"bole" poems
MAI BAHV SUCHI UN BHAVO KI
JO BIKE SADDA HI BIN TOLE
TANHAI HU HAR US KHAT KI JO
JO PADHA GYA HAI BIN KHOLE
HAR AANSU KO HAR PATTHAR TAK
PAHUNCHANE KI LACHAR HUK
MAI SAHAJ ARTH UN SABDO KA
JO SUNE GYE HAI BIN BOLE
JO KABI NAHI BARSA KHUL KAR
HAR US BADA L KA PANI HU
LAV-KUSH KI TEER BINA GAYE
SITA KIA RAM KAHANI HU
MAI BHAV SUCHI UN BHAVO KI.
............
KI JINKE SAPNO KE TAJ MAHAL
BAN NE SE PAHLE TUT GAYE
JI HAATHO ME DO HAATH KABHI
AANE SE PAHLE CHUT GYE
DHARTI PAR JINKE KHONE AUR
PAANE KI AJAB KAHANI HAI
KISHMAT KI DEVI MAAN GYE
PAR PRANAY DEVETA RUTH GYE
MAI MAILI CHADAR WALE US
KABIRA KI AMRIT VANI HU
LAV-KUSH KI TEER BINA GAYE
SITA KKI RAM KAHANI HU
KUCH KAHTE HAI MAI SEEKHA HU
APNE JAKHMO KO KHUDSEE KAR
KUCH JAAN GYE MAI HASHTA HU
BHEETAR BHEETAR ANSU PEEKAR
KUCH KAHTE HAI MAI HU VIRODH SE
UPJI EK KHUDAAR VIJAY
KUCH KAHTE HAI MAI MARTA HU
KHUD ME JEEKAR KHUD ME MARKAR
LEKIN MAI HAR CHATURI KI
SOCHI SAMJHI NADANI HU
LAV-KUSH KI TEER BINA GAYE
SITA KI RAM KAHANI HU...
WRITTEN BY :::::: SHASHANK KUMAR DWIVEDI
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 8:11 AM UTC
Mai bhav suchi un bhavo ki
jo bike sada hi bin tole
Tanhai hu har us khat ki
jo padha gya h bin khole..
Har aanshu ko har patthar tak
pahuchane ki laachar huk
Mai sahaj arth un sabdo ka
jo sune gye h bin bole..
Jo kabhi nahi barsha khul kar
har uss badal ka paani hu
Lav-Kush ki teer bina gaye
Sita ki Ram kahani hu..
Ki jinke sapno ke Taj -Mahal
ban ne se pahle tut gaye
Jin haatho me do haath kabhi
aane se pahle chut gaye
Dharti par jinke khone aur
paane ki ajab kahani h
Kishmat ki devi maan gye
par pranay devta ruth gaye..
Mai maili chadar wale uss
Kabira ki amrit vaani hu
Lav-Kush ki teer bina gaye
Sita ki raam kahani hu..
Kuch kahte hai mai sikha hu
apne jakhmo ko khud see kar
Kuch jaan gaye mai hashta hu
bhitar bhitar aanshu peekar..
Kuch kahte hai mai virodh se
uppji ek khuddar vijay
Kuch kahte hai mai marta hu
khud me jeekar khud me markar..
Leekin mai har chaturai ki
sochi samjhi naadani hu
Lav-Kush ki teer bina gaye
Sita ki Ram kahani hu
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 8:23 AM UTC
It is December in Wicklow:
Alders dripping, birches
Inheriting the last light,
The ash tree cold to look at.
A comet that was lost
Should be visible at sunset,
Those million tons of light
Like a glimmer of haws and rose-hips,
And I sometimes see a falling star.
If I could come on meteorite!
Instead I walk through damp leaves,
Husks, the spent flukes of autumn,
Imagining a hero
On some muddy compound,
His gift like a slingstone
Whirled for the desperate.
How did I end up like this?
I often think of my friends'
Beautiful prismatic counselling
And the anvil brains of some who hate me
As I sit weighing and weighing
My responsible tristia.
