"enterprising" poems
A short direction
To avoid dejection,
By variations
In occupations,
And prolongation
Of relaxation,
And combinations
Of recreations,
And disputation
On the state of the nation
In adaptation
To your station,
By invitations
To friends and relations,
By evitation
Of amputation,
By permutation
In conversation,
And deep reflection
You'll avoid dejection.
Learn well your grammar,
And never stammer,
Write well and neatly,
And sing most sweetly,
Be enterprising,
Love early rising,
Go walk of six miles,
Have ready quick smiles,
With lightsome laughter,
Soft flowing after.
Drink tea, not coffee;
Never eat toffy.
Eat bread with butter.
Once more, don't stutter.
Don't waste your money,
Abstain from honey.
Shut doors behind you,
(Don't slam them, mind you.)
Drink beer, not porter.
Don't enter the water
Till to swim you are able.
Sit close to the table.
Take care of a candle.
Shut a door by the handle,
Don't push with your shoulder
Until you are older.
Lose not a button.
Refuse cold mutton.
Starve your canaries.
Believe in fairies.
If you are able,
Don't have a stable
With any mangers.
Be rude to strangers.
Moral: Behave.
4.9k
Years later
Bathsheba's psychiatrist
Was analysing the tryst
Between King David
And her.
It was no tryst
Said she.
What a slur.
He was a ******
And an opportunist.
An amoeba would concur
Said the psychiatrist
That a shower screen
And being more demure
Would have been
Quite spiritually enterprising.
You cannot expect
Kind David to desist
From objectifying your femurs
And a cracking pair of amethysts.
Don't treat me
Like some calculating
Hormone Exchange Unit
You sexist misogynist.
You are not fit
To analyse me.
You say your name's Freud
But you're wholly devoid
Of any insight
Of what is amiss
Or my troubles might be.
Not one piece of grit
Have you put in my oyster.
You obsequious churl
I'm a girl you don't mess with.
I could have you hung.
But instead she dismissed him
and booked an appointment
With a certain professor
Who went by the name of
Carl Gustav Jung.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
at two years old,
your curious hands
happened upon a bottle of
flea medicine
that lay waiting on the counter.
your mother was absent as usual,
off on an errand,
or walking the dog.
unwatched,
your enterprising fingers
eased the lid from the container,
and you poured the sweet-smelling
liquid down your throat.
the world was still so new to you,
and it seemed to be made for tasting.
who could blame a child
with a thirst for more than
mushy peas and applesauce?
two days later
they released you from the hospital,
your stomach pumped dry.
when you were six,
idly exploring the woods of your mother’s
sprawling estate,
you paused a moment from imagining
faerie queens flitting about in the greenery
to take rest on a log,
your undiscerning eye not betraying
its secret: within it was a nest
of wasps,
and thinking they were faeries
you dared not move as they
rose in a cloud above your head
and overtook you,
leaving your body peppered with
painful angry sores.
you fell to the ground.
a hired man,
strong and tall as the oak trees,
saw your quick descent and
ventured after you,
made a hammock of his arms
to bear you like a fallen soldier
back to your mother’s house,
his tough sun-leathered skin
immune to the assaults of the
faerie battalion.
at eight,
playing in the small child-sized house
in your aunt’s garden,
you sought to make stained glass
from the broken shards of the playhouse window.
having no tool at hand,
what better way to
shatter the clear, flat plane
than with your fist?
before reason could take hold of you,
you drove your hand
through the glass,
and the raw edges cut deep into your veins.
blood flowed in rivers
from your wrist.
your aunt, ever watchful,
rushed from the house to
stop your body’s catharsis
with a dishcloth.
the jagged unpainted shards
lay forgotten on the ground.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 10:05 PM UTC
This astonishingly smart work
by an enterprising bunch
of greedy caterpillars on this tree,
symbolizes sweet success itself
(only to them, not for others
I'll have to grudgingly accept)
Look how they devour with a vengeance,
every bit of the gentle greatness, one felt
in presence of the exhilarating fine green crown,
of the lovely tree that stood head held high,
smiling in scorching sun, storm and rain,
and made me stand awe struck,
for a while the first time I passed
through the path under her thick canopy.
Success has avariciously eaten up glory
a fine creation of many seasons,
without any concern for those
who die for greatness, nothing else!
