"beehive" poems
Don't ever ask me what am I, an ancient story
of a battle lost to remain in the realm of the sublime,
unmitigated grief that visits, again and again,
reminding the journey of pain though galaxies,
far of yore to the days of present.
In a moments of desperation I discover the bard,it could
be rather told thus, he meets me at last, as was his wont
Bard, celestial lover, before my eyes you appear thus:
I see you holding in your hands a magic lyre, so rare.
that goes on strumming non- stop, to bring birds, the tunes,
that lives in far parts of the universe,even unknown to most,
they do vary,have colored feathers;memories living in
different layers of my consciousness,always buzzing like a beehive.
I am the single, magic , potent, word, a mantra
that in it's kernel carries the , seeds of eternal, "I am that"
I hear the speakings of the words,that brings to life
experiences of different kinds,on their beaks some one
carries ripe fruits, the result of long days of sweat and tears.
Each fruit has a flavor distinct,each word carries a seed
that will grow to be a mighty tree,many birds would roost.
Bard you are a wonder,tying past and future with one string
of a lyre converging in the heart beat of the ebullient present,
you easily transcend the three, and every other dimension
of time that mingles in your heady brew,unrivaled it stands.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 11:00 AM UTC
Tar-dark world. The defining color is black, the inky night of her nocturnal hunts and the deep, bottomless dark of her alien retreat.
A watcher of men, she is everything and nothing. She might be too much of something, or too little of something else. Time will sort out the particulars.
There are no simple entry points – she demands engagement, and to be taken as a whole. Her discomfort is over her own allure, her undisturbed surface. It’s more about intuition and gesture than dialogue. They remain as echoes. They’ve made her beautiful in a real way, with hips and blemishes and dimples in her skin.
The imprint of the lives she begins to grapple with as her time on Earth extends, leads her to stop seeing herself as a mere conduit for her mission, and to start developing a sense of subjectivity.
Her life force is overlapping, shaping itself into a pattern of rings that simultaneously suggests a birth canal dilating, the stages of a rocket separating, and a lunar eclipse as seen through a telescope’s lens.
She's a life-form you can’t quite understand, but it’s carrying on relentlessly, like a beehive, moving backward through the constellations at first approach.
Feb 23, 2025
Feb 23, 2025 at 2:06 PM UTC
Blackbird
shadow death
witness
the spiraling
madness
glide
silent over
once vital beehive
shorn gray
paper thin
sip
raw honey
hardening
in the merciless
heat
nourish
the suffering
concentration-camp thin
jutting bone
slack skin
reflect
the boundless light
of a shield
wrought from
love
honor
these golden
futile gestures
they are not
infinitesimal grains
Blackbird
with beaded sight
testify
*do not avert
your eyes*
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 9:42 AM UTC
I last saw her in Santiago
******* drunkenly in a Sub urban taverna
parading conceited pride in a twisted union
with that ******** heinous maniacal harlequin
each in vainglorious throes of their imagined septic mindfuck
Debauch celebration of collaboration of succubus and incubus
Some days she is saying Haloa in Hawaii
adorned as Sainti Maria the ***** now as Madonna
spewing words like a dove acting like a Nun in a Convent
the fiendess with two faces hiding her ****** like the ace in lace
the malignant serpent crawling in the duality of her neurosis
I last saw her in Santiago
In a sanctity of the poisoned insecures with exiguous minds
consumed with flaming fears she begs acceptance for inclusion
******* for percieved reflected glory from her fathers' jailers
The subjugated souls of chai wallah lives on in grandchildren
So when Santi Maria flirts from honey to beehive
Ready to ***** and part thighs and brain for minor pointing gun
Feel sorry for a damaged child devoid of a prime core never made
only obeisance to past rulers whose discarded cast-offs she wears
Her poems enchants but its virulent tools she takes in her body
I last saw her in Santiago
A slaved two-faced pretender who sings like a nightingale
