"convincingly" poems
O fast day that trembles at the sight of Moon -
when will your warm arms bend again
the night's thick armor
that shades the world of joyous muse?
It is most facetious in its illusion,
that renegade of pale indifference,
when daylight dwindles and leaves more to imagine
than can be seen with naked eye.
Beneath the gaze of Her taunting face,
people do not walk as done in light -
suddenly, trudging and stumbling are hip style.
Faces covered in guilt, remorse, fatigue -
all the things Sun can wash away with a simple,
lucid grin.
If brightest bright were set ablaze amidst the night,
would people be plucked from this false sanctuary
which darkness so convincingly provides?
Then many a Lost could be freed;
if only to see clearly through effervescent
haze.
O blessed Sun!
With your arousal, Truth and Freedom will also renew -
until again that blank stare casts its malevolent glow on
Delusion.
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 4:48 AM UTC
"I'm better, I'm better." She lies to herself
as it hides tucked away, taped under her shelf.
"I am loved, I am loved." She convincingly yelped
as her vice hides away until she calls for help.
"I am strong! I am strong!" The poor girl carries on.
He's unhidden and waiting to come sliding along.
Drip, drip, drip. The girl's hand must have slipped
for her razor is laying, right there, where she sits.
kd
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
I fell hard, head first, in love
Damaged my brain and couldn’t recover my mind
Whole but in pieces and believing you could save me
But your every truth was a lie
Whispering romantic **** convincingly like the serpent
And just like her I took a bite and didn’t want to let go
I let myself be poisoned.
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 7:15 PM UTC
I'm sorry dear
but I must confess
that I haven't been
at all the best
at keeping up my end.
I've pulled away
In a such a cowardly way
And I really am apologetic
However, I'd be lying
if I told you that I regret it.
I'm just not the person
You wish I was
Though I've managed
to convincingly fake it
The keyboard lets me
lie with ease
with each "I love you"
"Thank you" and "Please"
Although the former
I've been saying
less and less
because once again
I must confess
the feelings
that I once adored
but eventually
began to abhor
and successfully managed
to ignore
have simply left
and are no more.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 4:10 AM UTC
Did you whisper a prayer before the roar of the inevitable end?
Should we have listened harder,
held you closer,
and tried so very much more
to persuade your troubled mind
not to let go?
I don't know.
You, in all your lightness
held me so convincingly
in oblivion of your parched spirit.
Too many years of despair, I reckon.
And too little human affinity found.
I will never know, what drove your final decision to meet the vast unknown.
It terrifies me to think
that you felt that was the only choice.
But even if I grieve that you will never
light up the world with your dazzling smile,
gentle touch,
or kindness anymore.
I see you for the brave and wondrous creature that you are.
Brave to live so far.
And brave to end it.
Nothing grows now,
the dry spell hit this summer hard.
And yet...
The gentle fragrance of all blossoms
linger in the air ever since you took your leave.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 1:43 PM UTC
You saw by panes held by thin wire.
Two-ways seeing crumbled fire.
I remember autumn
Checking at the bookstore
In your vans on film you wore
No conception of bottom.
A kid from Mexico, 15
Convincingly my age unclean
Walk summer down West Sylvester
Powder sugar walkway, tester
The ******* **** is blue
Wild eyes tell me you knew.
Back across the fairchild lot
He slid to drive; I told- we bought
They'd taken off without their lights
He barreled lone known route recites
As I scream STOP
IT ISN'T WORTH IT
I'LL GET YOU BACK
PULL OVER, ****
No one taught us how to quit
We rotten without teeth to grit
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 3:51 AM UTC
I put on a Count Basie LP
on the blue covered
record-player,
Tilly lay on the bed
filing her finger nails,
looking at them
making sure
they were even.
I looked out
the bedroom window
onto the grass and hedge
and to my right
the apple orchard.
I loved the saxophone solo
on the Basie LP,
moved my head
to the beat.
Did your mum believe
you went to stay
at a friend's house?
I said.
Yes, she seemed to,
Tilly said,
taking her eyes
from her nails
to gaze at me.
Had to be convincing,
and lie of course,
Tilly added,
looking at me
more intensely.
Which friend
did you say?
I asked.
Pretend friend,
I haven't a friend
I can lie about
so convincingly,
Tilly said.
I guess so,
I said,
turning to face her
lying there on my bed,
the trumpeter soloing
on Basie track.
