"consoles" poems
1, for the slumber that tumbles us round,
2, for the remedy, the musics bold sound.
3, for the tree that became your canoe
& 4 for the rain, it's ambiguous blue.
5, to escape, to a world we contrive,
6 for the tricks that I played to survive.
7, because heaven, is supposedly on earth,
& 8 for my mother, and her unknown worth.
9 for the failures, the faults & mistakes,
10 for the fears that keep us awake.
11, for my father, consoles me each night, whispers advice crystal clear, filled with insight- words on courage & kindness, love & delight.
12- when you wake but it's already night.
13 forever, with strength glory and might,
14 with wisdom, discretion, insight-
both numbers together sizing up every fight.
15, for my little sister, and all her turmoil,
15, for her spirit, the last one to spoil,
she and the world but water and oil,
15 for her soul, and like the mighty cobra it's coil,
deadly & graceful defends its home soil.
16 for the evil- the wicked & cruel, the endless hate they spin into fuel.
17, for reason, justice & art,
and all the other virtues life etched on my heart,
18, to redeem, to admit your mistake, to truly move on then perhaps to retake.
19 for that shame, always the same, so familiar it almost comforts my brain. 19, for the suffering, agony & betrayal.
19 true stories retold as mere tales- how they surpass logic and induce other's fails.
20. For my years. For the moment, for now. For to the past I salute, and to the future I bow; All with the hope that next year I'll know how
to do what everyone else can.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 1:32 PM UTC
Sometimes it hurts so much not to cry when you have to hold it inside you and it hurts so much to be in a crowed room
and you have to hold it in because if she sees you
crying she'll know it's because she stomped on your chest
and caused your heart to deflate like a lazy balloon and
in that moment you feel so alone and
empty
and so you start to cry.
And everyone consoles you and pats you on the back and tells you it'll be okay
but this isn't what you wanted
it wasn't supposed to happen like this
"no no no leave me alone
just stop
I'm fine I have allergies jesus."
And crying doesn't fit your aesthetic,
emotion doesn't fit your aesthetic,
love doesn't fit your aesthetic. So you get your **** together.
You go to the bathroom and you wash your face and you get your **** together and you fix your makeup
because runny mascara does not fit your aesthetic
and neither does
heartbreak.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC
Skin
Fingernails, moonlight, low-light
What’s the beast in the mirror I see?
It stares at me, it’s features moaning a sad soliloquy
I find it’s eyes, green, green, the colour of envy
Envy. Envy.
I find myself stretching skin.
Skin, it’s anthropomorphism deeply disturbs me
Why can’t I take it off
Peel it off, rip it off, burn it off, cut it off
Snip, snip
The more I stare the more it crumbles, it crumbles
I paint it’s mask with lacquer but the same pair of green eyes stare at me
What is that, who is that beast
The low-light consoles me but still I see it for what is
Me
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 4:16 AM UTC
3am, my bestfriend..
She certainly knows me in my most unadulterated form...
My anxieties, my fears, my frustrations...
3am, my bestfriend...
She is really good at keeping secrets..
For when I wake up in the morning, no body knows a thing
3am, my bestfriend
She sure is a good listener..
Listens to my sobbing, when I stuff cloth in my mouth to make sure I dont make any sound...
3am, my bestfriend
She is also a good counselor
Consoles me till my.heart is empty, till my eyes are dry...
3am, my bestfriend
I dont doubt her loyalty
I know she ll be there for me, every time the soul in me cries for help
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 10:41 AM UTC
Your life consists of working hard hours, for not enough pay, hard days
Good, great people
But nothingness consoles you at the end of the day
Nothing to live for and nothing to fight for
You have become a waste of space
You don't contribute
You second guess
You
All the time fighting the same battles
Your heart, your tongue, and your liver, your mind set and your waist line
You are so far removed what you wanted ten years ago
Fell into a pattern of pay cheque to pay cheque
Living through decisions and then later, they're regrets
You need a huge change. It is scary, but dockside was the best decision you have ever made
Step outside, from your shredded sheltered comfort zone, and branch out a little more
Do what you always knew you were born to do!
Go take photographs, that mean something
Make your life important again
Not another bottle and not another regret
Do what you want to do!
Go to war, take pictures
Make your life mean something
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:57 AM UTC
River bamboo arrayed in lace tiers
consoles the birdbath on its loss of robins
Intemperate August staggers in liquored air
of wavery heat and layered sighs
Leaves relinquish their rush
toward this “ripe on time”
Blackberry brambles have ceased to reach
now bow to ponder their plunder
while petunias, those bold delinquents!
bloom as if the frost’s lethal cling
were some myth
the antique roses had made up
Bud, bloom, revive!