For what? For the ear? For the people?
For what is said behind-backs?
Rain comes down through the alders,
Its low conductive voices
Mutter about let-downs and erosions
And yet each drop recalls
The diamond absolutes.
I am neither internee nor informer;
An inner émigré, grown long-haired
And thoughtful; a wood-kerne
Escaped from the massacre,
Taking protective colouring
From bole and bark, feeling
Every wind that blows;
Who, blowing up these sparks
For their meagre heat, have missed
The once-in-a-lifetime portent,
The comet's pulsing rose.
8.1k
Drinking my tea
Without sugar-
No difference.
The sparrow *****
upside down
--ah! my brain & eggs
Mayan head in a
Pacific driftwood bole
--Someday I'll live in N.Y.
Looking over my shoulder
my behind was covered
with cherry blossoms.
Winter Haiku
I didn't know the names
of the flowers--now
my garden is gone.
I slapped the mosquito
and missed.
What made me do that?
Reading haiku
I am unhappy,
longing for the Nameless.
A frog floating
in the drugstore jar:
summer rain on grey pavements.
(after Shiki)
On the porch
in my shorts;
auto lights in the rain.
Another year
has past-the world
is no different.
The first thing I looked for
in my old garden was
The Cherry Tree.
My old desk:
the first thing I looked for
in my house.
My early journal:
the first thing I found
in my old desk.
My mother's ghost:
the first thing I found
in the living room.
I quit shaving
but the eyes that glanced at me
remained in the mirror.
The madman
emerges from the movies:
the street at lunchtime.
Cities of boys
are in their graves,
and in this town...
Lying on my side
in the void:
the breath in my nose.
On the fifteenth floor
the dog chews a bone-
Screech of taxicabs.
A hardon in New York,
a boy
in San Fransisco.
The moon over the roof,
worms in the garden.
I rent this house.
[Haiku composed in the backyard cottage at 1624
Milvia Street, Berkeley 1955, while reading R.H.
Blyth's 4 volumes, "Haiku."]
5.1k
Ek geet hotho par likhna
Yani saare geet hreeday ki
Meethi so choto par likhna...
Ek geet palko par likhna
Ek geet palko par likhna
Yani saare geet hreeday ki
Meethi si choto par likhna
Jaise -
Jaise chuv jata h koi
Kanta nange paow me
Jaise geet utar aate hai
Mere mann me gaao me
Jab v muuh dhak Leta hu
Teri julpho ke chhaon me
Kitne geet utar aate hai
Mere Mann me gaao me
Ki palke agar jhuki to jaise ×2
Dharti ke unnmad soo gye
Palke agar uthi to jaise
Bin bole sanwaad ** gye ×2
Jaise -
Jaise dhoop chunaria odhe
Aa baithi ** chhaon me
Jab bhi muh dhak Leta hu
Teri julpho ki chhaon me... ×2
Kitne geet utar aate h
Mere Mann me gao me... ×2
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
Raat meh jab aankh lage
Dil ka raang kaala
Khaboon mein tum aake
Apna ehsaas dilake
Hoonton ki pyaas bhujake
Ek lafs bole...."Kyun?"
Ab iis ek shabd ka jhawab nahi
Iis dil ki pyaas ka matlab nahi
Do jismoon ki batoon ki samaj nahi
Tho kab hum bas karen?
Kab iis kyun ko dafnaden?
Kab iss sawal ka jawab nah dhoonden?
Kab samje ke hum "hum" nahi ** sakthe?
s.q.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
Ek rukha aasman ...ek pyasi jameen...esi hi kuch hamarI khaani.. Dooor h bhut..par nazro me basein.. Rutha ** ek to duja kaise hasse..!! Aankhe ** jab uski nam.. To bheege hum b hurdum.. Kosis bht ki nzre churane ki..par hum toh the Unke dil me phasse..!! Aankho se hi wo izhaar kr gye ..or hum sochte rhe ...unse khe kaise... !! Alag hme b kuch krna..tha...to kuch esa kia.. Maanga jo usne hath toh hmne <3 dil hi de dia !! Waqt b kitna bewafa h bin bole hi nikal.gya... Or wo ret ki trh meri muthhi se fisal gya..!! Wo sapna tha ya hqiqat BS m sochti rhti hu.. Uss hwa ka jhoka h wo..jiske sang m aaj b bahti hu !!!!