All that remains to see is this:
whether fragile winged butterflies,
charm personified in vivid colors,
would come out,of this greed?
Though they being a creatures of transience
makes it a bad bad bargain.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 12:05 PM UTC
I am the first page of a well-loved novel,
But often the first one ignored,
Dog-eared and transparent at the corners
From the touch of one too many hands
And witness to the enterprising twist of a smile
As my readers are privileged to only pieces of me.
You, like the binding that surrounds me,
Enclose and encircle all that I am. Write a novel
Under my skin. I’ve falsified too many smiles,
Sacrificed even the best of myself for ignorant
Delusions of caressing hands
That take and abuse my corners.
The used bookstore on the corner
Of Middlebury Marbleworks, Otter Creek and window-origami —
My salvation and river-penance. Seek my story with hands
That feel to comprehend, with novel
Softness and a tenderness that ignores
My pleading glances and indecisive smiles
As you speak in hush-whispers. Smile
With your eyes as you touch my spine — corner
Me at the exit. I want you to ignore
Faults, make peace with flaws that inhabit me
Like poetry misplaced within a novel,
Or willow branches falling too low, tired hands.
I memorized the shape of your hands
The first time we danced to Chaplin’s “Smile,”
And wrote on the broadness of your shoulders a novel
Of my sins, apologies stretching to your corners
In villanelles — repeating refrains. It took all of me
To tell you what I could no longer ignore.
Because once you start to ignore
Conflictions that exist in the nerve-endings of your hands,
What you feel becomes a burden. For me,
Sand ran out of the hourglass when our smiles
Stopped touching — and at the corner
Of Maple Street and Printer’s Alley, I said goodbye, our novelty
Gone. Still, I find it hard to ignore what used to be when you smile
As you look at her, your hands on her back in the corner
Of the room. You remain my unfinished novel.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
I am not a carnivore
but a ****** man eating
the flesh of the baboons.
Colonies of monkeys in
awe watching David in
enterprising exploits slaying
Goliaths in heroism of liberty
for equity.
It'll not be long when the night'll
break into day of freedom when the baboons will leave the bananas for the monkeys.
Till this ugly night of injustice turns a summer day of freedom when all sieging clouds are cleared, it's war!
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 2:48 AM UTC
I look deep into the mirror
And I notice I have aged before my time.
I see the caverns in my eyes
Pasty skin and sleep deprived.
I can count the lines upon my forehead,
Etched deep by years of surprise,
Of frustration,
Of surly indifference
And I am only through a score of years.
I could go to bed sooner,
For it is not down to an enterprising purpose,
Or a creative flair
That I am awake until five every morning,
Stubbornly refusing to
Fall
Into another twitchy sleep.
The dead of night is rarely punctuated here;
Only by another sleepless soul,
Just looking for a reason.
For what?
This peace is only ever broken
By the sounds of the birds
And their sweet melody
Of territorial threats,
Both for the safety of their nests
And for your intrusion upon their time.
They sing: “go to bed, go to bed, a dreamless sleep if you go to bed”.
I know now I will not feel fresh when I awake,
But in these bleak months,
I see nothing to feel fresh for.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 6:46 PM UTC
The Roman empire has fallen
sadness weeps bitter tears
how the mighty became poor old waif
and the west held their jamboree without ignominy
For once they were carried on shoulders in sedan trains
in pomp and ceremony the masters sought safaris and ruled lions
from Goa to Timbuktu the whiff of toast on marmalade n Darjeeling
jackboots and clipped voices rang in plantations n hymns in churches
The Roman empire has fallen
Tea two anti-depressants please
Oh no no how have the mighty fallen
unwanted unloved we cry diminished glory
no invites to Continental parties no lovers in Casablanca
the dusky maidens as footstool are Doctors at the corner Surgery
those hunky dark torsos ferrying cocoa to steamers heading Cardiff
are now earning two hundred thousand grand a week and drive Rolls
The Roman empire has fallen
now we just drink Bitter all the time
the mighty s of the universe are now *******
come see the bullies in the school playground playing the Raj
let me show you a place where four in ten cannot spell enterprising
did you know when not in the Tropics some go for weeks un-bathed
shock and awe jealousy n envy is the new black making them so mad
old n young no self respect, no dignity and now only sad mad bullies
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 4:29 AM UTC
Heart shaped pupils
Warm pleasant feelings
Words of forever
Written on the ceilings
Touch of the inseparable
Desire of the poor
Heart filled kisses
Spilt on the floor
Rejuvenated youth
Romantic waterfalls
Moon struck intimates
Charity stone walls
Enterprising passions
Midnight tours
Hot, steamy, secrets
Air tight doors
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
a poet who taught college
night school ventured out
during the day to find rare
books of poetry to assign
his class to read out loud;
a small bookshop destined
to fail opened up on the
sunny north eastern corner;
selling no books at all, the
enterprising intellectual
proprietor resigned to the
inevitable but was surprised
when the poet [seldom
seen during the day & she
had never seen him before]
burst through the door &
demanded she order all the
books on a handwritten list,
shoving it in her face; so
overwhelmed she stayed
late at the bookstore on the
telephone & computer
ordering the rare & obscure
books; that night the class full
of wanna-be poets groaned in
despair at the poet telling them
to read every book on the list
& the wherewithal to find them
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 3:36 AM UTC
In Nigeria's political theatre, a tale unfolds,
The Hausa-Fulani’s, in power they hold.