In sub urban dives she postrates to friendly pats and gropes
Melting creeps and hot tigers begging subs for a heady drink
Brilliant yet blindsided to **** on knees as her children will too
Copyright@LaurenceA20thSept2018Allrightsreserved.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 9:03 PM UTC
myopic frames on a stern temple remind me that once he too wandered recklessly and felt ardent
empowered by time on his sleeve
there was nothing he couldn't conquer and nothing standing between the open air and breathing it in
i suppose the difference here is i grab the breath of air and hold it in my pocket for when i stop being so nervous
marshmallow heart
the road only goes one way and the streetlights hover and coil eternally, you can never meet the epilogue
a drive-thru drink in one hand while you feel your hair tangling into a mess of a beehive, the one that likes to unwind in soft tendrils on a weak pillow
heart racing for the constant fueling of a near empty tank telling you to go further this time, this time
time isn't yours
holding in a cough
i too have tried to drown waterbugs
my cheek pressed against the tiles of a kitchen floor, hand perched languidly as my fingers make circles in the tiny swamp i made in the middle of the room
but i forget laying there until i hear my own soul walk in with bare feet addressing the elephant in the room, the one that hasn't left since i was sick with bronchitis that winter years ago
and i want to tell her to come here, to come back inside myself so it doesn't feel so cold this season of frost but she brushes me off with the temperament of a child
"i don't exist, i never did" the words dawdle back and forth from her back molars to her incisors
and i remember when i felt like i was dying when i hopped from one state to the next but realizing a little to late that if i were to go back my dread would jump on the back of my shoulders and force me to look it into it's shiny face and show me the mild nuisance of what it means to be alive
so my soul closes the door and i hear the keys rattle and i myself sink into the warm arms of someone i spent my entire life with
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 12:32 AM UTC
Whenever I am not seeing you
Lethal void is my heart
Like the monolithic art
Of a sculptor;
Like the figures of Mona Lisa,
I tried to engrave you
Again and again in my heart
And rehearsed you many times
In my memories.
To reconstitute
Your beautiful image
Inside of my mind
I behold you thousand times,
Yet all loving and languishing
Nothing could be captured
To match your perfection
As you were seen in person
Nor could be remembered
To your many dimensional figure
Of youth unclaimed.
You are just beautiful but demure,
Seductive but unrevealing
A love that slips down
Near your lips were forbidden?
And be never told?
Like two balsam flowers unfold
Opening from their buds,
Your eyelids are open wide.
Like two bees ******* honey
My eyes were seeking yours
To ferret out the secret
Of your true love and desires;
Neither did they come out
Nor did they flutter
And never reached out
My beehive safely.
Seeking out for your true love
In your eyes, in your lips,
Cheeks and chin far and near,
Everywhere all over you,
Looking at you all the time.
You are open to interpretation
Of your true intention
Of your love and desires
Like the secret smiles
Of Mona Lisa.
Until you make confession
Of your true love,
I will behold you thousand times,
You are just beautiful but demure
Looking for you all the time.
You make me dream about you
While in my sleep or I am awake.
My discrete memories
Are overshadowed by time,
I cannot fight with my feelings
Whenever I am not seeing you,
Lethal void is my heart,
Come and meet me in person!
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 4:17 PM UTC
~
*Weddings and honeycombs.
Why do they give us the hives?
The keeper knows.
There's a buzz in the air.
It belongs to
the rudimentary happinesses:
The minor miracle of father's smile,
a morning breath of honey,
painting toy lips with
blood from mother's finger.
Deathless protagonists,
Mom and Dad,
our propolis.
They love us from afar.
They love us with what they are.
There's a buzz in the air.
There must bee!
They can't help loving
us little monsters,
who sting
and then say goodbye,
sting and say goodbye.
A linn begins to form
in the corner of their eye,
as wheat fields sway in the wind.
