"adornments" poems
You're just a tiny bit minimalist in your own unique way
a white star I have to squint to see in daytime sky
not a Mercedes five point but a Nissan Micra car
you park neatly in a three point turn by my netsuke
and put a circular dent on my platonic furniture
Your two humble rooms devoid of any bold sculpture
except a fold-out table and a miniature bubble chair
and a futon for a bed which is troublesome to share
you draw the line at adornments but allow a wallflower
A bulb in a bowl is your ornamental garden feature
mealtimes a nibble on grated carrot celery cucumber
you run so long on empty you're an eco friendly teacher
stretching out the energy is a passion of my lover
engaging in lessons on sustaining a resourceful nature
Your shoes two pointe ballet slip ons easy to care
barely there g-string thin cotton underwear
nothing loud to upset your understated figure
slight as a pin drop your bottom's semi-derrière
sits so light on feet I'd swear you float on air
I rarely get to hear you come before you're in my hair
with a voice pitch high as a smitten kitten's purr
your upper reaches get a score sized single 'A'
nice when it fits into our schemes of feng shui
I carry your bundle home on the roadway rivers of light
yet you only burn one ray of candle power at night
born of scintillating atoms which flow along each vein
containing so much love without clutter in your frame
a brave star small as wings formed of minuscule wire
flutters in your eyes with minimal flare
but deep desire
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
First things first
I'd like to apologise
I'm sorry I'm not the good Indian girl I was bred to be
I'm sorry I don't make round rotis
I'm sorry that the tongue I use to speak punjabi is broken and hides in my mouth unused until desperately needed
I'm sorry that I don't cook and clean efficiently enough to be wifey material
Sorry that I love who I love and don't hate who I was told to
Sorry that I can't follow gods blindly and not try to sneak back stage to see their shining gold adornments and blue body paints and multiple arms in full and bare glory and scandal
I'm sorry that I'm actually not sorry for any of this
I'm sorry that these are false and empty apologies
I am unapologetically whole
A human not just a race
A female not a trust fund or business transaction
I filter out the good parts of the culture I'm from and the ones I identify with
I'll wear docs under my saari no apologies
I'll grind on dancefloors and do the best Bhangra dance you'll ever see unashamedly
Hareems and hoodies
Bindies and pin up eyeliner
Hedonism and head in the clouds
My ambition is Ambedkar untouchable
My drive is a salt march surging silently non violently through cities
My hometown pride is built in concrete and rickshaw dust,
Prejudice and Bollywood lust
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
Cold.
Not the chill down my arm
but the one down my spine
at the sight of decadence
at the show of extravagance
at the display cases with
carats and watches
plastic women wearing
someone's house in fur
and silk and adornments
covering their arms like a
Christmas tree gone awry
with its baubles and lights
bringing neither peace nor goodwill
to their men who foot the bills
after a night spent with slots and
levers and cards and mysterious
figures that disappear into lifts
that reach infinite heights before
plunging into clear, crystal waters
that sound like diamonds and the
view you see makes them say
'Oh it's beautiful' but
the waters are shallow.
A beautiful mirage.
Still too cold for me to sell my soul.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC
The wind whips
and scrapes the walls
like ivy looking for its foothold
round windowsills
and rotten wood
winter chills a new years cold
scouring for the way in
rolling barrels of fury
tumultuous spasms
unrelenting open hands
slaps the face of every bush and branch
with each pass
the lawns and meadows left
rippled like a poorly tacked carpet
the scaffolding of men rests on brace and bolts
and handshakes with the granite walls
adornments flap their benign capes
eddies of grit spiral, walking tall
Inside I watch you
like a ****** staring at the passing crowd
but not knowing where to look;
only you are everywhere
blankets and lights and even the TV
are curtains to pretend your not outside;
I need not venture out yet
at least,
not until morning
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 9:37 AM UTC
Freedom, unadulterated freedom.
Freedom to dig little toes in the sand and run as naked and
as wild as the wind.