See the generation of the bee!
Bud, bloom, survive—
to do it all again
for the single sake...
of treasuring beginning in the end...
Her bicycle, my geranium
have found eternity together
on the sun spattered patio
She—
opens the screen door
as I—
climb the morning stairs
She—
squints smiles amongst sleepy freckles
who has not brushed her hair
in a late August moment of not caring
And I know it will all happen anyway
no matter what I do....
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
I brought her to the hospital
And I know she is in pain
She says she’ll die today
But I know she’d sustain.
As painful it may be
As fearsome it may seem
My legs are shaking deep inside
I can hear her Scream.
You’d say I can’t feel the pain
She says its life threatening
I believe she’ll do it well
This moment of awakening.
The Doctor consoles her gently
The nurses prepare the room
My heart beats fast, yet sinks a bit
My baby is about to bloom.
I watch the process in silence
My heart is aching slow
The Doctor asks her to push
Our Child will make Her Glow.
Its a Girl and She’s beautiful
I heard the Doctor say
Everyone knows I cried
Saying Happy Mothers’ Day!!
Prashant Shaurya ©
All Rights Reserved
06/05/2021
P.S: I wrote this in the labor room while watching my wife give birth to our Daughter. It took me about 5 to 7 minutes to write till the second last stanza. I wrote the last stanza after seeing my newborn baby. My Daughter is my Universe!!
May 7, 2021
May 7, 2021 at 1:22 AM UTC
So the incident,
intimidates and consoles.
Will never beat the water
that comes from nowhere
and rolls.
For the mind can only focus
on who will come next.
Not the jealous humans
to say and rant,
but the wave to wash over,
we wake up,
and we pant.
Refusing to care about others
rude needs.
See the ocean,
this is what Poseidon
really has to offer
and what he feeds.
Giving the mind a chance
to break
free.
Stress has its place,
but the ocean is where we
say to the disruptive stress,
"You're not for me."
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
The moon seems so high
in the night sky,
and
yet somehow he wraps
around me,
Consoles my daily troubles
away,
His radiance warmly
encloses my entire being,
He adores me, causing my soul
to glow.
Dec 2, 2022
Dec 2, 2022 at 11:03 PM UTC
I am grounded by my own ignorance, he thought, and here, by the sheer complexity of things. This pebble at my feet seems the very centre of a radius - of marks and pathways. Possibilities. It is a thing that connects itself with me. It is very early, before the sun has touched the horizon’s sky.
I recall a poem telling of the perfection of pebbles, their being equal to themselves, mindful of their limits, filled exactly with a pebbly meaning, with a scent which does not remind one of anything, does not frighten anything away, does not arouse desire, its ardour and coldness full of dignity.
I now remember another poem, portraying a pebble placed in a child’s hand, picked up on a pebble ridge. A pebble to place in the pocket where we finger it until it becomes warm. Its shape and certainty is firm and sure. It consoles us. And, as we change and decay, it remains lodged with us: a thing that contains nothing save the mystery of life.
And there is a long prose poem devoted to the pebble. It starts at the beginning of time itself with a condensed cosmogony, describing the formation of the first rock as an allegory of The Fall. It ventures through the expulsion of life, to cooling, to those large tectonic plates, and all the way down to the pebble itself, or, as the poet says, the "kind of stone that I can pick it up and turn it over in my hand". Time is everywhere in this poem: Stone as Time, where the great wheel of stone rolls ever on as plant life, animals, gases and liquids revolve quite rapidly in their cycles of dying. Take this as the poet’s view of humanity: to consider all things as unknown, and to begin again right from the beginning.
We need to take the side of things, he thought. Here, this pebble is time, and where this pebble lies, with its radii of marks, seems at the very centre of things. It was brought anonymously by the tide one stormy night to lie at our feet, and looks at us with a calm and very clear eye.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
At goodwill Buy the Pound
every day is black friday
Hundreds of soccer moms line up their
white sneakers on a black and yellow caution tape line
zombie over it streching for yu-gi-oh cards
wait for hazmat suits to wheel out eight bins full of trash gone treasure.
When the bins are locked in place the hazmat suits go back to pack another load
The air horn sounds.
You do not want to be anywhere near that caution tape line when this happens.
At goodwill buy the pound
If you're not part of the fight,
you're part of the floor.
