"congregating" poems
Today, is an overcast, sky-filled grey, autumn day. Nevertheless, the colors are still holding out as the leaves are making their last hurrah in the parade of changing their look. Therefore, I was not bothered by the gloomy looking weather. And on my way to the health food store-- high up among the telephone poles--I spotted the sight of three parallel wires full of birds, perched side-by-side. as if connected.
I am not sure what kind of birds they were, but they lined those wires, brown and thick, like ants on a sugar stick. And they must of huddled there for warmth and security, comrades of instinct and survival. Indeed, they surely seemed fine with their electric perches, with no intent on flying off, congregating contentedly.
With too much human expansion, it seems, I surely do wonder and am at awe at the magnificence of nature, this being a small example. Birds, as fragile as they often look--they haven't a thick coat of fur to warm their feathery bodies--do not appear fit for the cold--not for a second. And many fly to the South for winter. But there they were--bird after bird after bird--just hanging out up there, as if their temporary hangout was wired and strung just for them. This surely is a common sight, and is not supposed to be a big deal , but I found it special enough to keep in mind, important enough to return home to later record in word. It is akin to me witnessing geese flying in a V-shape pattern, or hearing the melodic calling of a bird to a potential mate, of viewing a mother bird feeding her young in the bird house that I have provided outside my door. Or it reminds me of last year, on a snowy night in the Christmas season. when I was amazed by the sound of birds outside of KFC--of a bunch of sparrows that were just chirping away, arranged in a tree like living Christmas ornaments. I don't ever want to take this stuff for granted, for it becomes easy to do so in the maze of life we often have.
With just this small example, today. I am reminded of how wonderful and majestic this earth truly is. Nature surely is a feast for the eyes, as well as for nourishment for the body. For me, it is medicine for the soul, sanity for the mind, music to the ears, as well as a stimulating journey in awe and beauty in the wildlife, grand landscapes, fragrant flowers and abundant plant life. Who can say otherwise?
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 5:16 PM UTC
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Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
having decided that your duty is to bring music
and a little bit of danger to the lifeless streets
of suburbia, you draw yourself up as a rebel with a cause,
hold your arms out like the spirals of the milky way,
sending the glowing children congregating around you
into a feverish whirl, because space is curved
and so are the suburbs you traversed across to bring them here,
winding through hills and streets to conduct
this sermon on a mount, so even the things that
appear to move straight are really spinning around.
you have stolen your father’s turntable,
and his old records, and his oversized coat,
and while the sunset begins to stain things
in a golden light, you put the needle
on the vinyl and open old wounds
while the only voice you have ever loved
claws its way out of the box and into
the grooves of the sky, making the stars
scratch and whir, and time instead
settles into the beats, breaks its lineage,
and begins to, like everything, spin.
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 1:47 AM UTC
I effortless pass through water
like gliding through a silky air.
And as you all sail through life
you all sparkle with the idea
of being near.
As I am ultimate wisdom that
comes in the form of joy and play.
As the decks are silent splashes of
water all over your faces.
Then suddenly you all cry,
" THE DOLPHINS ARE HEAR"
A tingly excitement every where
as though walking on a bubbly
carpet.
Everyone congregating at the
side of the boat hoping to catch
a bit of magic.
Gasps and shrills as bounce and
burst out of the water along side
your boat.
People stretching reaching as I offer
a new hope the light of GOD.
And when they return to the shore the
story of the Dolphins like church bells
ringing travels through the town.
As everyone longs for Holy spirit they
are eager to hear the story.
As they learn about the Dolphin
that came to there town they want to
know who actually touched it.
I am the spirit that visits the holy as
I love those who are full but also
empty.
I come to those brought to the edge
who stared down the cliff
but did not jump, as they chose life.
And to those who's world said no with
all doors closed because only they can
listen.
I come to those who have lost all will because
only those let me carry them.
I come to those who are broken
as only they can be molded
I bring you many colours and inspiration
sometimes I will make you dance and
sometimes sing.
I am the Pentacost, holy Ghost and your
Jesus Christs holy spirit.
Sometimes when you swim softly through
sweet watery emotion you will hear us talking.
When you think all is lost
you find yourself praying
even though you think no one is there
I will be listening.
Feel like you are drowning grab my
dorsal fin and I will give you a lift
even make you laugh, make it fun
even exciting.