A freedom so complete and vast and uncensored
that it weighs like chains,
and chokes like an iron grip.
And so little hands meld mismatched links of their own,
rules and laws, and should's and should-not's,
tying little feet back to earth,
away from the suffocating sky of infinite possibilities.
Little hearts yearn for shackles,
feeling utterly exposed without them,
for a free body is one that tempts oppressors
unless he dons crude metal adornments of his own.
And so with the imprint of unsung lullabies
floating in the night air, little cheeks
nuzzle their iron blankies and doze off
under the familiar weight of confines and conformity.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 9:42 AM UTC
It was well said of him,
“The clothes bespoke the man”.
Yes, he stumbled in the mud.
Yes, his reputation soon was stuck within the stinking sludge
and, granted, it was all of his own making.
But surely you remember how he'd been so impressive.
Once I said, “You're spotless as a manikin”
and shared a hearty laugh with him.
Be we also had some serious conversations,
discussing what he meant by “loveliness”.
That was all before the storm that hit us
with the force of filth from continents and generations.
It reminded us, again:
not every love is innocent;
the finest gentlemen are capable of
(some say inclined to) monstrous crimes.
After, no one spoke of him.
He tried to hide behind his usual accoutrements:
the matching tie and handkerchief;
silk shirts;
his feathered hat and crimson mackintosh;
the smell of musk.
But he was tainted, spotted once the news was out.
As the headlines had it:
“Gilded Lily Withers – Roots Exposed”;
“If clothes have made this man, they're now irreparably torn.”
“Patent leather ******* now well scuffed.”
God knows what his publishers had to put upon his jacket
to sell off the remainders.
Yet even from the darkness of his prison,
he seemed to think he could rely upon
the persuasiveness of beautiful adornments
- “Always envied; often copied; never matched” (his line) -
trusting it would make him seem attractive once again, even clean.
He died the 23rd of May, 2007.
They say that night he'd tied his shirt a special way,
with a feminine flamboyance,
but it failed to impress as he intended.
In some dark hall (we don't know how) they caught him,
stripped him to the bare essentials,
leaving him undressed and cut, an ochre ugliness.
What were his final thoughts,
when all that he had left was soiled and bleeding?
What we he really needing?
Still, I'm glad I knew him,
Still call him friend, and miss him.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
We find our Beloved
In stillness
In peace
In love
In a sound mind
A mind so sound
It does not need to speak
It just is
And in that stillness
In that peace
In that love
In that sound
A river flows
And it washes to The Ocean
Where everything is cleaned
It washes us of our weights
Of our rituals
Our crutches
Our adornments
We are baptized
Then reborn in the heavens
Filled with manna
When the earth crys for water
Heaven releases its holy clouds
And mixes its pureness with the dirt
And the Beloved is reborn
Over and over and over
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC
Beside me, in this unforgiving November’s winter, is she…
My queen beside me, amidst this rotting debris gifted to me.
Daphne, the comforter sent from the highest skies of Elysia
And Daphne, my love, you put a stopper… on my withering
Never did the sounding of a name, here, blossom a magnolia
Daphne, yours made my hell, the eternal orchards of Elysia.
We were betrothed to each other in here, in this wasteland
I await; you at our wedding, in your wedding gown, oh…
‘Tis her, the beau sky wrapped around your gentle frame
In your adornments, gifted from the agents of light, oh…
They are sapphire stars plucked from that midnight blue
On the edge of the Aegean sea, we await, in this wasteland
I await; you at our wedding, in your veil and crown, oh…
‘Tis her, the clouds and her raindrops, adorning your face
I await our wedding waltz, in our deserted fields, oh…
Without our kin, persecuted and orphaned by the world
Alone we shall dance, on the edge of Ymos, our dwelling
Alone we shall be in our vows when our eyes rain in joy
I await your grand advent, beaming gleefully, towards me
Bringing me, serenity; being my succour, with your smile
I await your silhouette, irradiating the wide evening blue
Bringing me, release; being my soother, now I live anew
Daphne, your midnight blue eyes, your voice of mead…
My pen fervently gallops for words, as I just gaze in awe
Let the sands of time tick away in joy, ticking, grain by grain
The heavens merry till the penultimate hours of our union
Now, in these salty Aegean waters, I taste honey and wine
I await our pristine union; as your hand knots with mine.