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
Below are eleven Buson haiku
beginning with the phrase
'The short night--'
The short night--
on the hairy caterpillar
beads of dew.
The short night--
patrolmen
washing in the river.
The short night--
bubbles of crab froth
among the river reeds.
The short night--
a broom thrown away
on the beach.
The short night--
the Oi River
has sunk two feet.
The short night--
on the outskirts of the village
a small shop opening.
The short night--
broken, in the shallows,
a crescent moon.
The short night--
the peony
has opened.
The short night--
waves beating in,
an abandoned fire.
The short night--
near the pillow
a screen turning silver.
The short night--
shallow footprints
on the beach at Yui.
User Submitted "The short night--" Haiku
Submit your own haiku beginning with the line
"The short night--"
and we'll post the best ones below!
Just dash off an e-mail to:
[email protected]
The short night-
a watery moon
stands alone over the hill
Maggie
The short night--
just as I'm falling asleep
my wife's waking up
Larry Bole
3.4k
Thrill with lissome lust of the light,
O man ! My man !
Come careering out of the night
Of Pan ! Io Pan .
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Come over the sea
From Sicily and from Arcady !
Roaming as Bacchus, with fauns and pards
And nymphs and styrs for thy guards,
On a milk-white *** come over the sea
To me, to me,
Coem with Apollo in bridal dress
(Spheperdess and pythoness)
Come with Artemis, silken shod,
And wash thy white thigh, beautiful God,
In the moon, of the woods, on the marble mount,
The dimpled dawn of of the amber fount !
Dip the purple of passionate prayer
In the crimson shrine, the scarlet snare,
The soul that startles in eyes of blue
To watch thy wantoness weeping through
The tangled grove, the gnarled bole
Of the living tree that is spirit and soul
And body and brain -come over the sea,
(Io Pan ! Io Pan !)
Devil or god, to me, to me,
My man ! my man !
Come with trumpets sounding shrill
Over the hill !
Come with drums low muttering
From the spring !
Come with flute and come with pipe !
Am I not ripe ?
I, who wait and writhe and wrestle
With air that hath no boughs to nestle
My body, weary of empty clasp,
Strong as a lion, and sharp as an asp-
Come, O come !
I am numb
With the lonely lust of devildom.
****** the sword through the galling fetter,
All devourer, all begetter;
Give me the sign of the Open Eye
And the token ***** of thorny thigh
And the word of madness and mystery,
O pan ! Io Pan !
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Pan Pan ! Pan,
I am a man:
Do as thou wilt, as a great god can,
O Pan ! Io Pan !
Io pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Iam awake
In the grip of the snake.
The eagle slashes with beak and claw;
The gods withdraw:
The great beasts come, Io Pan ! I am borne
To death on the horn
Of the Unicorn.
I am Pan ! Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan !
I am thy mate, I am thy man,
Goat of thy flock, I am gold , I am god,
Flesh to thy bone, flower to thy rod.
With hoofs of steel I race on the rocks
Through solstice stubborn to equinox.
And I rave; and I **** and I rip and I rend
Everlasting, world without end.
Mannikin, maiden, maenad, man,
In the might of Pan.
Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan ! Io Pan !
3.2k
Oh, to be in England
Now that April’s there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children’s dower
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
3k
Gold shed upon suckling gold,
The time of the bole blackens,
Of the dark mounted through dapple,
While in the sealed apple
The seed cradled toward cold.
A gold on gold spent,
Put by from an elm in its years
Now its gilded of days,
Over turf’s dishevelment;
Where all which is green sickens,
All the fresh shall be sere.