Lost at sea sharks prowling I will circle you
as I will even fend of death for as I can
also heal you.
Some will pen me in keep me in a
small tank tech me a childish trick
and manipulate.
But only those bigger than pools
more like the sea will know I have
greater tricks to teach.
As only those without plan and expectation
can ever swim with me.
As I will guide you on your hearts
adventure into the free.
We will always love and seek to guide
you as we look for you in the sea and
gather around you in the bay.
We will teach you how to channel to
have an open mind to breath spirit
through your head.
And I will teach you how to be both
the radio and the wave.
How to be father Christmas, the chimney
and the presents underneath the tree.
So if you are needing help please
look over hear we are listening.
let yourself be empty and we will guide you.
There is so much to learn from communicating
and swimming with the Gods spirit, the Dolphin.
So let us connect with God heaven and the Dolphin
And be grateful for all her LOVE.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 7:36 PM UTC
It started when I looked at the clock:
9:17
The coffee maker convinced me to stay
Had I planned to leave?
Yes, of course, the channel
I left it on
She's there. Again?
Wait, I heard that!
Who's there?
#*“Could find my way to Marianna---ahah--ah”
The sine wave! That's it!
I left them in the car.
These fibers are congregating
They want to get me,
But I am just a flea!*
It started when I looked at the clock:
9:18
I sat down with Earth and ate Earl's burrito
Saturn bent down and showed me tomorrow
The radio crackled as the molecules throttled
^“We're all Immigrants and hypocrites, delusionals and sycophants”
I saw my fingers start to disappear
Then my hands, my arms
Even my ears! My EARS!
I loved those ears...
It started when I looked at the clock:
9:16
They're here, aren't they?
Radio crackles, you heard them!
They're audible!
(3333333)
The gorilla near the out goes strut, strut, strut
I felt the universe collapse inside my gold tux
Could you watch my fish for me?
Marked stuff borrowed from:
# Pixies- Wave of Mutilation
^Star ******* Hipsters- Immigrants and Hypocrites
I felt like it, that's why.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 6:47 PM UTC
roaring fiery flames
fill the empty void
inviting colors of ambers and golds ablaze
the room animates
different atmospheres of coziness
sitting back in retrospection
flickering fire entertains
with each crackling octave
creating peacefulness and calm.
whilst the flames aglow
playing Chopin
sipping cognac
burning scented candle of pine and rosemary
watching the felines and canine
congregating together harmoniously
mesmerized by flames
coruscating shadows on the walls
flames succumb catatonically
embers retire for the night.~~lorilynn
copyright*lorilynn 2010
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 6:23 AM UTC
Blank
They stare at me
Oblivious
To the rage below
Congregating in corners
They plot against me
Sadistically
Blocking out the world
Chained
Voice eludes my tongue
Hoarse from silence
Deafened by its echo
Determined
My will hammers away
Rhythmic
I will not succumb
Heart beats or sledge strokes?
I will break free
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 5:09 AM UTC
The glint of a gold coin discarded and under a hedge.
The unmistakeable ***** and ****** of the shrapnel congregating at the bottom of my pocket.
I can find any combination of currency in a lovely jingle jangle of metallic discs.
The cashier slips me a note and some change on top which spills onto the counter.
A 10 pence piece tries an audacious spinning escape morphing into a ball.
The change rattles again as it all settles at the bottom of my pocket after dropping in the new recruits.
I slide the discoloured crinkled creased five pound note into my leather wallet nicely nestling next to a ten pound note.
I love the smell of ***** money!
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 3:14 AM UTC
it's not a memorisable lullaby, i don't want to write poetry that requires memorisation by school children; perhaps a riddle, perhaps a jigsaw, perhaps an awakening after the words dig in from their arrangement into your own usage, distinguished.
