"dullish" poems
Grinning wide by the riverside
two bubbly girls click shots
between them whisper confide
share the secret thoughts!
The giggly cutes they walk like dance
caught in a sunlit pause
not mind the boys stealing glance
seems not worth a cause!
Their cells follow where they go
the lens beamed right on face
one more please and then one more
frames add up happiness!
I was watching the sun go down
pretty much in a fix
light was getting dullish brown
would turn darkish by six!
The urge was great surged the will
it grabbed the whole of mind
to have a photo me standing still
with the river flowing behind!
The butterfly girls in the sun's last kiss
they readily said o yes
each of them took a shot apiece
my joy you can easily guess!
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 6:23 AM UTC
waiting, counting, the hours are rhythmic
timed and passed by the slow bruising
of dried-peach skin to sick blackcurrant
ringing metal beats out the hours I'm losing
although, is my time gained, as others are
sleeping; immune to the gloried stars
swimming in my eyes, and one more blow
eyes closed, mind draining to the dark
I see the dawn in all its false hope
out of step and keeping my own time
dullish aching through bones to heart
with sluggish veins powering a body's decline
sickness is sick; I am not in health
nails blueishly giving away my failure
to guard my sanity, its repercussions
leave me lying broken, bent, impure
tear-stained minutes tick disjointed
I'm underwater: airless, trapped
around me they fly, I sink, I die
now watch me fall off the inky map.
© Tara India.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 8:25 PM UTC
I used to write joyful poems,
pointing out simple wonders,
such as how raindrops glisten on a mushroom’s ruby top.
But now the mushroom is only a dullish gray to me;
Everything is wrong.
My feet are cold and numb;
they have nowhere to walk.
My fingers are limp and uninspired;
they have nothing to type.
Outside my door are the sounds of people losing hope and patience;
they keep me inside.
As does the white fog of uncertainty I can’t seem to look past.
-kk
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
I walk through the main door, heaving my gaze on every little thing I could see,
Daggering signs of unkempt mess, spread all over the floor,
Fringing little pieces with signs of dust obscured upon,
Every little memory I could reminisce, every solitary object thinkable,
And I realize, that I’m standing in the same living room,
Which once filled with unmeasurable content, Is now long forlorn,
With the walls brushing out It’s colour, floor musty, ceilings ambiguous,
Belted, I stride towards my parents’ room, still average sized, albeit dullish,
With the purple colour turned pale white, windows covered with hefty dust,
Spots where there were perfectly sketched paintings, now withered,
And my small buried light of hope dashes, bursting into flames.
Next I enter my room, the place where it all began,
All the hopes and ambitions, the curious revelations,
The curtains, once a heavy shade of blue, were now worn out,
The walls had spit out it’s true colours,
And the essence of the cologne was still there, but rotten.
I stand for a while, motionless, allowing the memories to rush down into me,
Eyes closed, while my eyelids flicker, as if reliving it all,
Shredded with the load of despair, I walk out,
Through the living room, and as I ponder upon all the long buried mystical memories,
I close the main gate, lock the house,
And keep the key exactly where I found it, under the rugged doormat.
The nameplate read “Home”.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 8:52 AM UTC
fallen from glory the world now turns drab
so easily a single dullish cloud
before the sun and all brightness is cowed
without resistance we can never grab
the moment back it's cast upon the slab
and we are from all justice disendowed
who were not long ago happy and proud
but now have come to the realm of the crab
the world is many things other than fair
since what we have we always have to earn
on terms that change each day and are not right
when most we want the best of things to dare
but never mind all that is good must burn
and from the fire we gain a better light
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 8:03 PM UTC
She is gone and I am sad
It's bad
but I know that she will come once more
and with the key I gave her
open my front door
and step inside again
to bust me open wide again.
How many times I cried 'No not again'
but secretly was glad.
It's bad
when love hits you in the guts
and escape routes that you thought you had
shut with a dullish kind of thud.
It's bad,it's good
and when it's oh so very good I could live forever wrapped within her eyes and whether I can hear the silent sighs and moans
I really do not care.
She's there I share it all with her.
It's bad
when I'm glad she's gone and sad that she's not home
and she telephones to say
'not coming round today'
Okay
so life goes on
How is that possible when she's gone.?
It is.
I do survive
and when the clock strikes half past five and evening runs in from the day.
I want to tell her
want to say,
'hurray look at me
I can manage easily'
I groan alone in ecstasy
I want her here alone with me
I cannot be
me
without her.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
Colours float inside of me..blue of course, for sympathy
And red..the tiger crouching warily.
Green, the haunting of our destiny.
Tangerine in which I see the dream of peace.
Black, so when the day does cease...gold will come and hold my hand and take me far into a spectrum band..
And I can see the summer hue..be warmed as it will warm you too.
Another blue..another day which turns into a dullish grey..painted faintly through the sky in which white clouds burn away and die into a pinkish failing blue.
Always blue..it comes back to me..that melody rings in my ear..and I, no prophet or no seer can only seek to peer within..the shimmerings of broken hearts that sing to me in amber and in that I see..
A world that's gone under the sea coloured deep in verdigris.
It all comes crashing into me..the colors, colours that I see.
If I could, then I would be the colour that would most suit me..
..The colour of the endless ocean at which the toe taps in devotion to the shades of blue and green..
..where everything is seen
And where these colours deem to meet is where I greet
The coming day..then all I do.
Is think tomorrow blue.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 7:04 PM UTC
No body language
no eye contact to
distract me
it's like being a monk
In an
abandoned monastery,
with just a book
to comfort me
I sit
silently and sift through
the thoughts on these
pages in front of me.
I connect with introspection
which is heading in the same
direction
and fall into the trap if
a trap it might be
of
me.
There's a splendour in isolation
which is absent from a group,
but I'm not duped into believing
I am alone.
Sounds from the street
filtered
though in them I meet
myself,
the beat of my heart
pounds off each page of
this book I'm pretending
to read.
Passing.
the passage of time is unlit
through these hallways I flit
like a shadow
and if shadow I be
who is it that pretends to be me?
I suppose the monk knows or
he did
long before the reformation
long before this situation
arose.
There's a bell ringing on the bus,
a bit like the church bells
but
without all that religion and stuff
off and on the day goes on
I go along too.
I see tall City buildings ahead
looking like dragons teeth,
the
sleeping giants in a bed
of clay.
Wednesday and contacts were few
because
nobody knew what to say,
not yet a quarter way through it
already sick of it and
the crazies are out on the streets.
I am encouraged by
the colour of
the sky
a dullish
Welsh slate grey
it might rain today to wash
these thoughts away.
I really hope it does.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 2:52 AM UTC
cold as New England
winters. Fallen like wood from
an axe in shards shaped and
sharp as tacks in my back
yard. My pieces are pine
needles spread over a patch of
yellow blanket. Cause I look like
litter to the fox and the hound
as they go. I dry to a dullish
brown and blend in with the ground
as the sun thawed the snow. Men
trod with boots and squirrels
paw with their claws, leaving me
turned up as autumn leaves. I
bottom out in the eaves. A paste of
mud and stick is me.
Sep 16, 2024
Sep 16, 2024 at 10:55 AM UTC