All which is green sickens,
And it is but for a time
Those embered veinings blaze
A year’s delirium;
Or neared of other space,
Unportioned azure shall close
One of more, and which is,
One which goes.
Let the little pupils that will,
Of vision, gaze for salt
To whet their gazing, wit
In one weather is high
From burrow and lair, by
Nether providences’ default
An all’s accrued.
And apposite, beyond
Such primer beholdings, has
Its long accounting known
The beetle’s morsel thus
Was rich, and the slug’s bed on
The oak’s generations, deep
Over the lark’s bones.
In slough of Edens fast
Wit in one weather shall stand,
While millennia nibble at
The sensual apple
Toppled it net,
Plenty in the palm of the hand,
And the fallen not fallen, not lost
From out its certitude—
For our unbeggaring
Has been gross. Few and late
To cherish an immoderate
Wish, hope’s calculus,
Love’s hope; few to miss,
From natural tally ******
In the lime-girdled space
Of choice, where alone
Man can abandon what
Is only his own;
And in cold and tarrying
Their rearisers sleep:
While to the granite cheek
Light’s purples bring
Infinite their ministering,
And past our finial
And ragged crests, to keep
Time’s ambient stood,
Propose horizons from
Their shadowy quarries; while,
In an unwandered wood,
Or under the indifferent foot,
Is let fall, let fall a fruit,
Through eternal leisures down,
For but time’s unravelling.
2.9k
Aaja ab paas mere kahin der na ** jaaye,
Abhi pyar karne ki lagan hai kahin jindagi beet na jaaye,
Tu bhi kahin ehsaas to karta hi hoga ,
Chup chuo k meri chahat pe guroor to karta hoga,
Beet jaane k baad agar mere tu lautkar aaya,
To yaad rajhna kahin kho dene ka sadma tujhme na ubar aaye,
Nahi chahta mai k tere dil me gam e bahar aaye,
Aaja ab paas mere kahin der na ** jaaye....
Silsila rok de ab mujhse nafrat jatane ka,
Shabab gahra hoga mere dil se tere dil ko milane ka,
Khamosh hokar yun intjaar karna nahi acha,
Ab to bole do kahin chahne vala tera hamesha k liye khamosh na ** jaaye,
Din beet na jaayr kaali raat thahar hi na jaaye,
Betaabi badhti ja rhi hai yujhe paane ki,
Ab rok de intjaar k lamhon ko kahin bahut der na ** jaaye,
Aaja mere paas ab kahin der na ** jaaye.
May 10, 2019
May 10, 2019 at 6:50 AM UTC
He that had come that morning,
One after the other,
Over seven hills,
Each of a new color,
Came now by the last tree,
By the red-colored valley,
To a gray river
Wide as the sea.
There at the shingle
A listing wherry
Awash with dark water;
What should it carry?
There on the shelving,
Three dark gentlemen.
Might they direct him?
Three gentlemen.
"Cable, friend John, John Cable,"
When they saw him they said,
"Come and be company
As far as the far side."
"Come follow the feet," they said,
"Of your family,
Of your old father
That came already this way."
But Cable said, "First I must go
Once to my sister again;
What will she do come spring
And no man on her garden?
She will say 'Weeds are alive
From here to the Stream of Friday;
I grieve for my brother's plowing,'
Then break and cry."
"Lose no sleep," they said, "for that fallow:
She will say before summer,
'I can get me a daylong man,
Do better than a brother.' "
Cable said, "I think of my wife:
Dearly she needs consoling;
I must go back for a little
For fear she die of grieving."
Ask no such wild favor;
Still, if you fear she die soon,
The boat might wait for her."
But Cable said, "I remember:
Out of charity let me
Go shore up my poorly mother,
Cries all afternoon."
They said, "She is old and far,
Far and rheumy with years,
And, if you like, we shall take
No note of her tears."