They need to find their
puzzle peices lost in cat liter
Johnny really needs
every single nerf dart
DID YOU TAKE A NERF DART?!
WE TALKED ABOUT THIS JO-ANN
THOSE WERE FOR JOHNNY.
Johnnys grandma is not the only elder throwing elbows
varacose veins are curb stomping dads hauling consoles to make a quick buck
Skinny College aged video game collectors swim through the mom-pocalypse
raid the stashes for disguarded NES cartridges
Jo-ann grabs a twinky boy by the black graphic hoodie.
Tosses him back into the horde
lunges for a barbie doll hidden under some wires.
This is not a place for nice children.
If you aren't willing to push around some nanas
you will leave covered in nike prints.
This place turns people.
Ever look at someones mom and think
She looks like she's always wearing a mask.
She is!
Buy the pound is her natural habitat.
One grandma keeps so many cats, her living room is a Petrie dish
I think she just wants to be in charge of a small third world countrey.
Granny needs to go rally up the soccer moms at buy the pound.
To lead those cats into a mother thirfting revolution
These woman leave feeling like they saved their family a fortune
Dumpster diving for sport.
Every tossed or trampled stranger
One flip flop closer to
feeding their children
clawing through poverty
When that airhorn sounds again.
They scurry back to their carts.
Tell their children
"Make sure nobody steals this"
as they line back up in haste.
Touch their all white nikes to the caution tape line.
Hold their family close like brass knuckles.
when that airhorn sounds.
It's time to fight.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
I invite thee, I invite thee;
to sit by and tell a story.
I shall be comely and pretty;
you'll be tempted to flirt with me.
I shall leave behind the crude waves;
and my underwater bleak cave.
I want to see lands and be brave;
seek the prince I've so longed to have.
I shall turn into a human;
a fair-skinned rosy young maiden.
I shall wait for thee by that rock,
while straightening up my dark lock.
I shall wear my long black hair down;
I shall be dressed in my red gown.
I shall sing my love song to you;
Whose lyrics are so clear and true.
I shall blush at the sight of thee;
I shall turn red and be naughty.
I shall make thee feel heavenly;
I shall make thee fall in love with me.
I shall look deep into thy eyes;
As dusk falls and night turn to rise.
I shall lay my head in thy arms;
be swept and swirled lost in thy charms.
I shall taste the scent of thy lips;
Kiss the curves of thy fingertips.
My mouth driven 'round thy sweet tongue,
As thou embrace me all along.
I am but thirsty for one love,
love that consoles, love that can heal.
Love that makes me stronger and tough,
love that understands what I feel.
I am hungry for a lover,
who can kiss and love me better.
when far rolls a pernicious storm;
He shall calm me and hug me warm.
I long to meet but one sincere;
One whose heart gentle and tender.
Whose heart has neither grief nor rage;
Sweet and mature for one his age.
I am in search for a husband,
who's willing to learn and listen.
He shall make everything bad good;
he lights my charm; he tames my mood.
Such a flawless husband like him,
is indeed every woman's dream.
He shall be my wise companion;
not just oneself of temptations.
Such a generous man like him;
perhaps lives only in poetry.
But I believe as weird it seems;
I shall find him in reality.
He shall indeed be my dream man;
both a husband and faithful friend.
He shall kiss away all this pain;
he shall keep me safe by his hand.
He shall be my one truest king;
for whom I write, to whom I sing.
Be his lifelong and faithful wife,
from now on; 'till the afterlife.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 11:40 AM UTC
It makes no difference
Whether it is poet freak or Hello poetry
The sites are different
The loopholes are quite apparent
Human psyche is the same
There may be only a change in name
Good poets are every where respected
Fake poets are easily detected
Great poets are always adored
Eternal poets are highly revered
If writing poetry becomes a poet’s obsession
He tries his best to achieve perfection
The main aim of poetry is to please
Our tension it will soon release
The aim of a great poet is to instruct
But every poet’s intention is to construct
The platform for comraderie
Writing poetry is not a reverie
Poetry consoles, delights
Instructs, pleases, and relieves
Even our greatest psychic pain
Writing or reading poetry is a spiritual gain
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 3:28 AM UTC
In a room full of emptiness I was sitting on my bed with my back resting against the wall. All my routine work was completed before time as usual and there I was sitting doing nothing, staring straight ahead on the wall which was colored blue. I had asked them to do so because I loved this color since it always exuded the stress in me, drained off the disturbing thoughts and opened gates for blissful ones. But they never came.