Beside me, in this unforgiving November’s winter, is you…
Daphne…
Nov 30, 2020
Nov 30, 2020 at 5:35 AM UTC
It was well said of him,
“The clothes bespoke the man”.
Yes, he stumbled in the mud.
Yes, his reputation soon was stuck within the stinking sludge
and, granted, it was all of his own making.
But surely you remember how he'd been so impressive.
Once I said, “You're spotless as a manikin”
and shared a hearty laugh with him.
Be we also had some serious conversations,
discussing what he meant by “loveliness”.
That was all before the storm that hit us
with the force of filth from continents and generations.
It reminded us, again:
not every love is innocent;
the finest gentlemen are capable of
(some say inclined to) monstrous crimes.
After, no one spoke of him.
He tried to hide behind his usual accoutrements:
the matching tie and handkerchief;
silk shirts;
his feathered hat and crimson mackintosh;
the smell of musk.
But he was tainted, spotted once the news was out.
As the headlines had it:
“Gilded Lily Withers – Roots Exposed”;
“If clothes have made this man, they're now irreparably torn.”
“Patent leather ******* now well scuffed.”
God knows what his publishers had to put upon his jacket
to sell off the remainders.
Yet even from the darkness of his prison,
he seemed to think he could rely upon
the persuasiveness of beautiful adornments
- “Always envied; often copied; never matched” (his line) -
trusting it would make him seem attractive once again, even clean.
He died the 23rd of May, 2007.
They say that night he'd tied his shirt a special way,
with a feminine flamboyance,
but it failed to impress as he intended.
In some dark hall (we don't know how) they caught him,
stripped him to the bare essentials,
leaving him undressed and cut, an ochre ugliness.
What were his final thoughts,
when all that he had left was soiled and bleeding?
What we he really needing?
Still, I'm glad I knew him,
Still call him friend, and miss him.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
Preacher's Son
You spoke like a preacher,
Marble mouthed messenger
Of the rules of your domain.
You let your tongue slither words,
Voice deep, booming, bass thumping
Coursing through my chest, beating.
This was your weapon of choice -
Each syllable a warning
Of what was yet to come.
Your pulpit a collection of your vice,
Beer bottles, ***** jugs, remnants of snowfalls.
You are nothing more than
A false idol,
And I will no longer cling
To your drunk speech
Or grovel at your feet.
Go crack your hammer hands
The ones that nailed my praise-song
Shut to my throat to make me meeker
But these hands were still free,
Free to write silence across your lips
And I hope these thoughts pierce you like darts,
Like spears of defiance.
This is no longer your church,
And I no longer your son
Worshipping the verbal lashings as Godly,
Laudable. No longer seeing bruises as adornments
Of unabashed, deep down spooky love.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 6:42 PM UTC
bye, bye, pie in the sky
I made a dream
I made you out of nowhere,
Out of the mountain snow and out of the air.
I was spinning your head
On my spinning wheels
Out of warm sunshine and out of cool moon beams.
For months and months,
I was spinning your head.
I was weaving your hair
Out of silky threads
For weeks.
Carefully pedaling my old fashioned,
Singing
Sewing machine,
I spent nights
Stitching adornments on your pockets,
Embroidering your cuffs.
Crochet crazy,
I crocheted laces for your sheer enjoyment
And for your windows,
Hooked on the crocheting hooks
Way up high.
I knitted sweaters
For your sacrificial lambs
Of colourful wools.
You are almost finished,
My just a dream, just a dream,
I'll let you go
With the African hot wind.
I am all done
With you.
Sorry, I couldn't hold on
To my golden
Knitting needles
Any longer.
