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­This poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled " अपराधबोध" published in pratilipi (Feb. 2019)
Can be read through the link ==>> https://bit.ly/2l4MIXz
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Today all of Sudden, I do remember again
The time that has elapsed since long
The bygone lovely childhood
The yesterday that has passed
The good old childhood friends.
I do remember some blurred faces
whose names, I couldn't recall

I do remember my teachers
Still in the same look and form
I remember their scolding
I remember happiness on their faces
I even remember their angry faces
Their orders to stand up on the bench
Their punishment to pose as a rooster

I do remember now
The essence of their teachings
I followed all their teachings
But I had to suffer a lot
So, I packed them all tied them in a knot
And thrown them all into the trash can.

This is not an allegation against my teachers
That their teachings are not valuable
But, I discovered, I was not capable
To follow their valuable teachings.
In this modern era of practicality
There is no respect for human values
Human values have been deteriorated
Due to changing definitions of the words
The whole dictionary has changed.

I admit I have committed crime against my teachers
Since I left the righteous path shown by them
And followed another easy path on my own
But what else could I have done?
I had no power to change the present era -
I alone do not have the courage to be an era-rebel
So, I gave up the right path and followed another one

But may be, inspite of this  
my teacher may forgive me
But can I forgive myself?
No! Not at alI, I don't have this right
After getting pardon from my teacher
The gravity of my crime doesn't decreases

So by the way if my teachers pardon me
Even then, I can't be free
From the guilt
I must have to live
Bit by bit, Suffocatingly
This will be my punishment
Yes, this will be my punishment.


Sometime or the other, Everybody feels guilty. Do You????
albatross Aug 19
I heard a plaintive heave before the cleaving of the air,

then of the flesh – a forceful splitting of a young citrus,
then of the splintering – a crunch that froze the scorch of that afternoon.

Finito! the sound of the fragile spine breaking into hundreds... or is it thousands? of pieces.

And the debris, of the marrow
and the dangling arteries –
of chunks of the hypothalamus,
a part of the left hemisphere –

the tangential stains of blood on modern Golgotha – a cemented clearing deep within the woods
parched and dried by the anger of that afternoon -

which resembles a festive night:
festooned with firecrackers,
with showers of embers and
fountains of fire,
glow sticks of horror,

And the lower part, the detachment:
loose and limp
placid and peaceful.

A fresh sculpture of soft clay in red  
plaid polo and punturong –
both saved by the stain of gore,

but not with the stain of nature

on the flipside
the habiliments are covered in dust – modern dust
brought by cement and its slow deterioration

of how friction demolishes it era by era
tick by tock of the giant slothful clock -

and as this same cement
seeps all the fireworks

vegetation thrives –
and the fruit of man, and law, and
capital teeth and eye dangles
through thick sinewy vines.

The land devour the sculpture carved by a single
stroke.

And then another heave is heard
then the cleaving of the air,
the almost splitting of the neck meat,
the forceful pulling of a penchant edge
then the cleaving of the air
the splitting of a young tangerine,
then the splintering of a spine,
the spray of sainthood in scarlet,
then the limping,
the rolling, the creation of a mask.

It was a masterpiece of music,
visual aesthetics and
natural arts.

As the mark of each face
was left in the humid winds
of that
afternoon.
Nigdaw Aug 5
A room devoid of life
no less bland
than a hole in the ground,
but with a little more light
functional, bed, chair, table
and an intangible fear
of something it has (in abundance)
time, and plenty of it
She hates the way I talk,
She hates the way I walk,
She's acting like she's too good for me,
But I know the truth,

She says I broke her heart,
But I just figured out what kind of person she was,
She holds a grudge like it's all she has,
Made her pride her first choice,

All I have in my hand is a deck of card,
A knave for her queen of spades,
I will give and she will take,
It'll be a circle,
I'll be in pain,
She will never know what she is,

So I'll let her believe,
I did her wrong,
Until she realise what she had damaged,
Ignorance will be her punishment.
Friends to enemies / couples to enemies both work. Self-reflection is necessary. No one person is to blame.
Nigdaw Jul 14
No fiery fate awaits my ****** soul
In Dante’s infernal inferno, on Level Five
I will swim beneath the wrathful
To permanently drown, with bulging eyes
Gasping for a breath I can never take
The River Styx, the embodiment of my sorrow
Liquified unhappiness, stagnant sadness
My sin? To live my life with a glass half empty
Having found no joy in man, nor God, nor the world
Which has already left me feeling punished.
I wonder if I’ll get a break down there,
Or will I still have to work my ******* lunch hour!
Randy Johnson Jul 12
The new Doctor Who TV show is a true masterpiece, a masterpiece of ****.
I have a son who was naughty and needed to be punished so I made him watch it.
He cried and cried, it has scarred him for life because it was too much for him to handle.
He said he'd never be naughty again if I would have enough pity to change the channel.
My son committed over 100 crimes but he always got off scot-free because of lack of evidence.
But he kept his side of the bargain, I changed the channel and he's been as good as gold ever since.
Unfortunately, I've received a lot of criticism from other parents who say I went too far.
One mother said that forcing him to watch the new Doctor Who was more cruel than cutting the brake lines on a person's car.
When I made him watch that *******, perhaps I was going too far, some say that I really blew it.
But if you have a problem child who needs to be taught the error of his ways, forcing him to watch the new Doctor Who will do it.
Millie Jun 24
Consequences should be about learning
But hers were hot flashes of anger
Bubbling up and stealing whatever joy lay in front of her
Moody as the wind
Ken Pepiton May 2
to me? Real with a certified S.King filtered -ly mod,
by god,
as the oh myers say. On Writing sans Shining.
Needful fiction,
Liars prosper. Okeh. Thus,
the poor we have with us, always.