What came to conquer me was lostness. This lostness maybe is productive if one is lost in a good thought, or, in a world of the past or the future, or, in his own created world, creative or perhaps destructive or perhaps peaceful. But I was always lost in a blank world. A world, where nothing existed. A world where no one walked on the streets. A world where no music was played and due to that I couldn't imagine myself dance because of which I couldn't make new dance steps. A world where I couldn't see faces smiling, where colors existed in their pure mixed form, that is White.
But if I give a second thought, I am thinking all this, about what it feels to be blank.! So it shows I just used to think ******* when this beautiful world of blankness came to me where I can create whatever I want and whatever I like, where miracles can happen. Or maybe a world will take birth to be cradled in my thoughts showing me my desires, aims or maybe those facts that are necessary for me. All I needed was Concentration. But I didn't know how to do so. My brain was now an expert, a trained and professional one in being frivolous. And then I felt a pen fidgeting with my hand. Then my hand, with the help of the reflex sent by the brain who, this time, obeyed the conscience inside it, started translating the thoughts into words. Words, they always betrayed me before when I took their shelter. But that was my fault. I only took shelter widout any hint of giving them respect. But now as the two best friends, my hand and pen, were trending together to make history, these words had the tone of pride while residing themselves on paper, and their look was inspiring when read successively. A guilt always resides in me for the precious time I wasted being lost, but the content of overcoming that lag progressively always consoles the insides. Concentration is all you need for anything you want to do or have in your life. Beginner I am, but, I dont want to see the end. I would just like to enhance it as much as possible.
MH
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:54 AM UTC
What are the reasons for death? Crime, cancer, car crashes? Sickness, sun burn, sarcasm? Gun shots, gas pedals, gaming consoles? What are the reasons for death? What makes death something we don’t experience every other day, like drinking coffee or smoking a cig. What if it is something we experience every day but on certain levels? Think, think, you’re running out of time, partial deaths are coming to you. Partial deaths are coming when she looks at your soul and discovers the flaws and uses them as a tool for hers. Partial deaths, are coming when he decides to return every ounce of care and infatuation of hers with indifference and insensibility of his. Partial deaths? do you think that in the upcoming years were going to have health coverage for that? “YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN IT HITS, MAKE SURE YOURE COVERED WHEN IT DOES manly voice for more information about partial death insurance contact 01000000”. All the zero’s in the world…the round hollows of infinite curvature and as soon as you think you’ve reached the end of your misery you’re going to start all over again and again and again, and again. And again. The partial deaths become more complete, the, heart strokes become heart stabs, the kisses become bites, and everything else is just raised up a notch, and a notch becomes a whole new level like never before. Day dream while you can when you can’t because that’s when we usually get our great ideas; the math class won’t end and it extends, like minutes were lifetime in her eyes as she walks up and down the trail of my thoughts and sideways on the horizon of my vision and inwards through my heart back flipping on my arteries and summersaulting on my veins leading her way to destroy my brains. My brains, that sounds odd. It sounds odd because I never located it really, at least not its functional capabilities because it is definitely not what I use to think. I think through a blank page that provokes me till I write, I think through staring screens and flickering lines, I think through a round table that affectionately carries my black coffee, I think through my black coffee, I think through pink Floyd playing in my ears and the other voices that are not mine. I think there for I am, but the more that I think the more I realize what I am not.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 12:42 PM UTC
I stand among them in the open light,
Eyes closed, yet through my lids the sun shines red.
All my muscles slack,
From them comes an aura of absolute serenity.
They dispel my nightmares with bold displays of love,
Making all horrors seem meaningless.
I do not need to beg them to stay, my angels never stray.
They obliterate my sorrow with their luminescence.
They will not abandon me, though others quite readily have.
My everlasting affection is bound to them.
Hope and surety surround me,
It is their kindness that consoles me.
No fear, no worries are beyond their cleansing touch.
My demons shed, banished and bled from my veins.
Now I stand revealed in their radiance,
Knowing that only the misery is an illusion.
Magnificent Angels, never fail me,
Two pairs of eyes in place of wings.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 1:14 PM UTC
“I’m happy”, she lied
And she forced that practiced smile,
She’s been perfecting for a while.
Sometime the girl that smiles,
Is only trying to hide her tears.
An inevitable flood,
Suppressed for years.
Pressure behind her eyes builds,
But eventually,
It has to spill.
She seems confident and strong,
But only sleep consoles her tears.
She’s become an expert at lying,
She’s been doing it for years.
Her dreams play out behind closed eyes,
But Happiness she never finds.
Building walls instead of bridges,
She tried to keep herself inside.