Doesn't your mum
mind us being up here
in your room?
Tilly said.
I said I wanted to you
to hear my new Basie LP,
I said.
I don't like jazz,
I like the Beatles
and Bob Dylan,
Tilly said.
Had to say something,
I said.
We had good ***
at Uncle's place
didn't we?
she said,
smiling,
putting away
her nail-file.
We had.
I remembered it
as I sat on the bed
looking back at her,
wishing we could here,
but it would be too risky
with my mother
just downstairs,
and my young brother
likely to come up
any minute.
Is your place
ever empty?
I asked.
Seldom,
Tilly said,
Mother is nearly always there,
doing her housework
or the garden
or preparing meals.
The Basie big band
was playing out the track
and then stopped,
and there was silence.
I leaned to her
and kissed her lips.
She put her arms
around me,
and we held close.
Lips to lips stuck.
We wanted to,
but we couldn't
worst luck.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 3:28 AM UTC
I am cold and broken
Lying naked on the floor
Shattered and feeble
Worse off than before
Before you appeared
Like a burst of golden light
Before I knew
How to sleep peacefully through the night
I was content, complacent
Prior to your coming to me
Filling me with hope and wonder
Now I just feel empty
A new scar emerges
On a tattered heart
A pleasant reminder
To stay alone in the dark
To not let yourself feel
Not allow yourself to get hurt
Relationships and emotions--
Nothing will ever work
Fight to the death
To keep up your walls
No matter who tries
No matter who calls
Stay inside yourself
Where you're safe and warm
Where you know how to be
And protect yourself from harm
Never again
Do you want to feel like this
Cold and shattered
A sick, rapturous bliss
You're a *********
An odd desire for pain
You do this to yourself
Over and over again
You tell yourself convincingly
"It will be different than before"
That nasty little lie
That brings you to the floor
To be left quivering and broken
Completely alone
Until you open your eyes
And welcome yourself home.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
Ingrid sports a black eye;
she looks like a panda.
She said she walked
into a door;
she doesn't lie
convincingly.
I know her old man;
I passed him
on the stairs of the flats;
his beady eyes
drinking me in,
giving me the cold glare,
the cold shoulder.
We walk through the Square,
off to the shops.
What happened to your eye?
I ask again,
studying the black
and slightly green;
walking beside her,
passing the milkman
and his horse drawn cart,
the horse wearing
a nosebag of food,
ignoring us.
I walked into
the bedroom door,
she says,
knowing I don't
believe her,
looking sheepish,
knowing
I guess the truth.
What have you got
to get at the shops?
I ask.
She shows me a list
on a scrap of paper,
pencil scribbled,
in her small right hand
a handful of coins.
I passed your old man
on the stairs yesterday,
I tell her,
gave him my
Wyatt Earp stare,
I say, he didn't care.
I note her hair
is unbrushed,
her green patterned dress
unwashed.
We cross Rockingham Street
into Harper Road.
I talked too much,
Dad said,
she confesses,
he said I yak and yak.
We pass the paper shop
and go on
to the grocer shop.
I say,
if I had your old man
in the sights
of my six-shooter gun
I'd fire a cap
up his ***
she sniggers;
people stare at us
as we pass.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
It was only a few hours ago when I convinced you
All so convincingly that she was all I needed
I even started to believe it myself
But it was only a fleeting moment of grace
A thought of a lover's embrace
It makes more sense when you have a reason to think
About it less
But coughing up change when she looks away
Pretending you had it all covered
The entire length's stay
"So much it hurts..."
There is beauty in pain
Be the shooting star's wish - the one to come true
Be everything and more
Let me be the one to walk eternity with you
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC
Providing you survive the drive inside the suicide lane,
The inane objections of several secular seconds will both drive you insane and tame the frame of irrational sanity,
Which stripped away the man in me,
And grabbed my sleeve convincingly to lament the angry laugh of free...
Enterprise; do I comprise of many lies,
As you do?
A gift or prize; yes I surmise the former plays no voodoo.
Like the latter,
Piter pater, I ask exactly, "Do you,"
Truly
care
to know...
If existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter,
And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's
Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which,
Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor,
Who washes
Shame
Away
In calm, hot showers.
What empowerment.
We underwent the chance event,
Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent,
How kind it was of him to lend,
His hand,
For both of mine.
What malcontent.
We thought dissent would overthrow the circus tent,
Which represented forced consent with the oppressed by blissful fraudulence
Remaining 99 percent.