But Cable said, "I am neither
Your hired man nor maid,
Nor your ape to be led."
He said, "I must go back:
Once I heard someone say
That the hollow Stream of Friday
Is a rank place to lie;
And this word, now I remember,
Makes me sorry: have you
Thought of my own body
I was always good to?
The frame that was my devotion
And my blessing was,
The straight bole whose limbs
Were long as stories-
Now, poor thing, left in the dirt
By the Stream of Friday
Might not remember me
Half tenderly."
They let him nurse no worry;
They said, "We give you our word:
Poor thing is made of patience;
Will not say a word."
"Cable, friend John, John Cable,"
After this they said,
"Come with no company
To the far side.
To a populous place,
A dense city
That shall not be changed
Before much sorrow dry."
Over shaking water
Toward the feet of his father,
Leaving the hills' color
And his poorly mother
And his wife at grieving
And his sister's fallow
And his body lying
In the rank hollow,
Now Cable is carried
On the dark river;
Nor even a shadow
Followed him over.
On the wide river
Gray as the sea
Flags of white water
Are his company.
2.5k
Languid lakes levitate my soul.
Mists hang low upon those hills,
While mountains scratch the surface of the sky.
The world is whole,
So full of thrills.
No time to reason why.
Galaxies spiral, out of control,
Stars swirling in milky swills.
Scenes I hope will never die.
Yet time, I’m sure, will take its toll.
And do whatever our God wills.
Oh no! I hear you cry.
Yet look at coal, or any tree bole.
And look at fields of daffodils.
Life’s next cycle is always nigh.
Paul Butters
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
a nacreous tossing around at
the sides, a dappled silver
sunlight if looked one way, an
apocalyptic gloam if another,
exhaled from a seeming
mouth, feeding on what has
already eviscerated an unfelt
***** a predator certainly its
own prey, a heat certainly
poison-breath on a cheek
falling when a meretricious
lover spouts that spurious
hypocorism, and also just a
wavering, iridescent puddle—
cornered, soft as a liquid steel
echo of a futile struggle
rolling around, bouncing off
a wine glass, and a porcelain
table edge, while a listening
head shakes, looks down
despondently, gloom glowing
out the hair, a voice jaded
since birth saying some
thing about differences, or a
helpless slender strap of hope
hanging itself on the way two
other eyes look at it across
checkered watered wings, two
swirling god whorls, two
effulgent galaxies the color of
melting pine bole circling
around in living umber striae,
pulling its gaze, raising it, as if
they, they were blazing truth
cased behind lithophane, and it,
only an aporetic puddle now
of tepid ocher, a mild earth
stone placed in a hand, asked
what is thought of it and the
response: yes, yes of course,
before foreign distance splutters
its face, and it retreats from
its meaning imparted to every
thing (with the vulnerable
precision of a swaying finger
tip) to the baby lanugo of a
delicate floating, through
human rills, of what is horizon
docked, dead, not merely
deciduous—forever jilted with
breath bulging as when beating
a flopping eyeless fish to
half-dead, head tilted up a
throat trying to pry itself
free, trying to live by
streaming snagless, airful,
without spirant sound of going
lost straight from the hands—
then a short chop of fullness
finally expunged and sputtering
like an escaped tuft of
shackled wonder soaring up
the sky in a puff and soul ring.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:43 PM UTC
Aaj murjhaye phul phir se khil gye,
U ghane badalon me bhi do dil mil gye,
Jiski tammna thi varso se hume,
Aaj Wo khushi ke pal bhi mujhe mil gye,
Kya gajab si khubsurati thi unke dil me,
Kya gajab Ki sararati aankhen,
Ye katilana andaaj me unka muskurana,
Bin bole kah gyi wo sari batein,
Bechain se dil ko aaj Wo sukun mil gye,
Sare sikwe,dard hum aaj bhul gye,
Jiske liye tarasati thi ye suni aankhen,
Aaj unhe dekh ye bhi bhar gye,
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 12:00 AM UTC
Redolent May sings,
lays of perplexing antique,
wooden rose flounders.