The innocent
and the beautiful
have no enemy, but time.*
~
Mar 3, 2022
Mar 3, 2022 at 9:46 PM UTC
The Lost Bird In The Sky
The Lost Bird In The Sky
Somewhere there sits a lone man
at a bar filled with lowlifes
lost in his thoughts
mad at the world
and at her
it's eight in the morning
and dawn is long past
and its eve's seat he'll now nurse
across the bar room
through the blinds, some sun peeks in
over the seedy rug
the sun drying the last cleansing
of a patron's puke
the musky smell the last of his worries
his eyes take in the bar
he intimates a hand gesture to other patrons
and a meaningless nod
indifferent to being friendly
matching the terrain
of the other lowlifes at the bar
all on crutches, it seems
on the wall
hangs pictures of storm clouds
black and ominous as his life
the first of his worries
him and his head always drooping
or were those pictures in his imagination
the music box plays a sad song
smoke gets in your eye
followed by lies
another sad song
stories of his life
accentuated
grabbing at him
his worries
her effect
how poetic, he smiles
him in effigy
through the smoke in his eyes
and more beer
he can clearly see her
with a voodoo doll in hand
sticking needles in him
maybe deservingly
if only he could tell her a story
he thinks better of his thoughts
and a pending epilogue
thirsting for sunshine instead
his eyes glance up at the women bartender
plain, plump, playful, pierced
sunshine for the moment
his lips, and tongue curl
his feet touch earth, seeing if it's still there
as she lumbers back and forth serving drinks
her backside sticking up like a beehive
and for a moment he wants to be a bee
he plays with his beer bottle
running his hands past it's neck
caressing, taking a sip
thinking of his past love
the softness of her neck
*****
her essence
of how pleasing it would be to touch her
her nest
if only he could be a bird for a moment
fly and be in flight with her
together in the sky
making baby birds
their innocence and first tweets
that would have been nice
now ... landed at a hole in a wall
his eyes and thoughts keep soring
he grabs more beer
more beer
pausing to grab some honey with his eyes
he keeps playing with his loose change
spinning a quarter
like watching her pirouette
again and again
she had that effect on him
Logan Robertson
11/15/17
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC
Midnight approaches
Tick tick tock
Won't someone stop
The Doomsday Clock
From striking oil
Drilling rock
Thirsting soil
Aftershock
Deserted hourglass of sand
Shifts to resource hungry hand
Tyrants of time assume command
Greed consumes
This wasted land
First come the roaches
Tick tick tock
The bugs can't stop
The Doomsday Clock
With beehive brains
No voice to talk
And droning minds
Comprise the flock
As lone wolves feast
On sheep they stalk
Then fear encroaches
Tick tick tock
Too scared to stop
The Doomsday Clock
As violence claims
Each city block
Blood drawn on streets
Like sidewalk chalk
When Hatred's loaded
Gun is cocked
Beyond reproaches
Tick tick tock
How could they stop
The Doomsday Clock
When despots trade
In human stock
Waging war
Upon this rock
As profits slaughter
More livestock
The end approaches
Tick tick tock
No hope to stop
The Doomsday Clock
As poisoned skies
Corrode this rock
With toxic lies
Controlling hourglass of sand
Clenched by Atlas choking hand
Titans of industry command
Still Chronos rules
This dying land
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
The sound of thick bubbling,
with the smell of fresh blackberries.
The stains upon our fingers and clothes,
all part of my homemade jam memories.
Growing wild along the roads,
the brambles tall and thick.
Pails and buckets overflowing,
eating our fill as we would pick.
The kitchen, busy as a beehive,
those tasty berries getting mashed.
The "Women" all worked together,
young or old, we each had our tasks.
Four generations, making jam.
"Puttin' back" as it was called.
I still remember the stories told
and the laughter from us all.
Not just a smile does it bring,
a calmness pours soft over me.
A giggle will well up time to time,
at my homemade jam memories.
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 9:12 PM UTC
HORSE OF A DIFFERENT COLOUR
Auden & Isherwood
strolling in China
trying to soak up
The War
by the process of
osmosis
staining it
with words
observe
(at first what seems)
green horses
but turns out to be
only white horses
painted green
for camouflage purposes.
That evening in Canton
also offering them
the futility of two men
trying to put a rat
into a bottle
a woman who lived
in a beehive
pouring water
into a sieve.
War knocks
over the inkwell
spills
into men’s lives
covers the white pages
of their wishes
makes the idea of Hell
...all too real.
The spilt ink eating
the words of men
who send letters home
and die in pain
never to return
only in other’s memories
& useless dreams
marble memorials
while green horses
champ the grasses
the bridles & the bits
clanking & glinting
in the hot sun
of Now.
as this last lost evening
dies.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 5:46 AM UTC
To the naked eye,
the beehive cluster clutches
kin of lunatics.
© Matthew Harlovic
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC
I made a beautiful mess, my dear.
