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 Jun 2017 Vikshipta
zebra
accumulations of suffering
by patriarchs religion
and poverty
deprivations withered hand
self pity was converted
into a knot of emeralds
and stony unfeeling bones
that puncture and clutter the soul
with a blackened hollow
and
a quicksand of taboos
rendering her life limp
her only extravagance
free will
a choice within choicelessness
she resorted
to a rope around the neck
in a shanty
suicide her best friend
 Jun 2017 Vikshipta
Poetoftheway
awaiting the diagnosis/I need/selfish motives


yours,
that should have arrived days ago

the email silence - no different than the phone unringing,
like the sad bells of Rhymney,
those bells, asking questions
instead of singing and pealing,
so
in my yeah yeah peculiar accented english which
screams robustly in a whisper

dudewhatgivescluemein*

in a single breath, rushed as if but just one word

believe me,
my motive purely selfish
needy for a celebration
hope from a crisis avoided, originating a new seed modified,
two planted for a future spirit tree available for more than
just two poets regardless of their limited coastal biases

negative that too
a selfishness for me
cause I come willing
to exercise my
heart shoulders and arms to trim our mutualized sails,
keep our mind's eyes focused aside
towards the good bad the great in life's littlest things

I need
you to reassure me
that my own mortality,
which can only thrive,
with your poetry voice alive and
keeping track of the absurdity of the
worlds tomfoolery and lighting fast trickery
so I will be stronger longer


I need
you to make me sweet smile when you regale
with dog licking face moment tales
have to cease here for reasons evidently inexplicable

so in summary
what ere the word be,
the outlook commandeering you,
I need
for Karlotti

~
And a flower on the borders of winter.
an unseasoned sign that the singular erupting bud
will lend the lens to see, give the courage to accept
the greatest joy of man will ever be
anticipation

there will be seasons that the singular erupting bud,
be the bitterest truth nail gunned into your temple,
the perversity of a mockery, an uncrossable boundary
a flowering sign of skull & bones meant to teach acceptance
the greatest curse of man will be
the changing seasons

La mayor maldición del hombre,
Las estaciones cambiantes
 Jun 2017 Vikshipta
Nat Lipstadt
punto / contrappunto (patty m /nat)
(on the why of messaging, on the Underground HP)

none can fly,                          all can fly
except in words,                   in deeds, indeed,
yet others turn                      those who believe turn
lead into gold,                       golden faerie dreams real,
penciled in the salvation     hints inked upon the skin
of the host, the blessing       are the blessings of the host,
of solving great puzzles.      deeds of salvation solutions.

Yet unbeknownst for many.  known to all
its jiggling all the quarks,      the clashing of the neutrons
spinning electrons that          within all of our protein protons
affect many,                             effected upon each,
invisible all is hidden.            where all was hidden, now visible

the message that isn't             let our acts speak ever louder
transmitted,                             realized,
holds no power, yet it             a time for action
remains a black screen            for each message, now an action    
in the catacombs                      in the clarity of daylight
waiting, waiting there,            no longer waiting,
millions of little pieces            each action a deed
when finally viewed                the summation total
                 
                                 grows gargantuan
                               funneling radiation
                                     from the sun.

Climbing roofs,                       to the streets leaping
sliding down drainpipes       knocking to open all doors
to the street,                             filling the stadiums & squares
I'll wait with you,                   no laggards, all in attendence
            
                                         they will come,
                                         poet after poet,
                                    spreading the word,
                              words to deeds, each of us
                           a messenger and a conductor,
                            orchestrating the symphony
                                        of revelation.

              Patty m.                                                       Nat
patty m › The Underground of HP
none can fly, except in words yet others turn lead into gold, penciled in the salvation of the host the blessing of solving great puzzles. Yet unbeknownst for many its jiggling all the quarks, spinning electrons that affect many. Invisible all is hidden
the message that isn't transmitted, holds no power, it remains a black screen in the catacombs waiting, waiting there, millions of little pieces when finally viewed grow gargantuan funneling radiation from the sun. Climbing roofs, then sliding down drainpipes to the street, I'll wait with you, and they will come, poet after poet, spreading the word, while you my friend orchestrate the symphony of revelation. Bravo.!
hugs
Patty

