"dribblings" poems
I write. Poetry, scribblings; romantic dribblings. Sometimes the words come so easy; dancing in my mind - just waiting to be stamped on a page. Other times they meditate in the shadows of my mind & I'm left searching for them; burning sage. Ahhh. But I still write. Much like I'm doing this very moment. Just waiting for the muse to make that entry; that exhilarating proclament.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
DEAR (____),
sorry's a good place to start
i guess?
the lies stacked up like
***** dishes &
i had no intent to rinse them.
the sink was on the brink of breaking
with the weight of pretend plates---
**** im on a tangent...got distracted...
lets bring it back to the beginning
& strip it bare of poetic dribblings
because theres only one way to break this:
i never, ever, ever loved you
i just......
didn't...want anyone else...to **** you.
but i suppose i can't stop everything
err--i know i can't stop anything
i was young, yearning & naive
& still believed in love's disease--
i was so desperate for its infection,
i injected it in every VEIN attempt
at getting you to love me back.
& i know too well that it was selfish
but whats the harm
if neither of us ever felt it?
never yours,
j
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 7:48 PM UTC
My bones are sore
At close of day
With pain in feet
And hair more grey
Now begins the
Springtime slurry
Winter's death,
The sprouting fury...
But it's the autumn
Of my days
And joints now throb
And mind's a haze
Yet Spring awakens
Yearnings which
Have long lain dormant
How the itch
Distracts a stiff
From daily dribblings
Daydreams, donned
With nubile nibblings
And out into
The wood I jaunt
Till pagan ponderings
Hellishly haunt
The corners of
My craggly crown
The parietal plunder
Pulling down
But satyr romps
Among tree bases
With myriad pictures
Of countless faces
Create a stiffness
'Mid sickened stones
Not of ***** but
Of the bones
At close of day
A man lay hoping
For another day's
Eyes to open
O new day come
It's not too late
Inner wellspring
Satiate!
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC
My bones are sore
At close of day
With pain in feet
And hair more grey
And now begins the
Springtime slurry
Winter's death,
The sprouting fury...
But it's the autumn
Of my days
And joints now throb
And mind's a haze
Yet Spring awakens
Yearnings which
Have long lain dormant
How the itch
Distracts a stiff
From daily dribblings
Daydreams, donned
With nubile nibblings
And out into
The wood I jaunt
Till pagan ponderings
Hellishly haunt
The corners of
My craggly crown
The parietal plunder
Pulling down
But satyr romps
Among tree bases
With myriad pictures
Of countless faces
Create a stiffness
'Mid sickened stones
Not of ***** but
Of the bones
At close of day
A man lay hoping
For another day's
Eyes to open
O new day come
It's not too late
Inner wellspring
Satiate!
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
I hate to admit it, but I want to feel special.
I entomb myself in the reality of mundane dribblings but truly my heart is wrenching as it can smell the fantasy.
The thought of someone wanting to know my favorite movie and memorize it like their sacred duty.
I'm soft; a kettle brewing with pang splintered yearning.
I want the waves of people to pander to me surrendering at my feet collapsing with poised beauty whispering "you are worthy"
I want to feel special, yet I know that I am not. I am amongst the innumerable flesh ridden boats of existence buoying about in angst and desperation.
I am alone and am pleased in this pod of solace.
But a broad stroking mansuetude hand that may caress my face and help proliferate the love I hide within myself.
Well, I guess that may be nice...
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
My bones are sore
At close of day
With pain in feet
And hair more grey
And now begins the
Springtime slurry
Winter's death,
The sprouting fury...
But it's the autumn
Of my days
And joints now throb
And mind's a haze
Yet Spring awakens
Yearnings which
Have long lain dormant
How the itch
Distracts a stiff
From daily dribblings
Daydreams, donned
With nubile nibblings
And out into
The wood I jaunt
Till pagan ponderings
Hellishly haunt
The corners of
My craggly crown
The parietal plunder
Pulling down
But satyr romps
Among tree bases
With myriad pictures
Of countless faces
Create a stiffness
'Mid sickened stones
Not of ***** but
Of the bones
At close of day
A man lay hoping
For another day's
Eyes to open
O new day come
It's not too late
Inner wellspring
Satiate!
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 4:02 PM UTC
Your short stature itself
is testimony to God's
intention to create you
in the form of a football.
Knowing still it was meant for the net, many a time must
the earth have longed to be
a football, seeking your touch.
Instead,
you kept your word, teaching
all the ***** on earth to dream
of growing into a globe.
Since your feet and football merged
into one, all loves on earth
were liberated for the time being
from the metaphor of
the spring and cherry tree.
Outside the field,
the bullet shot you launched
tore into the iron fences,
oblivious to the red cards of the dictators.
Now,
the earth where you stopped playing on
has become a lone deflated
leather ball on the penalty line,
with no one to take a shot.
But its memories are still alive,
brimming with Infinite dribblings
that you are about to
commence with God.
O
Poem by Veerankutty.
Translated from Malayalam by Anwar N K
Mar 30, 2021
Mar 30, 2021 at 11:03 PM UTC