Truth t' tell.

Entshallah allathat, OMG samesame
good mastah willin' creeks don't rise

Do the work. Come Sunday, someday,
we, all us, say.

You ever finish you'r own work one day and jest

sit back lax - lacks a daisy, taken easy,
laxative action,
gut synapse
synch-up, cinch that saddle on my wildest
old Nightmare, beat my plow
back to a oil drum,

set some feats t'dancin' in some ol'lady minds.

old man's angels seen t'be jiggin' on
the head o' some pen
in the hand

worth two in the bush.

Who know what ever mean, okeh.

period. point made signal.
that was said and it's writ.

set it aside, let it dry

crumble to dust and be scattered to the five great gyres
to settle
as sands
ifiable quant, to mortal mind, weighable
any worth assigned as
sought or ought,
a grain,
a mote,
as seen with five gee augmented
lenses
prestandards beeing raised in the buzz
from Utah

as an erranded boy's sail bike lifts into if
from the saline shore.
Bike tires adhered to passive-ly

by molecular
memories of being
in truth, as if
once and ever,
salt of the earth, see in the distance,
Lot's wife

as tiny as can be

Na and CL, for ever,
deja wuwuish it were possible… dream… or die…

no don't. There is a reason. I for get it can not right now but these
keys can be

used right by the sober one in the batch.
God, I love this process. This is the work. Living.
You can do it as long as you can pay attention…

selah

then it, the algorithm, I'll go rhythm, pauses,
Spelchkovian spells masters seem sorry we ever agreed she'd
leave me leavened as dust
lying around
on white linen
in the streets of Laredo, as cold as the clay,

back in the day,
we sang that song in school. We sang
in movie theaters, along with a
bouncing ball and other people,

big bio jump here. My step-brother was murdered,
and it never seemed relative…

my father married a wombed man with one leg,
whose family sang along with Mitch,

and played Spit in the Ocean.

Such experiences ificate possibilities few knew
some survive.
There could be a contributory flow…

This ever lasting book of life.
See, a shore, sand bar
snag a thought rainbowing true to you

hang-ups from way back

Any boomer bubble popped too soon. Manifest at will.
P-pickup from scratch and
make a point
to infect the next pun unknoticing kid,

old -time slow hand-eye coordination special ed, Big Ern,
kicking chalk dust in far right field, noticing
patterns
in the leftmost vector straight home--

grand children, for the joy of knowing they happened,
caused,
to all outward appearance,
by my survival of several unbelievable

periences ex nihilo only
if "It don't mean nothing".

link link link something has broken, what do we con tribute tributary flow
too dammed salty, got to puddle around

waiting. waiting. waiting for one point
to be made
edged on all angles, to each mea culpa assured
quantifiability of reason,

inquizical sequence surpast
glistering

whetted and furbished for ever,

the keenness
the cut, precision decision

and how swiftly forms the scab,
a touch,

capillary seals, the grain, at HD,
one pixelish crystallin charge

change that,
by taking thought. It does nothing to your stature,

think allusive butterflies of lifenshit

it gets tiresome. A body wants some rest from ever
meaning ever and never was known
or heard
a dis cora zone age word, like

troglodyte or luddite Denisovan bracelet breaker,
ropemaker union with certain silky
threads
to which a little leaven always sticks
as would caterpillar spit.

Meandering, right, it's the play. My role.
I manifest the dance
as seen on the surface, from Jim's POV,

then my own POV,
then my own rivers of no return,
tribute

'ary a day goes by I don't re call that feeling,

flow is moving paster and paster the walls are
higher
shade deeper
colder'n'hell fersher, rapids.
Ah,

Kern River, I remember this.
Almond trees, Columbus clouds…
Hey, readerman, paperbackwriter wannabe,

we survived. What'sa-hell, right's right.

clap. there is a - an  STD joke there.
But those aren't funny

right,
standup guy says right's right, does a
Johnny Unitas stiff arm
and gets a case of
clap from the left, worse than meaningless

neo **** non clapping on the right.
Repent or perish.
****** if it don't feel good to say that.
It's true, once you know,

Gertrude Stein, I got it from her. Lesbian Jewish leaven
in passover brownies dipped in Mogen David,
she made me stand and say a rosary.

By any other name,

a rose is a rose and so on
it's like when the universe sends little blue men in cheesehead hats with...
clues from the fat guy on the subway in Heroes... "Do the Work. make war not art... life is a sequel we already got paid for. Maybe." I just learned hp stars out *** not if spelt o*m*g
Devil and evil are not one.
(“Hello, Lucifer...
The fun has just begun.”)
From evil one is to hide and run.
A good conscience says, “Put down the gun.”

The devil does not cause death;
Every choice has an effect.
Don’t blame the bad on Luci;
Have some respect.
Another soul is not responsible for how one will act.

The devil punishes for bad deeds.
Mr. Morningstar makes deals to help succeed.
So if one asks him for some weeds,
He will give one what he needs:
A garden, a shovel, and three seeds.
But he will call, and ask, and plead
For a favour back for the deal to come complete.
And one shall help to spare ingestion by hell’s heat.

Evil is purely man caused;
Lucifer watches man’s suffering in exhaust.
And hell’s pain happens over, and over
Till one feels nailed to the cross;
Till one is weak, and one is lost.
I was bored... kind of inspired by the show Lucifer, and Tom Ellis’ attractive face lmaoooo.

I’m sorry for the nonsense poem :)
Also, I’m not religious, and this poem has nothing to do with religion.
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