these days, someone on a social
strata of being absolved
might require a concerned dis-involvement
from nouns, and thus juggle
the pronouns, over-use pronouns
to remain politically accurate and sound,
for to replace nouns with pronouns
would bleach people, entrapped
in the constant affirmative of something
they once owned but were dispossessed of,
they do that, they stress the usage of pronouns
by a relief a diet of noun usage,
so that a Pakistani dare not use
the associations of the noun that might
decipher his skin as cinnamon in writing,
unless it be pronoun inclusive and noun exclusive,
so as modern society teaches:
become pronoun users with a few distinguishing
nouns congregating, don't learn carboxylic,
don't learn onomatopoeia... keep up with
the bleak egoism that states: not so much self-interest,
but over-pronoun-use and a lack of nouns,
or if used, reduced to quizzes of crosswords
with antonyms and synonyms pronounced;
he who confesses to censoring noun usage
will control the pronoun category
by usurping noun usage freely with a censored usage
that will only provoke counter-nouns / slang /
encoding / the need for surveillance.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
Poisoned people-
plagued by an unwanted disease,
cast away for reasons unbeknownst to even themselves.
Poisoned people-
plagued by unfortunate chemicals,
thrown away after their real identities are found.
Poisoned people-
congregating in their contaminated communities,
hoping to cure each other,
by the will of their own hands.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:32 PM UTC
*Without you, without the flirty melancholy,
Without your memory, without love poetry,
Which from leaf to leaf sets off
Into yellow crisps, and sad crimson,
Congregating somewhere,
Crackling at every strut, a pixie,
Graceful, treading on,
I will, I would seem as though the root,
Which, in vain, motions its longing,
Long arm, no hand, nor palm,
A lone finger, saying that I miss you,
No wind to disintegrate, no lungs,
A heart, meditative of emptiness,
Dreaming of carpentry.
The dormant doormat of yours,
Even that, could not welcome me,
Without you.
Without you, it is only you
That moves, not me,
Not even time.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 8:36 PM UTC
I pondered the world around me
Looking
Staring
Around to what was seen,
Then I happened upon a bird
"Just sitting watching me"
I waved once,
I waved twice,
It just put it head to the side
Maybe to get a better angle on me,
It tweeted
And left, the last I thought to see,
But where one once was, now I count
Two
Three
Four
Five now perched upon the fence
On the tree, I was getting a
"Alfred Hitchcock"
Vibe, with all little eyes looking at me,
I smiled an awkward grin, teeth did show
Scattered to the wind,
I closed my eyes, noises
Singing awoke a slumbering me,
Six,
Seven,
Eight,
More birds, sitting on the fence,
But also congregating on the branches of the tree,
I waved once more,
Eyes watching upon me,
This is getting creepy
So I stood on all fours licking my teeth
And purred a
"QUESTION"
"Why do you congregate"
"And watch from a far upon me"
Tweeted words sung out to me,
"It just catches our attention that you being a cat"
Not once,
Not twice,
But three
"Times you have waved at us sitting"
Upon a fence,
Upon a tree,
"Childish games of youth"
I purred back,
I have a good life, I am not as wild
as you think, I wave to say hello
To listen to you sing,
"I walk up to the fence"
Pat once then two on the head you see,
"But there is a moral to this tale"
"What is that the birds sing"
As with reflects to fast to see
Not one
Not two
But three
Birds in mouth, they fly, flutter away
And with a mouth full I say
"Don't believe in what you hear or see"
"Were just more sneaky now"
Now shoo be gone, unless you wish
To all so taste my teeth upon your bodies.. and they flee.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
paris...
no american in sight, or how i just see utopia...
songs on the steps of sacré-cœur, kissing
an american girl, then cheese and wine
next to the Eiffel tower, laughing, joking, trailing
and tailing off with talk of nabokov,
the nightclub scene with ping-pong ecstasy dances,
youth, youth, youth,
of youth that congregated once in those places,
parisian girls congregating for a game french hushes
with the chinese whispers and anglo comic charades
learned from the conquering normans...
paris back then, what wouldn't i have given for it,
but i learned of starving north,
where lecture upon lecture repeated david hume,
and i said:
it's the 21st century after all!
make edinburgh the new paris!
oh paris, but paris stay intact,
with the eiffel tower in my palm,
where all love met no love
but love met love all the more fictive,
written with a million reincarnations
that once told a tale of warring fractions known
as factions,
and it was told so: paris of my past where
i walked the streets with the compass height
ordaining coordinates that the tower was
to thus learn:
in times of panicky sentencing est mort,
people congregate in hawkish gaze
at monuments of their bone and marrow
turned into cement and irons of scaffold,
and there they congregate to ogle a new hope
when encouraged by a new fascination
of those that are less amazed by the phonetic
simplicity of animals than those who keep them.