...
Fungi is in rout,
war of mushrooms is halted,
desolate treescape.
...
This is not a game,
the colours rest in spindles,
the flag is in truce.
...
Paragon of ice,
tractive glacier, no friction,
chronotropic death.
...
Scourged almighty sea,
symphonic ocean blasted,
tranced undertaking.
...
Mort, syphoned blood grass,
waving like entrails, flooded,
blood spins, grave now swims.
...
Gritty stagnant bole,
refurbished hybernation,
the scent come to play.
...
Reminiscent moon,
gather ye, encompassed light,
that we may know life
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 2:56 AM UTC
My visit to the toilet bole
To my surprise in a welcome of behold
The Tidy Bole Man said no flush
I asked the question what if this was a rush?
The Tidy Bole Man just said to me in hush
This could become an argument in fuss
So when nature calls what will I do?
I am scratching my head because I have no clue
The Tidy Bole Man with a mind of his own
His answer being my puzzled look in shown
A Tidy Bole restricted seat
Well this tells me the Tidy Bole Man needs to be beat
The aftermath I should just retreat
But my spoken words of I shall return
Nature’s movement in precise will be my urn.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
For this tree loves everybody
it is bright, it is lovely, it is … short
truncated yet hopeful
all the colours of the rainbow
This tree does not care who you ****
or what you put in to which hole
This tree has no holes, no cracked old bones
just a spectrum, a bole covered in a gentle bark
no reprimand, no judgement, an open elemental heart
It has no plateau of leaves to offer shelter
but it is here and it loves you whether
you care for the woods, for the rain or not
This tree loves everybody
Its bark is deep, it is cracked, it is flawed
and though it is aged and short, truncated
by fate and the nature of this place
it is unbowed echoing all that we hope
will come to pass, for this tree is yours
it grows all the colours of the rainbow
Let it brighten your grey sky grey day
Let it remind you that things may yet change
Let it smile for you when you can't raise
enough brightness inside to chase away
all that we've lost, all that we fight for
For this tree loves everybody
and so can we all,
so can we all,
so can we all
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC
Of course we’re born sad little creatures!
To be born, we had to have the picture
broken & bursted—for, being born, we’re
fragments of it. (But not just us born—all
of it that’s born…all of it’s fragments.)
Us, though, we found out about the pieces
(and that we’re them) so shock-hearted and
weary-eyed we joggle ourselves around,
and waggle and babble (because we can move
and talk to the other pieces, like you) in the
sedulous task of trying to see what picture we all
formed before we were born and to see
if we can’t form it again while born and living.
And, also, inexorably, to see like fateless
naked goggling chicken-children what part
we have—is it a sun’s ray, a cloud’s feather, a
grass blade, or is it just the indistinguishable
shade of unctuous bole that’s laid there
almost smeared in between? I’m not quite sure,
our tabs seem flexible enough, and to add
we’re whimsy little interlockers, so no wonder
we’ve been going on billions of years now.
At this point it’s probably give-up or never-end,
and both options, frankly, seem quite abominable.
I wonder if that’s what it says on the box,
right above “meant for children” and “small
parts dangerous choking hazard.” But the
question is what to do when you’ve realized a
piece has been missing, always been missing,
and probably more. (Oh, and for after, you can
ask if it was never put there in the first place,
and why)—do you just imagine, then? I mean,
just that—just imagine the whole thing, after all
the fuss been going on to hold hands and make it out?
I’m telling you, I bet the sucker is something else
entirely, like something I don’t even know what,
but different—crazy different, I bet. And it’s
probably why they didn’t want to include it,
those ponzies—we wouldn’t choke on that one.
Not that piece. Still, though, I hope it says on the box.
I hope it at least tells you something on the box.
Wait, where’s the box? What box?
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
Kabhi phir se, aajao
"bas mere banke."
Sare taar cher jaao,
"soone man ke".
Paas betho, kuch to batao.