For years, the ruling class they've been,
Yet education's light, they've scarcely seen.
Unwavering they stand, a united force,
Dominating cities, charting a course.
Enterprising minds, business savvy and bold,
In the market of life, their stories are told.
Marriage bonds woven within their tribe,
A tradition upheld, where sentiments imbibe.
Ethnicity and religion, threads of identity,
In the mosaic of Nigeria's vast diversity.
Through the corridors of power, they navigate,
A web of connections, a potent state.
Unity binds them, a familial embrace,
Supporting each other in life's challenging race.
In the embrace of tradition, they find strength,
A tapestry woven, a cultural length.
Love and support, a pillar so tall,
Hausa-Fulani’s, standing proud, standing tall.
In the heart of the nation, their legacy thrives,
A paradox unfolds, where wisdom derives.
For though uneducated ratio may be high,
The bonds they share reach up to the sky.
A political dynasty with tales to unfurl,
Hausa-Fulanis, a complex swirl.
In the dance of power, a rhythm unique,
A story echoing through history's mystique.
Dec 23, 2023
Dec 23, 2023 at 6:58 AM UTC
*Love birds in the cage
At times sage at times rage
Male enterprising Greenie , his name
Female whip smart, Bluey , her name
It took me a little while to befriend the two
Never had a pet ,Other than a fish or two
Greenie was the one
Who made calls for the feed
Bluey made sure she was the first to eat
Greenie the chivalrous, would wait for his turn
Bluey ,always on a diet , quickly she ate
Greenie ate to his Heart's content
Together they would sing
And swung
On their little swing
Born in captivity
They had wings ,but never did they fly
Or
Maybe never did they try
Fly fly fly away... I'd say
Probably... Possibly ....
Never ....ever ...never they'd say
Happy in the cage ,with each other
They knew ,no other way
Love birds ,as they say*
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
I
wonder
what happened to our love
for
nature
was told new ships get old
now I look up
enterprising scallops
trepidation
us
you and me
immature encrustations
at
the
bottom of the sea.
Jun 9, 2022
Jun 9, 2022 at 1:34 PM UTC
What a way to spend October 11, all in one day?
There are many enterprising words that I could say
It was the 14th Annual Mass Transit & Trolley Modeler’s Convention in New Brunswick, New Jersey
It was held at RUTGERS UNIVERSITY Gymnasium Annex
All attendee’s wore badgers and stepped back into time
Trains, busses and trolley’s all had their preservation combined
A look at steam engines who was the workhorse of the rails
Come and follow me as I explain in more detail
Transit and highway buses the vintage of their trail
Towns with trolley’s, a matter of tracks and wires
A world from the past with tomorrow that’s here today with plenty of technology advances that inspires
A trip down memory lane in years before my years
Yet the honor of preservation to continue my passion for buses in preserver
Then there were highway buses I once rode
Purchased a scale model MC7 Challenger of Vermont Transit, and added to my personal collection of look and behold
A day well spend indeed
The story goes on in proceed
I really didn’t know where time went
This was my exploration being support
You could say, “My determined will”
It was my ambition running on still
Yet it was a worthwhile experience
But it was a lot of walking and you had to have endurance
I learned even more mass transit and buses
This places me like an Ever Ready battery to influence
Also with that knowledge, I learned about the back roads and rails no longer exist
This was a thought I couldn’t resist
The mass transit flow and time is moving with systems go.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 5:30 AM UTC
Yesterday I learned,
you just don’t shoot yourself in the temple if you wanna die.