(1-16-07)
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 3:38 PM UTC
I've had trouble wrapping Christmas gifts;
it has always been your job to do this ***** work.
I work to get the Christmas bonus,
we do the shopping,
you do the wrapping.
Plain as day.
But you left me, and I had to do all the work by myself. And so
I made a list of steps in the new skill I have mastered:
*1. Unroll the gift wrapper. Spread it. Cover all bases. Never adore the design and adornments; it will be ripped anyway.
2. Put the gift in the middle of the paper. Estimate how much paper are you willing to save or spend and waste.
3. Tape the ends. Put tape wherever. Don't try to hide the tapes. Secrets are meant to be revealed anyway. TIP: The more you put tape, the uglier your gift wrap will be. You think tapes will mend loose ends but it will simply destroy the aesthetic value of your gift.
4. Fold and tape. Tape and fold. Design it however you like. Origami the **** out of it. It will be destroyed anyway.
5. Put the gift card. Write with your best handwriting. With a smile swathed on your face. Add a dash of artificiality. No matter what you put here, this will not merit anything; It will not be read anyway.*
Four Christmases you have been wrapping those gifts. Now that I have
wrapped some this year, I'm pretty sure why you've left. Plain as day.
PS Wait for the gift I am sending you over. I wrapped it just for you.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
It’s a place where an enticing bay sways,
Music dancing on the misty breezes,
Humdrums of level heads mingle effortlessly,
The constant waves lap up on indigo stacks,
The sun sits bejeweled in the sky,
Sandy stalks of sugarcane sweeten the air,
Drink and pleasure abound,
Vagabonds and harlequins twirl and chant,
The dusk and the dawn live together,
Creamy silver and golden haze weather,
The aesthetic is O so grand,
Celebrations of life here in the sand.
Mad trolleys take them to the city,
The hustle and bustle reduced to saunter,
Adornments of every shape and design,
Line the alleys and canals,
Flora and fauna engrained in the DNA,
Every bit of the city breathes, sighs and laughs,
Back at the bay they all rest together,
Making love by driftwood fires,
They sing like mad poets and howl to one another,
Everyone becomes an instrument,
Everything becomes equal.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 11:38 PM UTC
Miles and miles of....
Space, stretched mouths, lips
Drawn apart, gums claiming their
Contents and the......
Famous uvula left dangling there
Tonsil twins, the septic sisters
Wore white adornments today
Salt stained specs sitting spitefully
Chastising for last night's overdose
Remarking about being off colour
Tombs stones stained on plaque
Patrol alert, tongue wearing a
Its stale white winter coat
Colour palette was off white today
With blue garland furnishings
Strategically placed under the
Black veil of last night's mascara
Nostrils dragged their contents
Into the daylight, sizing up and
Producing a contest for the
Incumbent tissue trail that slowly
Gave the receptacle in the corner
A purpose for the day...to see how
Sturdy it claimed to be before it
Regurgitated....spluttering and coughing
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 7:15 AM UTC
An imperfect being.
A shy and shameful creature.
A scarred body,
a flawed body.
She grows her hair long
so that he won’t see the scars on her back,
so that he will not count the marks,
ghastly adornments from her worldly experience
too disgraceful to be called badges of honor-
so he will not see the imperfection.
A naked body,
a chubby body,
a dishonored body,
fit only to be obedient.
Wanting of love,
but not deserving,
not receiving.
All she can do is submit
and hope that he won’t look.
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 8:07 AM UTC
I, Too, Sing America (and did so in my diapers!)
by Michael R. Burch
I, too, served my country,
first as a tyke, then as a toddler, later as a rambunctious boy,
growing up on military bases around the world,
making friends only to leave them,
saluting the flag through veils of tears,
time and time again ...
In defense of my country,
I too did my awesome duty –
cursing the Communists,
confronting Them in backyard battles where They slunk around disguised as my sniggling Sisters,
while always demonstrating the immense courage
to start my small life over and over again
whenever Uncle Sam called ...