Usi ada se, muskurao.
Jo tum rutho, hum mana le.
Tere nakhre, bhi utha le.
Vo akad me, kya ada thi.
Teri narazgi b, maza thi.
Ji bhar k, dekhlu
Aja phir se, ban than ke.
Kabhi phir se, aajao
"bas mere banke."
Sare taar cher jaao,
"soone man ke".
Tu bhi mna le, kabhi jo roothe.
Chore de tere, tewar ye jhoothe.
Koi dekhe tuje, mera jalna.
Uff ye bekhauf,tera chalna.
Bin ruke tere bole jana.
Mile jo ankhein, palkein jhukana.
Kitni batein, hai adhuri..
Nyi yadein, hai zaroori.
Chadhi collar, teri gira de.
Fold sleeves,unfold kara de.
Gala laga ke, band kardu.
Teri shirt k jo, khule button the.
Kabhi phir se, aajao
"bas mere banke."
Sare taar cher jaao,
"soone man ke".
# BJ writes
# bj diaries
# incomplete
Sep 17, 2020
Sep 17, 2020 at 10:21 PM UTC
pumice
peat
mulch
humus
leaf mold
clod
loam: a rich, friable soil containing a relatively equal mixture of sand and silt and a somewhat smaller proportion of clay.
marl: Geology. a friable earthy deposit consisting of clay and calcium carbonate, used especially as a fertilizer for soils deficient in lime.
argil: clay, especially potter's clay.
bole:
noun
1.
any of a variety of soft, unctuous clays of various colors, used as pigments.
2.
a medium red-brown color made from such clay.
clutch
kaolin
loess: a loamy deposit formed by wind, usually yellowish and calcareous, common in the Mississippi Valley and in Europe and Asia.
slip
till: a stiff clay, a glacial drift of clay, sand, gravel, and boulders
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC
The white-breasted nuthatch
upside down the ancient bole.
If it has no soul, neither do I.
Pencils criss-crossed on the desk,
sticks tangled on the ground.
Oblong lenticels, yellow stars.
We try to worship the divine
in our ****** partners. They **** and sweat diurnally
and fear their deaths. But the abstract
God has also died. He lied to say he was
eternal. Earth must burn, universe grow cold.
Old field species become ornamentals.
Mosquitoes prey on us, and black flies.
The body decays, and this is what you come
to love. And the ants that carry it away.
This morning, the profusion of species
contents me. The temperate zone is warm, late May.
The posture of that bird is good to emulate.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
your warm heart
is the pulse of my life
the sweetest speech is when
i speak to you anna
my salvation
my destiny
the sweetest blood is
your blood anna
your warm heart
is the pulse of my life
the pulse of my life
is your warm heart
my savior
my salvation
the pulse of our lifes
are our hearts
travel with me
i will take you away
forever anna
anna forever
a: absolute love
n: neverlanddreams
n: no other woman
a: absolute love
your name is a
frame
your reflection a
painting
anna+tizzop
tizzop+anna
and this white page has become a bole
our lovenames are engraved in wood
and wood never sinks in water
Dec 5, 2019
Dec 5, 2019 at 5:51 AM UTC
I can't blame the teenage girl for being forward,
then passive aggressive. It shouldn't make one angry;
she has her interests and that which bores her.
Or the adolescent boy for being antsy, a little loopy
and aloof. Under that hat he wants to be good,
is deeply disappointed with the world (and the food).
Robert Francis: the finest poet no one reads.
We care not. Such prisms of philosophy need
no acknowledgment. The catamount is only believed
to be extinct. The wildlife tree, a mere bole,
deep in the forest, far off the road, when it falls
takes many squirrel turbines and spider spans down with it.
Noon, Julian has nothing much to do
and likes it that way. That way nothing much gets done today.
Every man, every tree, lives with disabilities.
Crooked finger, rotten bole, under stars, over soils.
The I in my old poems is no longer me. The one
in this one will be someone else soon.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 10:26 AM UTC