Small bits of exploded alloy
may merely knick the complex nerves
that control your eyes.
You’ll be left blind but still alive.
A tough break for the enterprising.
Sometimes even the well prepared
come up short.
Although,
a quick google search would reveal
the proper path to panacea.
A redirect to the bombastic blog.
Empty words form empty lines.
And a single sign would have changed your mind,
Aim through the mouth.
It’s the only way.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
...Being an enterprising spirit
My friend's advice was as it always was
Controlling, without the needed wisdom
Nobody has much light for me in my darkness
I look to the biggest stars to see they've stayed alive
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC
Intrigued about cremation,
I sought GOOGLE to assuage curiosity
significant questions answered
clicking the following website
https://www.funeralwise.com/plan/
cremation/cremation-process/
though summarizing article
some oven death defying act,
yet summarization satisfactorily completed,
thus herewith briefly describes
kickstarting, mystifying, pulverizing...
tantalizing, yielding, enterprising, lasting,
yelping, holding, surviving dearly departed
1. deceased identified
2. official cremation authorized
affiliated with deceased
3. lifeless body prepared
4. medical devices removed
5. jewelry recovered
6. corpse secured
into burnable cremation receptacle
7. encased entity transferred
to retort i.e. cremation chamber
8. temperature range adjusted
between 1400 degrees -
1800 degrees Fahrenheit
9. 1.5 - 2 hours elapsed
10. magnet applied
residual metal removed
11. remains ground into ashes
12. once process completed
remains secured within urn
13. family representative entrusted
with ashes.
Burnt offerings distributed
ideally according to stated
wishes of beloved,
whose remembrance sustained
as tears expended
necessary to mourn
eventually sorrow lessened,
photographs visited
after crushing grief decreased.
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 2:35 PM UTC
***J'accuses
me,
that Stevie Rhymer
felony thievery, wholesale robbery,
of them blunts of good words,
and stashed the hiding fumes in my lungs
plead guilty,
with a Cool Hand Luke
studied pretense and a
huge ear to ear smirking of a
"who me"
innocence
it seems mucho unseemly,
bright pink tongue laughable,
stealing that chaste yellowed white chaff conceptual,
innocenctal,
cause i'm knowing it's well buried, lost-littered,
across the poppies of a poem-field
GPS mapped as
My Very Own Private Flanders
this one-night-only lynching of a yoga-flexible,
occasional reappearing conscience,
taking a short bow,
loosened by a
Manufactured in the USA,
cross-continental heat seeking arrowed
verbal verdict
soul and control,
two words that should rhyme,
but don't,
so in the valley of the bleached bones,
find me spending my last San Fran dime,
entrance fee to the accountant's confessional,
who greets me with a quizzical
why the hell are you prepaying this year's sin tax?
this confessing gig
awfully tiring,
like locating all those
?'s, periods and commas,
punk'd punchuation on the the keyboard,
of who you are
yeah, stole them all, them words,
burnt off the serial killing numbers,
now untraceable, masked in a thousand poems
that no one commissioned and barely read
in a vision,
i see my Barre gray gravestone appropriately blank,
steel cut smooth,
like a clean sheet of foolscap
an enterprising thief came along,
stole all the useful
Alphabets and numerals
to my vociferous silent applause
you see Stevie,
all those good words,
and literary hints from an over educated man,
ain't worth a good god ****
when u just lazy emoji these days
so take 'em, anyone,
great honor to me to see them
pray rise someone else's field,
in a new poem
by somebody else***
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC
A doer--yes, that's what you are.
A challenge is always good for you.
But people around you learn very quickly
That you resent being told what to do.
Through you are a hard worker,
Too many details can be a shackle.
But you are eager to initiate
Projects that others don't want to tackle.
You are assertive and impulsive.
New adventures always thrill you.
Showing others that you are a leader
Motivates and helps fulfill you.