Peasants, plebeians, proletariat;
We poke the U.N. Secretariat,
To ask again,
"Are we there yet?"
"Are we there yet?"
And silence is how were always met.
We drop it, trust they won't forget,
About us, suffering cold sweats;
As we fear unwanted debt,
They won't forget,
They won't forget,
They won't forget
About us.
Yet competition takes it place,
And twists that sympathetic face,
To grab a poor man's knowledge base,
To ask him,
"What do
I gain
from assisting
The likes
Of you?"
The poor man bellows, "you're poor too!
Like those who can't afford shampoo.
You can't afford my point of view,
It risks a loss that's overdue,
And money makes you misconstrue,
Existence."
And if existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter,
And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's
Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which,
Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor;
He forgot the human aspect should always be the biggest factor,
On his spreadsheets as he calculates productivity's next chapter;
What empowerment.
We underwent the chance event,
Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent,
How kind it was of him to lend,
His hand,
For both of mine.
This isn't right.
I question fines,
And wonder, where's the kindness?
What happened to our kindred spirits?
Did we leave all that behind us?
Is money truly all we want,
And happiness put second?
The future is unwritten,
So follow me;
Expect resistance.
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 3:46 PM UTC
We used to play guns with sticks
and we all knew how to die convincingly
with playing cards in our spokes
we summit hills atop motorcycles
ratatatatatattt
we walked through woods
explorers and pioneers
waiting for dinner or supper or bedtime
when summer was another world entirely
and the stains on our clothes
told stories
and not worries
We would carve sticks into spears
with knives our mothers did not know we had
today we hunt pheasant
we never did catch one
but we made dens deep in the woods
and climbed trees until we didn’t know how to get down
the hay bales stacked four stories high
in the farmer’s field
was a jungle gym
and when the farmer chased us away
in his combine harvester
we were playing Jurassic Park
back when girls were silly, annoying little things
that none of us were quite sure why we liked
and fights were forgotten within the hour
we had better things to laugh at
a marble composition book filled with ****** raps
and graffiti designs
we would take stones and make them into entire planets
but before long
our shadows caught up with us
a stick was just a stick
a bike just a way to beat the heat
and we were all too aware
of the special effects
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
I have been thinking about & claim,
Is not the world all way too eccentric?
Anyone wondering how & why I claim so,
Should look at all of these facts so very fanatic.
The different crimes taking place in worldly realm,
Various wars & murders and thievery & rapes,
Outrageous scams & malignant corruption,
All fortify the claim of the world being so.
As I can infer from my first few thoughts,
About this fairly asymmetric world,
Where our orbit around the sun,
Is elliptical & not circular,
Our eccentricity is excused convincingly.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
the archers have their fingers
pointed squarely at the hotel singer
smoke on the edge of their mouths
coiling sweetly all across the house
and the trees will part
for a song and a blood sacrifice
bowed low over a guitar
trying to teach himself the meaning of pain
sitting in the dark of a car
doing his best to convincingly feign
the long-suffering fool
with everything to gain
her ashes sunk in the sand
and the rest went over the electric dam
in the dark the mournful loon calls
as trumpets echoed in the concrete halls
and the rapids will churn
with a growl and the whisper of a lovely fern
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 3:42 PM UTC
It might be the passersby that amuse me:
The brightly dressed young woman whose ease
And deeply warm smile suggest convincingly
She is a new bride, her heart dancing like the breeze;
Or her companion, whose strength beams
Through his eyes and brightens his gaze,
His love, like the sun's light streams
Over his young wife, whose laughter seems his praise;
Or the gaggle of adolesents,
From whose conversation I catch words
Like “amped” and “dude,” most of which to me make no sense,
Whose clothes seem much worn than what their parents can afford;
Or it might be the happy child
Giggling in her mother's arms,
Whose fun consists of simply flailing all wild
And watching the smiles of those the fun disarms.
Or it might be that I am the youngest of them all,
Cane on the bench beside me,
Taking in the world, anew, fresh, though this be my 76th fall.
If this park bench view means anything, very clearly:
Life is a smiling thing.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 8:18 PM UTC
The heat burns—
Like fire beneath the surface,
Coursing through my veins,
Tainting everything it touches—
Crimson-coloring my face.
Once contained, now slowly breaks free
Anger, to the point of
Pain.
It thrashes—
Wanting to be released,
To engulf everything
From crown
To spine—
The ***** of my feet
I'm on fire.