oh paris, how i too wished things would have
remained a truer you begging truancy
from international press coverage,
how that one summer i became embedded
in taking to sleep on rock that felt like
woollen napkins filled with duck quills.
and in the memoriam altar two boys played
this song: as entombed by the title.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 8:46 PM UTC
it is now an anniversary in some places
some anonymous faces
are celebrating the birth of a son
a wedding that happened
some hapless eve in yesteryear
and we have our anniversary,
the one we call
9/11
thousands have penned poems about that day
usually struggling with what they had to say
I know I did
not because I was choking back tears
or harbored any fears
that more planes would crash into innocent green knolls
or ram New York’s majestic glass towers
but because of the…flowers…the flowers
cut and placed on hallowed ground
gently laid without a sound
the flowers
the flowers always pay a price
for an earthly sacrifice
placed at altars made high
and on empty caskets passing by
they neither whimper nor whine
and say not a wilting word waiting
for the anguished congregating
of those who need to find meaning
in the limits of fleeting flesh
the flowers have
long ago accepted their finite fate
but sadly it is often too late
for those who stand and weep
to somehow embrace the silent sleep
that will come to all
on anniversaries yet to be dated
and billions of others to be created
who will proudly build new towers
and need to cut sad wise flowers
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 2:38 PM UTC
The stars are congregating
Soap bubbles in your brain
I’m sorry but you might
Not be used to this terrain
You are driving through tunnels
Like boiled blood through a funnel
That you poured in the drain
I’ve seen a lot of people swear
That they were just unaware
Even though I saw the truth glaring
They’re pupils they stared
Through which I travel through dimensions
Like an interstate freeway
Dragging my heels on the space time
Grape vine state slide
Into a lick of diethylamide
An eyedropper of sorts
Through which the ego aborts
And spills a gallon of lies
A pool of despising cries
For some new pair of eyes
Thankful I’m still breathing smog
As if to clog up my thoughts
And stick a cork in the skies
The clouds are congregating
Like two puppets debating
To settle on another bucket
Of prefabricated rain
As thick as beauty magazines
Thinner than thighs of her dreams
Longer than love till she creams
Screaming and kicking in pain
Believing Christ is a savior
But he’s just last month’s flavor
An old stale life saver
It’s time to move on
From the shackles of becoming
A statistical input of population running
Carbon copy photos of shunning
The same solutions that arise
When we’ve burned down the sky
Will we have time to deny
Another child a life
To bury sunlight with strife
And settle off in the distance
Constructing walls of resistance
To the change that we’re riding on
Life that we’re gliding
And sliding three dimensional thoughts
Like time we we’re biding
Playing cards for a new way
to slowly decay
but I’m through with the new car
aggression and corner bar
depression and desperate
obsession to drool over movie stars
I’m out of the toll booth
And riding on rails
Of universal entrails
I follow loops in the same **** series
Of loose nails
Pulling a man apart
And attempting to reignite his heart
But my words are just seeds
Falling like ash in the breeze
And they land in your soil
And it’s up to your hands
To follow up with the toil
Of trading oil for light
Creating words out of sight
Lighting candles for the journey
As we enter the plight
There’s not a reason to fight
Just sit back and light up
A joint and call it a night
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 12:27 PM UTC
just inside the door
he gasps for air
laboring, I think, not to hold on
but to let go
his heaving, quickened shortness of breath
disheartening
each movement a moment in pain
his wizened face and body
recognizable
but so very hard to witness
the family is stronger than me
just inside the door
his mother and daughter
holding his hands
to give him whatever peace they can
not a comforting for themselves, but for him
one he can sense and feel and know
just outside the door
we wait with other waiters
groups of other families congregating
visiting and supporting loved ones
but mostly waiting
as death seems not impatient
just outside the door
people are talking and laughing
little children are playing
life goes on
as we hold back the tears
just inside the door
there is no hope for recovery
his cancer incurable
his suffering long
just inside the door
a drug induced peace
a restlessness
as hearts are kept waiting
to bid a final farewell
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 5:13 PM UTC
As I'm sitting, sitting waiting,
As all my thoughts are congregating,
I find my mem'ries to be tainting,
Forgetting about my Charlotte May.