It seems as if I couldn't control myself
my words fell out of my mouth
and onto the floor
right by my feet and I tripped over them
just as clumsily as I let them escape
and they formed feelings so true and so new
that maybe you couldn't feel them but you could see them
you just didn't know what to do with them.
And it seems as if my heart exploded everywhere
like bumblebees flying from a beehive
and you thought somehow I would sting you
but really
I was just looking for something sweet.
And I think I melted the first time I saw you
I think my skin slowly slipped away
which is why I couldn't sit still
or find anything to say, in case you don't remember how quiet I was
because as my skin began to harden, I'm not that quiet anymore.
I wish I was had more hands to help
yours were too busy ripping me apart
to put me back together.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
Untethered. Somehow,
once I become untethered
to the prison of this life,
I can see to focus more intently
on what is most important
if I pay attention to this inside,
what I am, instead of focusing on
the tether or what it’s tied to.
What would happen if
every single last one of us,
all the billions of souls,
human ones, alive,
all untethered
at the same time?
And what if we let our
untethered hearts
lead us to the destiny
we didn’t see
from all the chaffing from
the too tight tethering?
The vision I see is
something like a healthy,
humming, honey-bee hive
on our larger human scale.
Isn’t every working part
so individually, blissfully alive?
I suppose, if the goo is honey,
it's so much better than if it’s ****
or congealing blood.
That is, if we have to have goo, which
here on earth, yeah, I’m certain
it’s a universal law,
we really do need goo.
I questioned the Devi
and she only giggled.
I had to admit, she’s right.
Then, I accepted a goblet of
her sweet honey wine;
and it didn’t hurt all that much at all
growing the rest of my little wings.
Buzz, buzz, buzzing about
our wonderful beehive,
blissfully drunk on Mother’s
Divine Honey Wine.
Feb 4, 2022
Feb 4, 2022 at 8:24 PM UTC
Companies have established low wages
I haven’t seen anything like this since my ages
Hourly rates are at an all time low
The economy with no acceleration is moving ever so slow
Rents are so high
People are wondering if they will ever survive
It’s like a sting from a beehive
However, the word Permanent is now called Temp
The cost of living simply went
Yet how are people suppose to survive
A new wave with good news has come to shore
It’s called “Entrepreneur” for you to explore
People need a new plan being their own Entrepreneur
But it takes time to establish
Once your Entrepreneur business is up and running
Now you will need a Dynamic Advertising Campaign that will be stunning
People need to know who you are with your business
Don’t forget the business cards
Once again, it takes time in getting the business on its way
But don’t stall nor delay
Kiss the Corporate world goodbye
Now give Entrepreneur a try
Corporate compensation low
Today it is Entrepreneur being the flow
Corporate world continues too have their own agenda
Welcome to Entrepreneur for you to enter
So worry no more
Be your own Boss for sure
Entrepreneur is knocking for you to explore
If Entrepreneur was something you always wanted to do, don’t put off and just pursue
Corporate world salaries just don’t fit
It’s time for a Corporate quit and let Entrepreneur be it.
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 11:44 AM UTC
*ᚹᚨᛚᛖᛋ - alphabet above the ᚱᚻᛁᚾᛖ... bereft a cleaving for worth of fortitude, or Liverpool: so too the strongman for bow and two finger F; chisel the ******* bracket or ah into stone correctly, or i'll make you stake a thousand men's' worth of dough worthy of death, nation building etc.*
above the Rhine,
at least that's
my Austrian welcoming,
playfriends my beehive
**** the longship.
i said sooth
nearing rune toward Sweden
of Poland or Germania -
ALPHA BETUM, BETUM
try a care begotten a coliseum!
** SALVAGE DIE *** STIRRUP!
TO A *** RIDE! RIDGE A COLLAPSE
OF ROME! salvage it with Bach...
or else, the death-man's symphony,
you Welsh *****
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC
Freedom was close to me.
She never did want me to see.
A pain undone
That nobody could bear to run.
I went to a few concentration camps.
There were several big lamps.
They searched in the dark black nights.
They held all my frights.
Then came my pebbles.
One was round and marble smooth.
There was no dull for its color shone
I bid farewell to the dullness of life and the dullness of prison.
Size was fair in my twisted little game.
Pebble One. Pebble Me.