The inferno of my thoughts
Overwhelm me
Screaming, it's your fault
Not your fault, mine
I did this, this is me.
Two roads, a choice—
MY choice.
To give the power to break me
My wall crumbling to insignificant pieces
With every word, from the lips
That had to be truth.
Each gaze into bottomless eyes,
Getting lost in midnight.
The endless patterns traced gently on his skin
By my fingertips
Holding his comforting hands,
With the touch that warmed my heart
Consciously giving him control.
Back when he wanted me.
I could have stopped this
Before it was too late.
Before the hardening of his eyes
That lied more convincingly than
The tenor of his voice,
Before his touch grew cold and distant
As the eyes and lips that no longer
Belong to me—
Longed for me.
The decision—
To let it go.
The consequence—
To burn.
But time, it heals—
A balm, to the heat—
I smolder.
Once livid, it lessens.
In the recesses of my mind
Festering—
The fire is there,
As my aloe heals,
At it's deliberate pace—
With each tick of the second hand,
The self-inflicted blaze crawls closer
To the end,
The day when the flame licks it's last wound—
The day freed from a personal purgatory.
Time is my companion.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
Dear Poet Friends, while trying to retrieve my old poems from ‘Poetfreak.com’ which is closing down by this year end, I found this love poem of mine which was composed in the year 2010! Hope you like this short love poem where the beloved begs her lover not to leave, but to spend the night under the ‘shamiana’- which is the ‘canopy cover’ created by her dark eye lashes! Hope you like the same! Thanks, - Raj, New Delhi.
UNDER THE SHAMIANA OF MY
DARK EYE LASHES !
O my love, please do not insist on leaving me
tonight!
Instead, keep sitting under the shadows of my
collyrium-laden eye lashes,
Where you shall find peace comfort and
solace!
Please do not insist on leaving again, nor be
adamant;
Sit under the sprawling shamiana* of my
gazelle-like eye lashes,
Which I have spread beside the oasis of my
two brimming eyes, -
Whose bottomless depths reflect my love for
you always!
For here you may bathe to get refreshed,
and sip your sweet vine sitting by my side!
But do not insist on leaving me behind,
to remain alone in the silence of this night!
My love, let us sit and relish these few ephemeral
measured moments,
Granted to us by the munificence of merciless time!
For once gone, these moments shall return no
more!
Whisper softly into my ears those sweet words
of love;
Saying all the while how you love me,
How you cannot live without me, even though
it be against your will!
And transform this into a magical, mystical
night!
For even a falsehood spoken convincingly, and
repeated like a sweet refrain, again, and again,
Assumes the colour of Truth, I heard people say!
But your words shall make this lovelorn life of
mine worthwhile;
And all my efforts to possess you for the night
shall not go in vain!
- Raj Nandy
(* Shamiana = like a tent or a canopy cover)
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
it's morning, you know
we could
paint a still life with our impotent fingers
or cook eggs with every
spice in the drawer
we could
dig holes in the front yard,
bury treasures in front of
button-down commuters get
smashingly drunk forget
where we put them dig
them up and be convincingly surprised.
we could pretend our hands are
****** hands our
eyes new canvases and record
like **** Rembrandts
the embarassing details
we could make a creek of
pillows from one
side of the house to another
roll the entire length of it naked and
end up tangled in each other when they
run out
There is a whole day ahead of us, a whole world ahead of us -
a world of misery separated from us by
firecracker smoke, by cannonsmoke.
We have the house to ourselves
we could duct tape cardboard to the
exterior and pretend its one big
refrigerator box we could
jettison old ball mice and fat computer monitors
into the driveway *****
a campfire in the living room and
imagine that we have rebelled against something
fittingly awful, the modern world scowling at
our rusticity we could
make a tincan telephone that connects the entire
cul-de-sac and dress up smart and
sell it as charmingly as Ma Bell door-to-door
But our refined brains think two things:
*** again, handcuffed to maturity, or sleep.
What a world. What a longing.
What our age must suggest.
What an excuse: your starched reputation.
What courage could come from your bleached conscience.
How lovely to be trapped.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 10:42 AM UTC
I am mesmerized by her beauty
She is everything I am not
She lights up a room when she enters
I envy her ability to captivate
She's so composed
Charming
Clever
Witty
I long to be as sophisticated
As she appears to be
Effortless
I wonder how I am able to so convincingly
Deceive
Why am I not able to deceive myself so easily
My facade is not a reflection of myself
She is everything I cannot bring myself to be
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 3:44 AM UTC
It's hard to say if the climb was worth it
I know they push and press convincingly that
the climb is always worth it, but is it really?