Being a lively participant
In the everyday bustle of life excites you.
Being able to finish what
You start always thrills and delights you.
Physical accomplishments
Show that your energy is abundant.
To say that you are always in motion
Would, of course, be redundant.
In fact, to everything that happens,
You have a physical reaction.
To anything that's enterprising,
You have a natural attraction.
You have a lot of inner strength;
You are open and direct.
But a disregard for others
Occurs if energy goes unchecked.
Your independent nature is fine,
Since inwardly you are so strong.
But you can also be self-centered.
To say that wouldn't be wrong.
Generous in many ways
With time and energy, you know
That keeping high ideals in mind
Is the surest way to go.
You march headstrong into combat--
Verbal or physical. Forward you trudge.
Your anger never lasts for long,
And seldom do you hold a grudge.
But you can be impatient, pushy,
And sometimes a little overzealous.
But because of your honesty,
If something is wrong, you will tell us.
Watch that your self-confidence
Doesn't end up being excessive.
Learn the difference between being
Confidently and rudely aggressive.
Ready to try anything once,
You always maintain a frantic pace.
But disappointment of stifled efforts
Shows up clearly on your face.
You're always ready to fight injustice.
There are few doubts--if any--
Whether you can accomplish your tasks.
Just try NOT to take on too many.
- by Bob B (3-23-17)
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 10:19 AM UTC
Relighting Presbyterian roots,
God’s forest-fire convolutes…
contentious times burn heterodox.
The catholic cuckoos make their round—
strange fire and popery abound;
Deus Ex Machina winds the clocks.
Let all attend the holy skirl,
an armored tartaned highland whirl
escaping from God’s music box:
a blare of sixteenth-century pipes.
unleashes types on antitypes.
Pure Calvinistic grace unlocks
the portal’s gate—and, opening wide,
the frightened worldlings peer inside
beholding heaven’s equinox.
We chasten the imploding West
for ****** Mary’s crimes confessed
(upon the Catholic queen a pox)
but praise the captain of the Kirk
for interplanetary work.
His enterprising doctrine rocks.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 1:05 PM UTC
Alas! Nomenclature deviated.
Now, for exploitations.
Phew! Whenever I recall
The emergence of rosary and tesibiu
That makes the Oracle beads
Lose fist in the days,
I summoned pause to my tears.
Fine chaffs have cover our eyes
That all we sight is good but lies
Jesus is beautiful, Mohammed is strong
Hmmmn! Devil is ugly and weak?
Luther king dream I reveried
Marxism: archived in my cafe
Have and have not classes
Religion: ***** of the masses
Trauma flows in the atheists' blood:
There is no God but fate
Oh! Our priests in robe
Covering their heads with load of scarfs
A self torment to the brain.
Their beards touched their chests
While their trousers fight
3rd world war with the ground
As they open ajar their mouths
To chant alhamdulilah recitations
For saka and yummies beckon.
Is that what Mohammed taught them?
Oh! Our Priests in lucre suits
Yet, their protrude bellies peep through,
Heaving high and low
Like that of the narrow escaper.
Mouthach of Herbert Macaulay
Curved like a bow wield.
Halleluyah starts their incantations
Their lips released the splits,
''Dance to the front
As you drop your offering and donations,
Sow big so that God can bless you like David''.
And we gullible oaf sow in their basket.
How many candles have they told us to buy,
It is to solve your qualms
Or bring stable electricity to Nigeria.
Who are they emulating! Christ?
They are allies to the fiend
Politicians in disguise
We build that school
That we can't afford the price.
Our pennies bought them wings to fly
While we crawl on our knee
Struggling to get d ruins
That fall from their tables.
They rollick on our sweat
Forgetting the horse that ride them thirst
Though, we are the bunch of ignoramus.
But the Holy books they carried
Shall fall them to their grave
If they don't stop enterprising...
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 6:09 PM UTC
Kathy, lately
birds seem rarer.
Even in the lilacs
where the blackbird whistles,
boughs seem spent.
Foolish men who read their loss in nature’s
always wax too eloquent,
so, while I try to paint
a sense of desolation
in the brooks of heaven and streams of night
(wherever they may be),
I know it’s farce –
an enterprising manufacture making nothing laugh.