Pebble Two. Pebble Brother.
Pebble Three. Pebble Mother.
Pebble Four. And Pebble Father.
One was found. I saved my life.
Two was found. Welcome Brother.
Three was found. Hello, Mother.
Where was Four?
I would bother to save my Father.
There it was.
My hidden rocks.
One, two, three and four.
Some say that there is tricky feat called a cheat.
That is not what I am.
To cheat means one is beat.
I am not what beat is.
I am what a treat is.
Mother shall have her house.
Brother shall boast in his bed.
I will have all the bread.
Father will have freedom that is not forlorn.
The pebbles are what kept us alive.
It is as if we are stuck under a beehive.
One came out to sting.
With that sting it took every single thing.
The Russians came after many years.
I would have cried but I had no tears.
My life was fuller.
My soul gained strength.
Marion B.
Had the strength to know when to flee.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
today i saw a row of schoolchildren at an airport
observing the beehive from the outside
they have never touched the skyline
they have never been inside
they live on the outskirts of this city
their lives are a contrast to mine
i could see the wonder painted on their faces
they were dreaming
in their private minds
they had become more than school children
they were a part of the city
they had a seat on the plane
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
i sat alone
collecting my thoughts
i was caught up in
a beehive of an evening
infested with dreams
drunken feelings
fixed catalysts
kick starting the slow burn
down to our cells
chemicals mixing
+ im overreacting
as i imagine half my life
hanging from the ceiling
WE'RE ALL JUST CHEMICALS MIXING
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 2:08 PM UTC
***Read the fourth stanza whichever way you want to, one column, two columns, one full stanza, etc.
Freedom was close to me.
She never did want me to see.
A pain undone
That nobody could bear to run.
I went to a few concentration camps.
There were several big lamps.
They searched in the dark black nights.
They held all my frights.
Then came my pebbles.
One was round and marble smooth.
There was no dull for its color shone
I bid farewell to the dullness of life and the dullness of prison.
Size was fair in my twisted little game.
Pebble One. Pebble Me.
Pebble Two. Pebble Brother.
Pebble Three. Pebble Mother.
Pebble Four. And Pebble Father.
One was found. I saved my life.
Two was found. Welcome Brother.
Three was found. Hello, Mother.
Where was Four?
I would bother to save my Father.
There it was.
My hidden rocks.
One, two, three and four.
Some say that there is tricky feat called a cheat.
That is not what I am.
To cheat means one is beat.
I am not what beat is.
I am what a treat is.
Mother shall have her house.
Brother shall boast in his bed.
I will have all the bread.
Father will have freedom that is not forlorn.
The pebbles are what kept us alive.
It is as if we are stuck under a beehive.
One came out to sting.
With that sting it took every single thing.
The Russians came after many years.
I would have cried but I had no tears.
My life was fuller.
My soul gained strength.
Marion B.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
head split apart
erupting galaxies
cheshire smiles
hanging within
a bubbling atmosphere
too bent and deformed
to house life
but dead beating hearts.
stuck inside a beehive
with stinging ringing
rubbed raw skin.
a yellow
fever
running rampant.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
~
"memory runs back farther than mythology."
two years,
two months,
and two days,
in a cabin they built
near Walden Pond.
on a mission of gravity,
the heavens forming a spotlight
on centrifugal force,
abroad the hollow mind,
chronically untethered.
"I went to the woods to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms..."
this ship's captain was an architect,
but her starblazing failed
to break ground,
so this life is now a structure settled upon sand,
and way out yonder,
where there is
no blade of grass,
just weeds growing out from under the floor.
but her daughters are
grinning magnets,
passionate machines.