Building and rebuilding my shattered psyche,
such as it was,
dealing with PTSD (preschool traumatic stress disorder)
without the adornments of medals, ribbons or epaulets,
serving without pay,
following my father’s gruffly barked orders,
however ill-advised ...
A true warrior!
Will you salute me?
I hope my “small” attempt at humor will help readers remember the sacrifices made by the spouses, children and extended families of our valiant servicemen and women. It was not easy making friends only to lose them, time and time again, as I grew up a “military brat” on American air bases around the globe. I really did make sacrifices for my country, while winning every battle against the “communists” in our back yard.
Keywords/Tags: Memorial Day, military brat, service, war, duty, honor, heroism, soldiers, army, navy, air force, marines
May 31, 2021
May 31, 2021 at 2:26 AM UTC
Dishes served full are well laid on the table
prawns are glittering adornments
though only yesterday
their tentacles were tasting the river
not knowing they would be in another water
in the river of saliva
grinded and pulped for a tasty moksha.
The rain falls unabated from last night.
Who'll go out to feed?, asks a voice.
Does never being hungry feel the same stress
as being hungry most of the time?
The answer is in the clouded eyes
watching the eyes
joyful for one more chance.
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 6:28 AM UTC
keeping full trust on the fulia-handloom
some words may be uttered now
some words against the gun
an winter …
some fallen leaves …
some cold wind …
and a big vacuum in mind …
with all those adornments
i’m sitting now
on the terrace of a shiva-temple
in front of me
in a pond covered with hyacinth
the water-play of the ducks
in its water
the shadow of the sky
the shadow of the trees
along the side of the pond
a little child is running alone
with a toy-ball in hand
i don’t wish to know now
whether there is any compares
to that run
i’m only sitting
and staring at
it may not be known to others
but i myself know well
that by speaking those words
I try to hide my sadness… my loneliness…
Oh… instead of gun-powder …
if i could put inside the quartos
any translation of this joy of the child …
those who rule rely on guns
those who want to break the rule
also rely on guns
today when my pen wants
to tell something against the gun
i don’t know whether it will go
in favour or against
the sky… the birds… the trees… mankind …
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 6:41 AM UTC
Scrupulous Empowerment
Endowed upon our Government
A System that us Citizens
Employ without much Dissonance
Listening without Learning
Driving but not Driven
Waiting to be Waistless
Adoring the Adornments
And being nothing more than that.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC
Manifold Blessing
There is a reason wife rhymes with life
In her eyes I find the depths I must ever mine
Hearts of gold not made in any other way
The vain derived by expending softest feelings this all aligns
Molten gold flows into the mold only when honest truth fires singular hopes
For no other exceeds or matches this sacred bond that love has forged
In pressure I gladly steadfastly March this alone breaks my nature of stone
To another coupled selfless paths give rise to adornments uncommon
Her hand her voice most gentle but by it alone many storms unerring guide held the course
The day holds only empty clouds if she is absent the sun shines in vain all is tied together by her smile
She knows secrets that keep us safe in their power we run with never ending force all troubles are dispersed
Holy writ speaks to this matter when it says a man finds a good thing when he takes a wife
From these priceless cherished gifts all the earth is replenished no other way is it made whole
He who would hold her in small esteem troubles his own life and condemns himself to poverty
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 1:16 PM UTC
~
a child's hand print,
and under
a color-filled
paint-by-number;
it bears
the usual adornments,
photographed moments,
magnetic attractions
from faraway places;
but my heart
it no longer begs
to leave this place,
stuck in time,
i am...
in space.
my mind can't conceive
this loss i can't see.
throw back these covers,
you will quickly discover
an empty dark hole,
where once stood a soul.
and now our
'frigerator's adornments
point outward no longer,
covered instead
with daily reminders
that point to this inward;
its gnawing
and clawing
this scratching
and hoping
and just this one,
an unanswered,
open invitation...
*"please come home
for dinner,
just once more,
son!"*
a candle is lit,
in your place
no one sits,
only this
empty plate,
awaits...