At Minerva's School of Pristine Boarding,
We first began our timid courting,
And it was clear that she was hoarding,
My heart belonged to Charlotte May.
We got married in December,
Rung in the new year close together,
But soon after she got the letter,
The letter drafted Charlotte May.
They sent her back in shrouds of silver,
No longer living just to wither,
And her coffin made me shiver,
Deep in the ground was Charlotte May.
As I'm sitting, sitting waiting,
Lonely, lost, and always hating,
I realise my thoughts are fading,
Fading away like Charlotte May.
But I remain here, quite unchanging,
The scenes around me rearranging,
My days filled up with hoping, praying,
Until I reach the final day,
And I return to Charlotte May.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
It was a wild alto-wielding sax man, screeching with halted notes and dissonant disregard for the folks and their fortune that awoke the birds, and the unyielding flock would mask the sky as two lovers kiss on a bench with flaking paint. The shores are prevailing, the yoking eggs would seep through cracks in the counter while children squeal and leave stains on the walls. Walking through forsaken habitats and dingy rats are bastardising the progression of time and in turn, they confuse a poet as he composes the castigated texts of his forlorn memories.
It was here that piano keys shook the core of the Earth with trembling recompense, and furthermore would eventually seek to unify the tribes of long suffering lands into the rambling herd that stampede through river basins, with alphabets falling from their back pockets. Ah black sky, with your inherent displeasure and disquiet, why are you crying on me tonight? The stars are as despairing as I.
I take your hand and lead you through green-light flickering corridors, as the rats are congregating and confusing us once more. Water drops overhead and we fall into chasms of disparity, holding onto piping that scolds our waning fingers, leaving us foreboding and dumb. Numb to the illicit sirens and the implications of urban living. And your body is sullen, as the Antelope are liberated, but with woe I could feel the icy chill that radiates from you and your once heated body.
Tire tracks, hurried, and the rats find no suspect, so with wringing hands I step into the sunlight and feel the blue sky ramifications and remember your name.
Gravel track buried, the flocks would return to nest in romantic trees, and I find myself alone as the sun rescinds its gaze, placing me in darkness once more.
And the alto-man continues to sing through tubular declaration, as the steadily raging war provides rhythm to the desolate streets and I feel disconnected.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
perhaps the europens conducted
anthropological studies on the Amazonian
tribes, niche pockets of
a quirky corporation ethics -
perhaps...
but when one european looks
at another european,
and conducts his own anthropological
study?
who says i'm not conducting an
anthropological study of the English -
who are more deluded
as islanders than the ******* Icelandic
people, with regard to shared
roots...
traveled the world a bit too much...
brought back the elgin marbles
and several minor mummies...
but then... the Pakistani **** gangs...
whoop whoop! choo choo! train a' coming.
what? reality is not some brick
wall you get to impose with
what 19th century romanticism movement
was... a bout of nostalgia...
to me?
the english are...
collectively solipsistic - esp. in the south,
i'm sure it's different in the north...
but the southern english?
a strange breed of ego-bloating -
megalomania,
collective solipsism,
a shogun complex...
solipsism?
just a fancy word for autism...
i've seen flies congregating
on a **** appearing more sociable than
these people...
an englishman's home
is his castle...
yet when i own a castle...
they think i live in their castle's
dungeon, rather than my own home....
weird people... truly odd...
i'm pretty sure the english didn't
expect a covert anthropological study
to be taking place,
from behind a velvety almost see-through
curtain...
it's not like they have much
to feel proud about...
perhaps the minor instances
of selected sports at the olympics...
and all of this based on one example,
but of course, outside the proximity,
there's the multiplication factor,
i.e. it's most likely replicable elsewhere...
perhaps not football...
but anthropology is certainly coming home.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC
Our purest selves
Reaching deep
Warm and wild
Our blood thunders
Tearing through elastic highways
Driven by that rough, rubbery pump
Congregating like pack animals
Evolving thick as thieves
Rough and oily with dull wit and sharp tongues
Minds crackling with electric waste
Droning in the distance
Responding to wide signals
Follow follow follow
Driven by primitive urges and flights of fancy and pickling liquor
Rough clumsy fumblings in backseats
Stolen moments behind straight backs
Populations pour from our bodies
Often devoid of purpose
Leaving us with shredded dignity
And tired blue collar hands
Where our dreams come to an abrupt halt
It is all we can do to live in the present
For in being ill we have drawn a line through our future
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
These blue walls have been everything
Soon to be nothing
My possessions stay whole in my life
My persona is (mostly) intact
I still have the love of my cat
The feel of my soft blanket
The comfort of my books
And I can't comprehend why this doesn't give me strength
These grounds
O, the beautiful trees, planted by hands of the family
The flowers, the precious flowers
The graves of my protectors
Mikey
Jeffy
Chipper
The time capsule, planted for my enjoyment upon the day of graduation must now be prematurely returned to society
And it
Hurts
To hear my loved ones tell me this is petty, this is minute
Let me remind you of the gentle breeze on your cheek as you read a novel on the hammock
The crick that runs through our woods, the deer and morels that reside
The blackberry bushes on our hill, the view of the sunset few experience but us
Every night
The immaculate view of the heavens from our front porch
The sound of cicadas in mid June
The aroma of pine trees
The vibrations of frogs congregating in our swamp
The swamp itself, two to be exact
Have you even seen the second swamp?
I have
In fact, I've witnessed our slice of heaven repeatedly, I appreciate it
I love it
I live it
This is my ohm
This is my sanctuary
This is my religion
And like a conversion, this will be difficult
New rituals
New systems
New life
It's hard to respect the fact that this is necessary
In a way, it just feels
Frankly, unnecessary
As I lie in bed and think of all that I am about to
Lose
These blue walls feel constricting under the green roof, inside our barn shaped home
They feel sad for you, because
You will never understand the beauty within these 17 acres
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 9:32 PM UTC
For the fallen
The world is such a tormented place,
Haunted by the insecurities of every race.
Obsessed with greed and absolute power,
The dictators rained on the weak,
With a gun filled shower.
Brave men were enlisted to bring peace to the land,
To help the weak be strong and to make a stand,
Women and children were left abandoned, alone,
While their men were out fighting protecting our home.
Families shattered by one single blast,
Congregating together in one single mass.
Weeping beside a freshly dug grave,
Lay a widow wishing that he had not been so brave.
We will remember him always for his courage and valour,
By honouring his name in silence upon the eleventh hour.
Rest in peace my friend we are forever in your debt,
We will pray for you all.... lest we forget.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
Electrons vibrate in the air,
Musty and foul in his lair,
Spiders crawl up and rats march the floor,
He gets a knock on his door
Flashes of memories linger,
His heart pounds with anger,
He crumples in anguish,
Death was his only wish.
The daily digest bore him with the rituals of rage,
The day masqueraded as time ticked for his age,
The radio blurted out static messages,
The speeches were of rage.
He opens the door, infallible and absent-minded,
The figure stood 8 feet tall,
Cloak and scythe, the usual routine,
Red sharp eyes peek out with an icy gaze,
“You wanted to take a shot?”
They found him dead on the floor,
He took up more space than he ever wished for,
Flies congregating where once there was a face,
Today the photos show his daze
He was the star of the masquerade,
The news of the digest,
People marched by in a parade,
The tortured soul laid to rest
Vijaya Balan (2010)
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 3:54 AM UTC
Using another's inspiration for your inspiration
inspires only a certain formation
forming a gang for poetic stimulation
stimulates only a circle of relation
relative to your own congregation
congregating minds in a world of stagnation
stagnant thoughts like a writer's damnation
****** to reaching the same old destination
destined to be in your world of simulation
similar minds without much variation
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
The sound of cars driving by in the distance,
The sound of trains carrying passengers,
The sound of the night breeze dancing through leaves, making them rustle.
There are no stars in sight as I stare at my blank ceiling, a single bulb in the middle, fused.
I keep my eyes open and the darkness starts to swirl, fading at the edges and congregating at random spots.
The dryness in my throat somehow spreads to my eyes.
The stinging reminds me of soot and fire.
(Remember how you burned my lungs in a forest fire?)
My eyes start to water as I fight to keep staring at the darkness.
I refuse to fall asleep.
I refuse to return to the dreams abundant with your luring smiles, plagued with your careless whispers.
I refuse to wake up from those dreams with you.
I refuse to wake up to another cold morning without you.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 12:11 PM UTC