0





Jun 3
 Jun 2017 Vikshipta
Medha Nepal
Something worthy to write about
Her mother was in tears of happiness
Her father gave a loud grin
Everyone were cheering for her life
She finally managed to be born
Swimming all along the redness she survived
As a child she always adored something red
Be it a lollipop or a tricycle she rode
Her eyes caught the red house in the neighborhood
She jumped on the lap of someone wearing red
She giggled to be in red dress
Later growing up brought no change
Mothers red lipstick on her lips
Getting to the garden to pick the red roses
Friends farewell, that red card she says
Sisters birthday ; red cherry topped cake she remembers
Always being redness lover days passed by
Alas, one fine day that red colour betrayed her may be
Those red fluid between her thighs messed her up they said.
Those red patches on her clothes gave her feeling of shame
What a weirdness the redness poured in life
She now turns to be untouchable; reason, red
She now can’t even talk to any guys; reason, red
She now can’t feel the warmth of sun; reason, red
Turnovers in life
Girl you cant go there
Girl you can’t talk that way
Girl you can’t sit in such way
Girl you can’t be close to any guy friends
Girl you can’t enter the kitchen
Girl you can’t even worship now
All because she was cursed by the color red
Getting locked in a dark room she cried tears of pain and emotions for loving red.
Why can’t she be happy for being a red lover?
Being surrounded by taboos and verboten she turns weak
She wants to get rid of the redness now
She makes attempts to get over it
Leaves, clothes, paper and stuffs she uses to do away with the red
Even her faith on god distorts as they say she was red because of gods curse
Why but why they seem to be know nothing?
She gained her life due to the redness her mother achieved
She now is ready to give life due to the same redness
Human existence is only possible of that very redness
Her adolescence and her redness can replicate a new heart beat
Please don’t hate red, don’t be ashamed of her on being red
Redness in her is not a matter of impurity but a matter of life
Let’s understand her, let’s love her, let’s make her feel good on being red!!
 Jun 2017 Vikshipta
Medha Nepal
When world becomes a mere place where we fear for life every seconds
When life becomes only lump of flesh and bones with no feelings in it
When human become scant creature of no second thought on humanity

Today when massive plots are drawn not to settle disputes
Instead to **** the brotherhood among the two
Today when pitty mishaps are not forgiven for the mean time
Instead taken as a matter of revenge

Where one has started fetting satisfied on others failure
Where one has started seeing happiness in others pain
Where one has started seeing gain in others life
Where one has started feeling contented on others blood

There we see terror and pain all over

Little kids have started to lose their future at an early age
Young girls have started losing their honor as ashame
Old parents have started being all alone with no desire to live

Lives are taken as easy as a cup of tea now
People are burnt as easy as litting a fire on hay
Humans are shot as easy as playing a toy pistol

Morality,Humanity,Honor,Love,Respect henceforth barely survives
Torment of mind and heart seeks some peace now
If you can't be the reason behind their life you can't even take one
Earn some humanity if not have some mercy.
 Jun 2017 Vikshipta
Pagan Paul
.
The menace emerges from the shadows,
a barked order, but unintelligible.
Then the soft steel kiss
slicing through flesh into entrails.
A fist connects with a crunching face,
legs buckle with pain and blood-loss.
And the Darkness of Death takes me,
like a comfort blanket of soft wool.
My Temple violated and de-sanctified,
the blade withdraws with a whisper.
Darkness cuddles
and welcomes me with a smile.

The morphine haze
keeps me inert and motionless,
but makes my mind giggle.
It wanders aimless
through psychedelic chapters …

This place is sterile, white, drab.
My eyes move slowly left.
There is something in a doorway.
The door.

… my head flies to a Poets Banquet,
where I am the bones thrown to the dogs.
And the wood grain in the door moves,
a cascading chocolate fountain,
over and over again,
flowing, melting like molten lava.
They taught me to write,
then cut off my hands.
Obscurity is purity;
fame is pain.
So I penned a letter to the dead.

My eyeballs are all that move,
floating in mid-air,
but still connected and transmitting
drug induced images.
I remember the assassin, the blade,
the darkness, the sirens, but no pain.
Images but no feeling.
They move right to a cold bedside table,
and then I think I cried.
Somebody Knows me.
No chocolates, no flowers.
Somebody Knows me.
No fruit. No magazines.
Just …
a pen and a pad.
Somebody Knows me.
I did cry, someone remembers me.
And each teardrop contained a thousand images,
a thousand stories, a thousand poems.
Inspiration. Illusion. Insight.
And the Darkness of Sleep takes me
like a comfort blanket of soft wool.
The morphine haze retreats
further into my mind and I dream …

of ambulances and white walls
of green gowns and bright lights
of scalpels and scissors and surgery
of needles and nurses and nightmares

… I dream of Poetry
in colour.
I see worlds in the sky
and words painted on clouds.
A kaleidoscope of teardrops
dripping images into my mind.
A fountain of mist cascading,
seeping into a memory sponge.
And I feel; somebody who Knows me
gently wipe away the tears.

© Pagan Paul (04/06/17)
.
 Jun 2017 Vikshipta
Poetic T
She was an eclipse setting on the
every moment of her life.
An echo of her past present and..
not knowing what was before her.

A repetition of what lingered within
her repeating's. also needing to cradle
in the moments of birth like innocence
she arose fresh from the traumas of yesterday.

But like each dawn she was scarred by the
repetitions of what predated this awakening.
Always feeling the echoes, the faded memories
of before. But each time rose like a sunrise, strong.
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