~
*post script.
i miss you, son!
in the river that is grief,
the current is not constant
but rather changes,
sometimes often,
daily even,
at other times
a low sense
of numbness pervades.
what is it of fall
that increases its flow?
it is not related to
any calendar date,
more a change in flow
with the season
such is grief.*
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
A poetess can find plenty to do,
with a Japanese Style written Haiku.
she can spin a web of nature round and round,
with vicarious, vivacious adornments that abound.
She can place all of her creatures
within or without of a local Zoo.
She can simply state blue is a hue.
For, there is plenty to do,
with a Japanese Style written Haiku.
She can post of planting stylish seeds,
and post of picking the wildest weeds.
or she can simply skip through a meadow;
while frightening her readers with a shadow;
or she can basque in the sun and just have fun.
For, there is plenty to do,
with a Japanese Style written Haiku.
Words of syllables with 5,7,5,
rush to leap before her eyes;
so she can write a deep mini poem
that's poised to win a prize!
For, there is plenty to do,
with a Japanese Style written Haiku!
Nov 26, 2010
Nov 26, 2010 at 1:12 PM UTC
let’s run to the vermouth tree
let’s run up the bark
chipping off skin
showing smooth pane
you and me
you and me
just
you and me
you and me
we’ll be kings in our altitude
we’ll drink the sap
to makes us drowsy
we’ll take a nap
on the branches grand
like muscular thighs of amicable giants
planted right here in the sand
let’s run up the vermouth tree
and laze around like vagabonds
whose only inspiration is
to live
to long
and to live long
just like this horizontal wooden palace
which shall persist when we are gone
which shall resist broken innocence
for her branches always reach towards the sky
never regretting
or failing to try
its sweet earthiness
shall remind us
of the goodness of nature
as we drift to dreams
its sweet richness
fortified
reminds us of things
powerful
and magical
you and me
you and me
we’ll be befuddled atop her palms
held in her grace as we hang
as voluntary adornments
clinging on for love
returning home when the night’s to come.
until the setting sun greets us here
atop the cusp
flowerful smoke
defusing what’s become of us
while the clouds turn sad
at dusk
a must,
the rust
is true
and magnificent
and you and I
stay drunk.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 5:46 AM UTC
the sign above her tent reads Misfortune Teller
but they call her the darkness dweller
she doesn't mess around with fancy effects
her tent is a plain black, the inside the same
a single table rests in the middle
and there she sits, black hair and eyes gleaming
a black t-shirt and jeans
adornments are distracting
she takes your hand in her delicate fingers
looking deep into your eyes, into your soul
until everything else fades away
then she begins to speak
in a voice almost whispering
and she tells you your woes
she tells the plain truth, no watering down
she doesn't believe in messing around
and when she's done, you know and you leave
neither of you making a sound
you feel as though it was only a minute
but you were in that tent for hours
you look at the floor, eyes glazed
not noticing people around you doing the same
the sign above her tent reads Misfortune Teller
but they call her the darkness dweller
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 5:44 AM UTC
Manifold Blessing
There is a reason wife rhymes with life
In her eyes I find the depths I must ever mine
Hearts of gold not made in any other way
The vain derived by expending softest feelings this all aligns
Molten gold flows into the mold only when honest truth fires singular hopes
For no other exceeds or matches this sacred bond that love has forged
In pressure I gladly steadfastly March this alone breaks my nature of stone
To another coupled selfless paths give rise to adornments uncommon
Her hand her voice most gentle but by it alone many storms unerring guide held the course
The day holds only empty clouds if she is absent the sun shines in vain all is tied together by her smile
She knows secrets that keep us safe in their power we run with never ending force all troubles are dispersed
Holy writ speaks to this matter when it says a man finds a good thing when he takes a wife
From these priceless cherished gifts all the earth is replenished no other way is it made whole
He who would hold her in small esteem troubles his own life and condemns himself to poverty
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 2:38 PM UTC