the love they were for
Will no longer thrill
For the cause is lost
Like the canvas bag
Left by the seat
With no name tag
How can I find
That fleeting two?
They won't be in Oxford
They were passing through
I met them in London
By the cold roadside
They wanted a lift
So I gave them a ride
They'll pass on
Down Exeter way
The cost of that lift
Was dear to pay
For now I am left
With a canvas bag
With a leather flap
For a naming tag
All covered with names
That student wrote
So when standing so cold
At a glance he'd note
The words of his subject
Written thereon
And his mind would warm
As he pondered on
The lecture from where
The thought first came
And the hour of the day
When he wrote the name
Nameless he was
And his lady too
Till the *******
Was sifted through
Then a card
Came to light
With a name upon it
Plain to sight
And I remember
The college hall
Goldsmith's was
The name let fall
So to the English
Scholar then
I may return
The bag again
With a little bit of ***
And a sad love poem
I'll return them all
To their former home.
A hitch Hiker left his bag in my car and I had to think hard to find a way of getting it bag to him.
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