Only letting in what was easy,
But it’s not easy to hide.
This girl was smart,
She knew just what to say,
To make everyone happy,
And her mother’s worries at bay.
Just because she comes off strong
Doesn’t mean that she’s not crying.
And even though she acts like nothing is wrong,
Maybe she’s really good at lying.
This is her life.
And everyday feels like a test.
Trust me, I know,
Cause I’m the girl who’s a mess.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 1:16 AM UTC
Outside the window
Where I sit by,
This tree is there,
“Rain tree” all call her;
I see how she smiles with rain
Ornamenting blossoms all over!!
I talk with her,
I weep with her,
I share all those ruminating stories
That I left behind.....
She smiles and nodes
She consoles and encourages
Through her greens and wilted leaves, abscised branches
I rest my soul
On those wide opened canopy
And let my emotions fly away......
The tree, the “Rain Tree”
Let me call her
“My Soul Tree!!”
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC
*Her peals of laughter, gently rocks, wakes him up
takes away from a midnight dream's warm embrace,
one dream to the other, what she is up to, he feels bit cheated,
like many times before, bit weary of misleading senses,
they are friends of course, distractors too, if unaware of their penchant
Perking his ears he listens, wind whistling in the woods,
rain drops on leaves create sounds of soft laughter.
Every where she is, the nymph, the ethereal presence,
in dreams, in the spirited dance of clouds, in swirl of water
and waves, when the birds play flute from their perches,
in flights that seems meditative trances beyond mind.
She is tranquility incarnate, beauty that grabs mind's eyes
mother who consoles at the time of distress and pain.
The night is silent again, the rain clouds too left to rest
yellow clad moon peeps above the clouds, many gifts we
forget to enjoy, some times without being aware, one leaves*
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
Here in receding darkness, the sky meets the earth;
In waning hours, here the music of the waves
consoles the mourning sands; here I go pursuing
the citadel of mists, rising lotus-like from clouds
hanging on rugged mountains in the distance.
Maelstroms in the desert carry vortices of sand
and moist fragments of mirages of oases;
The fury of the sea brooks no contenders:
***** make home the sands levelled flat of my
feats; Again the uproar of mist-filled thirst.
Invisible companion, tonight, in moonlit silence,
will you come walking waters, like those ages
many, of Galilee ago? A storm is brewing.
A labyrinth of seasons in the Catherine-wheel
of life, growing and swirling out of the haze;
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
We console one another, or at least try to do so,
and feel sad that we can't,
so then the person being consoled-
consoles the one trying to console
for not being able to console.
Apr 8, 2010
Apr 8, 2010 at 7:07 AM UTC
the art of war has been written
in our skin since the first day
we tasted air.
our bodies knew what to do
without instruction, the manual
was ingrained in our systems
before history was even a term.
we knew what struggling was and
the viciousness we'd follow to
feel satisfied within this
paper-hungry, corrupt involving,
power revolving circle of
soil and H2O.
green paper values beyond
human experience, holding its
own wealth above the truths
and acts of kindness.
we are lost now.
our journey to create solutions
and deflate violence, pollution,
and terrorism is counterproductive
when we are only trying to gain
access to fossil fuels,
advanced technology and
easy living.
the art of war is unavoidable with
its nuclear power reaching new
heights and alarming increases
in neighboring countries with
alternative motives.
people are not perfect, but yet
it is hard to use intelligence
towards innovated, structured
education and trying to revitalize
our dying environment or restoring
it to the way our ancestors knew it.
we are too curious now.
the devices we use daily are
hand held miniature and superficial
to honest thoughts even if you may
have the universe at your fingertips.
the art of war is within ourselves, with
the growing population of overweight
eight year olds - instead of gaining
knowledge about life by learning how
to use the imagination, creative
engineers are mass producing game
consoles and virtual worlds for the young
to push past the reality.
we want to be lost now.
society takes tragedies and sensationalizes
so there is just another portal to dig up
the fresh and uncover something bigger
than ourselves.
the art of war has been finalized with
456,495 troops estimated stationed overseas,
leaving at home their families.
our state of mind is grasping, like the hardworking
fathers in search for american made products,
yet can only find poor industry made objects
for $5.00 on the shelf of the local monopolized
superstore.
the art of war was born in us
with airtight top secret plans to defeat
another continent, but we all
swallow the voice to bring back
compassion for starving children and
focusing on the here and now.
the art of war is all around us,
the art we will never escape.
Jul 8, 2011
Jul 8, 2011 at 4:07 PM UTC