I am left scraped up and battered
from all the boulders
and the wolves
and all the **** thorns
and left wondering if I really made it out better on the other side
There's always another mountain
And is it worth it?
To what end do we climb?
To what purpose do we trudge tirelessly up the mountainside,
wondering when we will reach the top?
I have reached the top many times
And there is always another **** mountain to climb
on the other side
So it's hard to say if the climb was worth it
And that is not to say I am done climbing
Though I question, my body falls back into the rhythm of the climb
ignores the scrapes and bruises
ignores the way the wolves nip at my heels
because I too always feel there is victory at the top
believe the nicks come with the climb
believe that if I just reach the top, then I can be free
But there's always another mountain
And what did I gain more than experience?
More than scars, and disappointment
Does it even matter that I have beaten the mountain
if nothing ever changes but my own weariness?
It is insanity, the very climb we repeat
over and over
as if there will ever be a different outcome
It's hard to say if the climb was worth it
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 3:44 PM UTC
.
Some hold it true that Erin's creamy skin
Is clearly fairest in both grain and hue;
And I have seen such porcelain skin as hin-
ted quite convincingly that this was true.
Some hold it true the Aztec's nut-brown hide
(Made with Quetzal's chocolate from long ago)
Is fairest, and understandably deride
The purblind eyes of those who do not know.
And others, still, prefer a different cast,—
A different color, texture, shade, and tone.
And most enjoy a rude debate on taste.
I argue not, but leave them all alone:
I'd rather go and dream a blissful dream
Of chocolate skin wet-kist with Irish cream.
*
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
Insanity is not
doing the same thing over
and over
expecting a different result.
Because I do
a mathematics exam paper
every week
always getting a different result.
Insanity is not
loving someone that doesn't
love you
back the way you deserve.
Because I have
loved my grandfather
each day
since death stopped his heart.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
If cupple were a word,
it would be
homophonically
linked to couple,
but there’s the small complication
it doesn’t exist, not outside
the confines of this poem.
Cupple (verb):
To gently join
one’s hands and hold
an object in a loving
and inquisitive manner,
somewhat cautious lest its essence
leaks out between the cracks.
Possible poetic usage:
*Spy me, one tiny dot
spiraling up
a spiny staircase of crystalline steps,
until I’m picked, pinched
and cuppled by a darling universe
before she takes me off to bed.*
Will cupple make a break
and elope with its old-world cousin?
I can’t say, not in a voice
convincingly heard.
You see, I’ve lost all taste
for those dictionary words,
a touch hushed within bindings, tightly bound
while my pretenders nose around
their glossy jackets.
It’s not that I’m wishy-washy
about cupple’s ambitions.
I’m just happy to keep it here with me
in my wish-washed state
where there’s no point
beyond the widening
smile of our gradual arc inward.
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 6:16 AM UTC
I’ve filled the emptiest spaces of myself with
the best parts of you
not breathing, warm like an homage
but sterile
remote
a gallery of looped memories
beautiful and untouchable
and convincingly bright
so that no matter where I am
my retinas are tattooed with the space you took in the world
cooking in a scratchy sweater- your electric rants about Jung
drumming jazz on the street corner for the pay of odd conversation
planting kisses in my hands because you hoped they would grow a wife
endlessly reminding me
(from wherever you are now)
that the best things in life weren’t free
and though expensive beyond measure
how graceful- I hardly noticed how much
I was willing to give
just to keep at a quiet distance
this neuronal gallery
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 1:49 PM UTC
His fear had voices
for which strategy
answered
so convincingly
that he could
tell himself anything
to justify what he had done
he remembered her saying
I would not take you back
if you cheated
so justification bellowed
like ****** to his army
making her the enemy
and him the conqueror
it was working until
his son asked where she was
because he liked how she
would scratch his back
he tried throwing the
new girl at the boy
expecting him to feel
what was commanded
but truth had
invaded Europe
and fear had holed up
in its bunker
and tried to commit suicide
with its mistress
he blamed the child now
and ordered his feelings
into the gas chamber
but a piece of brain hit
him in the face
and he threw up
what have I done?
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 12:52 PM UTC