"copy that?...," asks Houston.
she takes a long, hard swallow,
the shadow of a bell
inspiring the astronaut in her
to shoot for incapable stars,
but the bell she hears now
is that of an alarm clock
telling her it's time to wake up:
shoulders straight.
hands free.
arms strong.
fingers stiff.
chronically untethered.
she's not looking for new days,
she is a new day,
compacted out of water,
tired of changing real estate
and showering with
other people's success.
those loud kids, her kids, play
down the hall, in the beehive.
radio jargon's on full blast too
and telling her where
to buy and sell today's instant pleasure.
she's busy now with self-stimulation,
Betty Dodson Method,
then mixing orange powder
with 100 year old whiskey
kept in the lunar module:
it's a spacewalk to eternity, faster-than-light:
she sees broken pool tables
and backyard swings.
she sees 'ordinary'
checked off on the calendar.
she sees 'happiness'
hiding in an old photo of Murphy's Camp.
she wakes to
her husband, Houston,
in a holding pattern,
she feels him moving, whispering,
and touching something
far off inside of her,
but not moored
in a specific time or place.
in search of where
she now exists
(if she even existed at all),
her memories feel artificial
in that she lacks
the emotional attachment
that comes with
actually having lived them.
there are no answers, no choices.
only reactions.
it is always going to be
that broken state of things:
these days of heaven,
chronically untethered.
"only that day dawns to which I'm awake. there is more day to dawn, I suppose. and like us, the sun is but a morning star upon being dreamed into existence..."
~
Jul 25, 2022
Jul 25, 2022 at 9:19 PM UTC
Mother's pride
My mom taught me how to tie me laces
She taught me how to cry
I used to comb her hair back and
Make it look
beehive
She used to bring me ice cream
Whenever I was ill
And fetch me favorite teddy
I'd cuddle him
Big Bill
We'd snuggle on the sofa
Or play a game of cards
she'd shown me what
love is
Unconditional
Her cakes were something heaven sent
And gone before the night
My clothes all ironed
Socks and pants
we always wondered why
She'd cook me dinner
Shepherds pie
With pudded rice to follow
Fighting for the burnty bits
A battlefield did follow
I'd come in bleeding
Knee all red
A soothing voice
A mothers gift
Unconditional
I'm proud to call my mom
Eh mom
I'm proud to be her son
I'm proud she gave me
Everything
Unconditional
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
Warning: This is not a nursery rhyme for the fainthearted.
The promise lit by life,
Was actually lit by your lies.
Owwwww!
My forehead is mine I am made to realize,
Realization comes painfully when I bang the wall.
Sssssssssss!
****** I am hurting myself but that's all,
Never stupidly brave enough to actually finish it.
FREE ME!
I request that entity to let me live my life,
Cursed wasn't how I wanted to survive.
Ouch!!
The misgivings are just that bit too much,
As though a beehive fell on my head as much.
BANG-BANG-BANG!!!
I bang my head to the tune which I play,
And I am unable to bang it on a wall.
Peace is what I get finally
Cursed is how I live my life every day,
Talking to walls like concentrated prisoners.
I dare you to swap it with me!
Yes! Swap your life with me right now,
If you can't walk with me for the mile.
Whispers
The mile I dreamt with you,
The smile you promised,
The mile of my life.
Forget about it
I'm just joking about the swap,
I'm no Devil,
You can't live how I live because,
It's my life,
And I'm happy with as much I got,
I've to breath alone,
There must be some serious curse on me,
I accept that curse.
Loving people and then losing them is a ritual,
I must live alone like a hermit.
But you can live on talking only with the darker,
Idol-worshiping him only.
Enjoy with his pictorial representations & idols,
Only one darker idol can you find.
This is why I averse myself from idol-worshiping,
Because it destroys relations.
I lost not only my telephonic-best friend,
But also my real life best friends started avoiding me.
Not an idol-worshiper is a blasphemous term,
In her religion, in Hinduism.
It destroys relations if you start loving your idols,
And if you even start living like your idols.
You never did quite understand what Ishwar/Bhagwan/Rabb/God actually meant.
All the best with your Kanhaiya,
I wish you all the happiness,
And hope that He gives you what I couldn't,
Let your imagination work wonders for you.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 2:08 AM UTC
When you weaned me from the waning moon,
its milky cusps, winking welcome
moods of starry surrender, I was lost
to my reflection rearranged
roughly on the window's pane.
Don't take flight yet, you said,
*first take the light's left hand
and keep it from the misbehaving oak,
its frightening reach.*
*There are beehive-capped angels
swinging there beneath, and they're angling
to gather moony souls
together in false hope.
Their absent promise is absolute,
and absolution.*
*They'll utter their nothings,
utterly sweet, if you let them,
and lull you with their yellow tongues.
Fly away with this light you now hold
and risk the falling.*
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC