"consoled" poems
I don’t know if you know
I carry you
in an involuntary sigh
in a constant exodus of yearning
and in the frantic deepness of all
nostalgic thought, shaking time and distance
to place me near you
in the closeness of your warmth
remembered
I carry you in sorrow
precipitated
in the absence of your voice
and in the memory of your rib cage molded
in the shape of ardent weakness
my embrace
I carry you, the braille at the tip of my fingers
life drawn in lines on my left palm
and in the carcass of calm interrupted
by the pounding of a heart’s ill-time
I don't know if you know, but
I carry you in the crown of memories consoled
and in the spine of excess
where I fall, between involuntary sighs
defeated
in your skin remembered
from the confines
of the heart
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 2:46 AM UTC
remember the boy
you made fun of
3 years ago and
never stopped
he died today
and you went to his funeral
your heart beating
but his was not
you uttered sorry
you tried to push the blame
consoled yourself
saying you didn't mean it
the heavy weight
in your heart
it didn't leave you
you knew what you did
you started drinking
a bottle every night
but that was only
for starters
it extended
to several a night
until the day
you got hospitalised
karma, you thought
and boy were you right
it is karma
and it ****** you up.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 6:38 AM UTC
I hope to breast feed
Like a hungry baby
To be comforted and consoled
By a loving woman
As I **** the warm milk from her breast
What a delicious treat
Mmmmm I'm hungry
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
Devised by Cosmic Boss
Sourced by parents
Aided by obstetrician
Nursed by pediatrician
Nurtured by nutritionist
Counseled by sexologist
Treated by orthopedist
Stressed by physiotherapist
Directed by dietician
Nudged by nephrologist
Nerved by neurologist
Contained by cardiologist
Consoled by psychologist
Interspersed by dentist,
Sighted by ophthalmist
Conditioned by physiology
Terminated by mortuary
The inexorable Lifeline Express
Of hospitalized hospitality
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 6:42 AM UTC
I sat by the window and gazed out
at the rain falling down
in torrents and sheets.
The night was black as ink, save the stars;
barely visible behind thick storm clouds,
pinpricks of silver in the ebony scape,
as the rain continued to fall.
I thought of you, of the deliberation in your face
etched into every feature a painful, wavering resolve.
The decision before you:
two fates, the ending, or the prolonging of the time before the terminal predetermined.
I grieved as I remembered the pain in your eyes.
I know you too well. I have seen too much of you
for you to hide this from me. I broke
-a silent cry of realization, collapsing my furrowed brow into a contorted countenance
as I realized that you were gone
not just for now, but for good.
And so there I sat that night,
after I removed the gold chain you rested around my neck
after I scrubbed away the makeup
after I traded my lipsticked smile for a mourning countenance
-I sat, alone in the dark, and gazed out the window into the rain.
I wondered where things had gone wrong.
And so, May showers
drove away April's flowers.
It was all I could do to cry quietly,
face soaked with the saline of sadness
that dripped now on my chest.
Now, I sit again at the window
and the same song plays that had consoled me before
'you'll feel better when you wake up'
And I did.
The sadness stayed safely at the bay
while I tried to channel it again
But this time it wasn't the same.
Though I duplicated the mood down to the clothes I wore,
the heartache was no longer fresh
and my face remained dry.
Sure, I felt sad. But it was not from you.
It was not from a heartbreak or a brokenness.
It was inorganic sadness, brought on by my own need for closure,
the thirst for a goodbye that burned my throat in agony and sorrow
that my parched lips would never find.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
I'm not even sure who I am anymore...
I've become but a shell of myself, before.
And my eyes, once happy, look hollow and cold,
with a empty sadness that can't be consoled.
As loneliness grows, festering inside-
the hurt becomes much harder to hide.
Darkness has taken control of my heart...
quietly and completely, I'm falling apart.
Gathering shards of my broken soul,
I quickly forget what it is to be whole.
Life has lost meaning, but I no longer care.
I'm numb...I'm nothing- just dust in the air.
Yet envy eats at me, day and night
for those who exist without this fight.
Impassive I let all hope fade away,
knowing tomorrow will be just like today.
I am oh so weary from living as I do-
dear lord, let this end, I beg of you...
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 5:52 AM UTC
Her skin was pale
Like the moon kissed by a midnight sky
Snake-bite piercings
Blessed her catastrophic smile
Beauty beyond conception
Beauty in it's purest form
Our lips met in the glow of stagnant stars
A moment of serenity
Met by utter shock
Something was amiss
I tasted poison in her kiss
Her eyes locked on mine
Sinister yet so divine
There was no escape
As she bit my lip
Dropping to my knees
She ignored all of my pleas
An angel of the night
Set on sending me below
Tears I need not weep
She consoled my every dream
She took the life from me
Singing lullabies ever sweet
I climbed into my coffin
The minute her gaze met mine
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 12:32 AM UTC
Preach poverty and patience to the poor,
When snarling winter packs hunt down the old;
Push them away and shun them from your door
Feed hungry souls with sermons and rapport,
Old shepherds, keep your flocks unto the fold;
Preach poverty and patience to the poor
When heaven's snow attests to hallowed floor
And beggars plead for mercy from the cold,
Push them away and shun them from your door
When hungry children cry 'a little more'
And clamour forth with rusted tins they hold,
Preach poverty and patience to the poor
When brothers, plague and famine, reach the shore,
The weak and dying seek to be consoled;
Push them away and shun them from your door
When paupers come with frosted feet to thaw,
And fill the hall to hear kind words unfold:
Preach poverty and patience to the poor,
Push them away and shun them from your door
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
Talk-show queen
Oprah Winfrey with her entourage
is going to Australia
and it’s timely now for a quick Colbert Report
on the state of the colony of Australia
Colony?
Yes, that’s right
Australia is still a British colony -
How else do you explain it?
as the Head of Government in Australia
is still the British Monarchy
and her Majesty, the Queen of Great Britain,
has her representative
a Governor-General in Australia;
and the Aussie national media faithfully reports
that Prince Philip is a God in some remote island
and the TV stations broadcast visions of
which British Prince kissed which of their latest fancy
And so, Oprah, welcome to the Colony
Ah, yes, and the Chinese migrants coming in
are surprised to learn of Australia’s status
at citizenship ceremonies
and the young man explains to his grandma:
“Oh, Foreign Devil still control Australia;
sad, Chairman Mao did not Liberate Australia.”
And Indian migrants, much to their disappointment
are heard to remark:
“Oh no – does this mean we still have
to go through another fight for freedom as in 1947?”
But then they are consoled by the fact
that a Gandhi only comes once in 200 years
so we can all still get on with our lives
and the nation will continue
to eat burgers and enjoy barbecues and hop like kangaroos
until such things may happen…
Ah well, dear talk-show Queen Oprah Winfrey
and her entourage
this ends our report on the sovereign nation down under:
Happy Stay in Her British Majesty’s Colony
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 12:16 PM UTC
I'd be consoled
for rain to fall on my face
because right now
I feel nothing
about anything
Soaking wet
in a rainstorm
might wash me clean
and maybe tomorrow
I’ll feel again
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC
Deeming that I were better dead,
"How shall I **** myself?" I said.
Thus mooning by the river Seine
I sought extinction without pain,
When on a bridge I saw a flash
Of lingerie and heard a splash . . .
So as I am a swimmer stout
I plunged and pulled the poor wretch out.
The female that I saved? Ah yes,
To yield the Morgue of one corpse the less,
Apart from all heroic action,
Gave me a moral satisfaction.
was she an old and withered hag,
Too tired of life to long to lag?
Ah no, she was so young and fair
I fell in love with her right there.
And when she took me to her attic
Her gratitude was most emphatic.
A sweet and simple girl she proved,
Distraught because the man she loved
In battle his life-blood had shed . . .
So I, too, told her of my dead,
The girl who in a garret grey
Had coughed and coughed her life away.
Thus as we sought our griefs to smother,
With kisses we consoled each other . . .
And there's the ending of my story;
It wasn't grim, it wasn't gory.
For comforted were hearts forlorn,
And from black sorrow joy was born:
So may our dead dears be forgiving,
And bless the rapture of the living.
3.4k
When I was little
often I watched my mom in the kitchen
working till late night
kitchen was her cocoon
kitchen was her heaven
I had to pretend to be sick
to take her out from there
Once I caught her sobbing
at the kitchen sink
as a child I asked her so innocently
"Did daddy make you cry"
No darling she said
She smiled and continued with dishes..
and left me with the question WHY?
Years later..
and today I am a mother myself
The tragedy in mom's kitchen still haunting my life
watching my mom crying in her kitchen
was not a good picture,
not a good memory as a child
not at all.....
The kitchen was her castle
In the warmth of her kitchen
she made miracles…she created magic upon magic
splendid recipes... superb dishes
feeding her loved ones... with love
but Today I realized how my mother
released herself and that could have made her survive
By working so hard in the kitchen
By often hiding her despairs and sorrows
Her kitchen was her secret hiding place
every time she was hurt...
when the world treated her so unfairly
In the comfort of her Kitchen
She consoled herself....
How did I realize this after so many many years?
today for the very first time
I cried myself at the kitchen sink
In my very own cozy kitchen
over a pile of dinner plates ,
almost breaking a glass
so afraid to lose control...
but my kitchen is heaven that saves me...
as my tears are falling over the bubbles in the sink
How I came to understand my mother's feelings...
by standing there in the kitchen...
remisniscing... and..
breathing this life
feeling this life
experiencing with life
living with life....
as long as mothers are alive
they live their life
to share the laughter and joy
of their husband and children
to endure the pain and sorrows
but hide them once in a while....
in mom's heavenly kitchen
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 1:42 PM UTC
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
This poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled "गीत का जन्म" published in Hindi Literary Magazine 'Veena' in June 2013
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
When the wounds given by you gave much pain
Lightening occurred and cloud thundered
Downpour started, Poetry sprouted
It consoled and fed ambrosia
Relieved wounds, brought relief
Brick should be answered with stone
The poet also knows this
And also believes somehow
But throwing Brick is beyond his nature
In response to the brick and stone
He recites poetry
He sings a new song
On hearing his song
The one who wounded him, barks first
Then loudly bursts
Throws brick and stone again and again
The poet again recites a song
Keeps Smiling and Smiling
Creates a new poem
This proves beyond any doubt
Brick and stones give birth to Poetry.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
गीत का जन्म
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
तुम्हारे ज़ख्मों ने जब दर्द बख्शा
बिजली चमकी और बादल गरजा
कविता फूटी और जल बरसा
उसने मुझे संभाला, अमृत पिलाया
घावों को राहत दी, आराम पहुंचाया
ईंट का जवाब पत्थर से देना चाहिए
कवि भी यह जानता है
पूरी तरह से मानता है
पर ईंट चलाना उसके बस की बात नहीं
ईंट और पत्थर के जवाब में
वह कविता सुनाता है
गीत नया गाता है
जिसे सुन सुनकर
पहले तो मारनेवाला भुनभुनाता है
फिर जोर से फनफनाता है
पुनः ईंट और पत्थर चलाता है
कवि फिर गीत सुनाता है
खड़ा खड़ा मुस्कुराता है
नयी कविता बनाता है
इससे यह सिद्ध होता है
ईंट पत्थर कविता को जन्म देते है|
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 10:14 AM UTC
SOLITUDE
I AM ---
THE WINTER DREAM
CONSOLED IN THE ARMS OF WARM MEMORIES.
THE DEW-DROP ON PALM-LEAF
ROLLING TO THE GROUND WITH THE PAIN OF MOON-LIGHT.
THE SILENCE OF NIGHT-IN-GALE
FREEZING ON THE LUTE OF THE BOUGH.
I AM- THE SOLITUDE!
SOLITUDE
THE PILGRIMAGE OF MY IMAGINATION
TO ADORE YOUR MOODS.
THE SPIRITUALITY
THAT NO DICTIONARY HAS DEFINED..
I AM THE SOLITUDE.
THE KAJARA* ON THE FINGER-TIP OF DURGA**
IMBUED WITH THE INNOCENT SECRET OF HER ALMOND EYES.
SOLITUDE
NOT THE SONG OF THE ROAD TO NEW AVENUE
SOLITUDE
THE SONG OF THE JOURNEY INTO SELF
THE JOURNEY IN SEARCH OF MY SHADOW IN YOUR EYES!
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
My heart is malfunctioning and sends blood to my pupils.
Now my heart lacks oxygen and all I see is pain.
And through these blood shot eyes I can’t see a thing.
If I ever love again, I won’t ever love the same.
Have you ever seen oxygen filled, blood red tears?
Have you ever felt pain run down your cheeks?
I cry blood; I cry pain, through all life’s jeers.
Not because I care and not because I’m weak.
I cry blood tears because the hurt is beyond control.
This pain exceeds pain and surpasses hurt.
No I’m not sad, I don’t need to be consoled.
I’m beyond, far far beyond the worst.
Cry cry cry; untill I have no tears left.
Hurt hurt hurt; until I feel no pain.
The water dries, and blood sweats.
I have nothing to lose and nothing to gain.
Heart break, my heart has no ache.
Heart broken, my heart has not been broken.
Heart destroyed, no heart left to shake.
It cannot be repaired, no longer is it open.
As blood tears continue to leak.
I lose all life, all feelings, and all patience.
They see me, but they do not seek.
I’m dead, and that’s an understatement.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
I'm dead,
I have already committed suicide,
No you can see me,
You can feel me,
You can read me,
But you can't find even a single reason to call me alive,
No I haven't got cut on my hand,
& haven't ever tried to hang,
But I have got my heart bleed,
I have got it broken,
I couldn't actually die,
& sorry I'm unable to keep myself alive,
Not my fault,
cause I'm the one
never loved,
never cared,
never caressed,
never being consoled,
never being hold...
So here is a midway,
So here is a dead me,
With a human body,
Healthy & fit
A ***** kit!!!
What if I can't cut my lifeline,
I have already cut my connections with life & now I think it's all fine...
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 12:23 PM UTC
They all seem discursive and scattered,
Why would these curses ever matter?
Who will command stillness to wickedness so desolate and dead?
Partly I lay feeble in the head.
I am leisurely in limbo and moderately consoled.
I'm uncalled for and ribald ,but accounted.
Everything fit in place!
Ethical with a little slowness ,and a touch of corruption.
What was happiness is now a presumption,
Evolving and clawing threw this crushed creation.
Living is somber with a fatal fixation,
With all these things taken into consideration...
I am completely unchallenged with this sad situation.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 6:40 AM UTC
An incomplete soul.
Searching & Searching.
Can never be whole.
An incomplete soul.
Seemingly, missing pieces.
It's hard to know.
All required parts
are locked into place.
With emptiness in my heart.
An incomplete soul
Always longing,
Always wanting,
Never consoled.
Smiles are heavy.
Never knowing how
to break through the levy
A dark black hole.
Always melancholy
My incomplete soul.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
ravishing moon taps
my fluttering eggshell heart
the splattering yolk
flat sliver of moon
sliding across paradise
slicing the treetops
the lunatic moon
sails forth without his trousers
blushing sky tonight
unforeseen moon
these blooming heavens ablaze
the refugee sky
let me be consoled
up in the thunderhead sky
by a silky moon
wild moonlit river
carp riot underwater
a squadron of snakes
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 4:10 PM UTC
The further in the reach will cry
To surface beveled wind and sky
Wade less in the pool of text
Encountering the dampest
Moments memories mind to feel
Things our tongues would test to say
To capture the appeal
Our questions answer paradox
As grapes did once conflict the fox
We hinder in the cold
As cinders dark behold
The beautiful unfolds
A hideaway foretold
Of fire and love consoled
Rescue now the winds of time
Along the waters level
Explanations taunt with the tides
Fleeting affection at shoreside
Ever push and pull we are
Fragile such as fading stars
In voice our chords have failed to brace
What lips would speak to chase and chase
New memories will we soon create
Our hideaway at sundown waits
Meet me before the dawn breaks free
Beneath sacred sycamore tree
Our great escape in midnight's cape
With Spirit resting peacefully
© tHE tERRY tREE
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 12:59 AM UTC
Trees line the riverbank,
I sat, still waiting for you.
Our names are written on a tree;
I remember, you were not mine,
you were never mine to keep.
Our childhood memories
stained my mind, lingering forever,
but it was a mistake
and I have never been consoled.
Now, I could not seem to find you,
you were gone as years grew old.
You helped me conquer fears
and taught me how to love that day,
when loving seems so naive.
I remember, you were not mine,
you were never mine to keep.
We cherish this place,
our vows, nobody cares.
We sailed the river together
and promised to never let go.
Sometimes river is just river.
Memories of this riverbank,
I wept, still waiting for you.