I should write nothing,
nothing makes more sense,
although, my darling,
when I mourn for you who travelled hence
(and left me, placing nothing in my arms)
my mind drifts out,
and like a fragment driven by the wind,
I have to write.
I have to wring these vague alarms.
I have to give to nothing something slight.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 6:41 PM UTC
MOTECUHZOMA
My torch that does not smoke, your will be done.
We’ll, with a clean-slate log, draft dignity.
Yet what events may come to canonize?
The wider our domain has stretched her range,
The weaker our elastic hold becomes,
As one half of our empire is employed
With forceps to extract the other half.
Our reign superimposes all the earth
From the volcanic groves of Mayaland
Up to the shifting wastelands of the North.
But there is one last nest of brigandry,
A murky pocket glowering in the east:
That vile Tlaxcala, left to roam at large,
And, as a single bed flea spoils my sleep,
So does this fractious county drain my humor.
Brother- What pesticide must flush these flies?
CUITLAHUAC
We have the force to raze those traitors down,
And what we might attempt, our might must crown.
Our fertile empire rounds their toxic realm
As healthy flesh imprisons cancerous rot;
If eagles nursed a stranger’s egg to find
Their warm embrace has thawed a rattling asp.
We once did stalk Tlaxcalans for our sport,
And prize their trophied hides like ten-point bucks.
But these stray pups have hardened to coyotes,
On crouching haunches, like a nightmare, hunched
Upon a flowerlike land that should support
A million civilized and happy men.
Their population’s health should be no more
Than called for by an enterprising nation
For water-drawers and hewers of our wood.
Let’s pinch this pest we coddle at our breast,
And clip these hatchlings’ wings while in the nest.
MOTECUHZOMA
So should we compromise our Mexico,
By thus unpopulating her of men.
What says our loving minister of war?
Speak, Tlacaelel, and pronounce their doom.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
Glamour, health and politics,
are ideal morning topics
blending well with hot coffee,
and, these early risers...share openly
their impassioned accounts, simultaneously
seething, with a dark and strong bubbling sea,
making the most, out of a few hours of bonding,
breakfasting, after morning chi kung
(sometimes, with family, reuniting...)
they have moved with the times and days,
subscribing to both old and acceptable new ways...
anger and dislike are voiced gently
no despair hidden...i believe, not a tad of ennui,
.......surely...
these ladies have no fancy hats,
flowered, feathered, or with colored tats
no jewels crown their heads...........just
plain hair: black, brown, long or bobbed,
no pearls grace their necks.....or gloves
that are trimmed, to hide overworked
hands, or wrinkled knuckles......they're
past their golden years, prim and proper,
their own sets of rules are flames burning,
steam rising, like those of coffee brewing
deep in their minds...their values, churning,
their inner beauty, transcending...
their mornings are like a coffee maker,
brimming with bubbles and dark swirls,
tamed, paled in mugs, when cream is added in twirls...
complex issues considered taboo,
sometimes, even plain tattoos
are discussed in hushed tones
voices agree or disagree...until froth is gone
and bubbles have simmered down...
the hours are fleeting, time passes so swiftly
one has gone...but these enterprising ladies
excitedly plan ahead, for their next assembly...
Sally
Copyright November 2, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 7:58 PM UTC
An uprooted tree lies ebbing in the street.
The one who pledged everyone with a refuge
is herself in exigent need.
People come, see the fallen one.
Not a soul seems to be concerned.
Zero, zilch, nada, none.
They don't remember
those cloistered, sizzling infernos of June
those solitary, shivering nights of witchy new moons
and those
sodden, sultry volleys of pouring monsoons
when they, like sprayed bedbugs, ran helter-skelter
with the beast of disarray at their sorry heels -
snarling callously at all their jet-set culture,
structure and order
and
when all and sundry went slapdash
…haphazard
that stalwart of timber
gave them reassuring shelter.
…no fine print, no strings…
❉
Today, when in the aftermath of storm and rain
her generous framework lays mortally drained
there is no one who would even stop
to look for a while
let alone bestow a precious drop
of life.
❉
In this progressive society –
dynamic, forward-looking, revolutionary –
each enterprising personality
is interred beneath umpteen layers of conceit
and on the assay of fulfilment
estimates the value of the being.
Dec 23, 2019
Dec 23, 2019 at 8:07 PM UTC