Alone, but this river must flow;
I remember, you were not mine,
you were never mine to lose.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
January 25,
Im grateful he messaged an escort during my panic attack
I’m grateful he was acting weird with his phone
I’m grateful he kept me up all night till 6am drunk
I’m grateful he slammed doors yelling at me
I’m grateful he screamed in my face while wagging his finger
I’m grateful I questioned him
I’m grateful the escort cooperated
I’m grateful his brother warned me about the drugs and drunk driving
I’m grateful there were no accidents
I’m grateful he was so drunk I could check his phone
I’m so incredibly grateful that the escort responded in the morning so I could see it.
I’m grateful the escort answered my call and consoled me
I’m grateful I was shown and got out
I’m grateful I was so badly mistreated on Canada Day
Otherwise I would not have been suspicious
I’m grateful your family showed their true colours
specifically his mother’s blinded and dangerous loyalty.
I’m grateful that I can function
I’m grateful after considering all this, I now know I do not need closure.
Closure was him messaging an escort. Closure was him continuing to prioritize himself after being caught.
Closure was me prioritizing my safety. Closure was accepting that he is in fact an abuser despite his outward disposition.
He’s an abuser dressed like a butterfly: flighty, scared and beautiful. But he was really a moth eating away at the fabric of my life.
I’m grateful for my resilience and strength
I’m grateful for my friends and family
What is best for my soul is to wish you well and live my own life.
I wish you well, please don’t do this to anyone else.
I would be grateful for that.
Jan 29, 2025
Jan 29, 2025 at 3:33 AM UTC
A group show in a city church.
Nothing religious,
but selections from an evening class
occupying otherwise vacant space:
only a tomb here, an extravagant memorial there.
These are 'advanced' painters,
and decoding their statements,
examining their work,
it's possible to imagine daily lives
where art lives in the spare room.
Lewis paints you know.
After Laura died, and with the children distant,
he did this course in Norfolk - oils I think.
That large landscape in the sitting room is his,
all sky and salt marsh.
Jayne is studying the disorder of ******* dumps,
the contents of skips, what's left after a fire.
Her photographs she prints herself you know.
She says she loves to control the image,
chemically, and you can tell.
And more and others,
their 'work' holding stories,
other worlds of imagination and
depths of looking;
the silent collecting of things,
photograph after photograph,
the tidy sketchbook
(with last week's life class experiments).
And yet and yet
at the group show the finished pieces glow
in this badly-lit corner of a city church
where few visitors venture - but you must see this.
It's good, arresting in conviction and purpose.
This is art without artifice, reticent with meaning,
intense with intention, good, affecting, good
well-chosen tutor-curated;
good enough to come back to.
Consoling? Yes, consoling.
I needed consoling.
It consoled me.
I was consoled.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 3:37 AM UTC
Not all Married men are
inaccessible to a past true love
Especially mentally united.
Not all honorable unmarried men are accessible
for affairs in the love arenas
Some married men are a Knight to someone special
without any extra-marital stains.
My King lost his sword by me
all without my intention to do harm at all but mare duty to love my man more than I loved myself.
Once a married poet found his sword by me by
my virtual loving ways
and at a distance.
My old true love King of hearts thinks of me
walking, sighing love poems about our road not taken.
My avenue of the death.
I feel like a blindfolded sword gold hearted queen
who has lost her pharaoh
and can't be consoled.
I need my Knight in real life
My beloved king of hearts!
My once upon a time?
My willow tree of life.?
My ancient Pinocchio
hiding wealth name reign
and heart of gold?
Oh come to me I plead you.
I love you so.
~~~~
Karijinbba.
~~~
Nov 6, 2021
Nov 6, 2021 at 1:09 AM UTC
I admit I have no power over this anxiety.
It gets to me,that I can be so weak minded I fight it,and that just re ignites it,puts the the fire back under my skin and remind me I can't stop these feelings again.
This place I'm in,I pace and I ponder.I often wonder whats it would be like to not be so nerve stricken.It sickens me and I can not sleep.I want to get out of my head,put my demon to bed.
So goodnight sleep tight because the longer I write I'm winning the fight.My heart calms down,I know longer hear it pound.I have overcome,I can breathe I am consoled by the pencil I hold The paper is my friend I can concur and defend.As my thoughts start to mend into words I now have the courage to control the trouble in my soul.
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 11:20 PM UTC