"everydayness" poems
In this fRaGmEnTeD cage,I hear checkpoint moans;
anticipating our prone-positioned
brothers and sisters held
Prone positions against walls
Prone positions against fences
Prone positions against vehicles
Prone positions against buildings
Prone positions against prone positions
Slam-whacked, bloodied, occupied
like our great nation; like our souls
I remember a prophet's call, " love your neighbor
as yourself "
I hear Palestine weeping from Jenin
to Hebron, from Jerico to Gaza seized
I hear lamentations about blood tales
I see only FrAgMeNtS of our land
I see FrAgMeNtS of our proud people
Lo and behold my Palestine quakes as an earth quake
Doves scatter skyward as a prophetic omen
Blue skies and Sun momentarily claim victory
Then inhumanity's ugly face:
America to its Indians, America to its blacks,
America to women, America to its gays,
America to Mexicans,
America to South and Central America,
America once to Southeast Asia,
America to Islam, America with its war crimes,
America and Israel both innocence died
So, we pray Koran's verses upon our prayer rugs
We gesture all hope
The apartheid surrounds us
The dead talk to us
The smoke surrounds us
Perhaps better days we say
Entwined with bizarre everydayness
we accept sleep with fits
Fits without food;
Fits without crucial welfare
Roads, shelters, mock us
sculptured by missiles and bulldozers
Bully-bombs exploding in a reign of terror
We pray upon our prayer rugs
Bully-bombs exploding in a reign terror
And oooh how those awful missile FrAgMeNtS fly
and Muhammad cries with anguished tears, in this writtened
legacy...in written legacy
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 5:21 AM UTC
When we now celebrate Life,
It's in a different way than
Most mortals.
Her cheeks red from my
Beard rubbing against her face
With the force of nearly
Primal, almost aggressive
Gratitude
As we move against, across and
Beneath our bodies,
Always in desperate love and
Finally alone.
Gods elevated above this world of
Sand box dramas and
Petty everydayness. Royalty
Resting on thrones of each other.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 11:27 AM UTC
so many people
each one making their way about
opening worlds within
bound covers
filled with possibilities
and the words flew off pages
like young birds
into minds that will grow wings
and for a time will leave
the nest of everydayness
sometimes
as the book is closed
the still dizzying effect
of its power
has left with the reader
as they find their way out
of the labyrinth of pages
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 7:22 AM UTC
When the crushing today turns burdensome, I recline-
When the uncertainty of my tomorrow haunts, I reminisce
back into those days of unceremonious past- yeah!
that's where I go, for my short afternoon siesta.
Miles away from the town; friends, chit chats forgone;
Fragments of home, picked up; Remnants of self, left behind.
When cherished memories perish, the past-me withers away.
Singing the songs of the dying soul is the living me!
away from home, the longer I kept -the irony of our times!
away from self, the longer I moved; the irony of our lives!
As time moves on, relationships slip away; and
before strange gets familiar, the familiar turns strange!
Thinking of home; that everydayness of my childhood;
Ordinary, yet profound; Silly, yet unforgetful!
into that tenderness of the amateur soul, I ride back
to fetch the phantoms of that juvenile heart.
Forgotten old times and forgone loved ones;
Week end phone calls and weakened ties;
Amidst exhaustive past and the extravagant future,
Deep within, I wonder, what is left of me?
A Product of the Middle-class aspiration;
caught in the illusion of career progression is I
homeless in the foreign land called modern times,
orphaned by circumstances, I feel, I'm my own refugee!
Archived memories don't make home; love and affection do!
Internet and Instagram don't make home; intimacy does.
Bank balances don't make home, brothers and sisters do!
Money and wealth don't make home, warmth of a mother does!
Come, let's go back home! our folks are waiting;
for, to return home is to reintegrate our broken self.
awkwardness of anonymity, all over; let's flee the gadget sanctuary!
for, to come back home is to give a break to our senile spirits.
Saravanan
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 4:35 PM UTC
You went back to the youth room
and you wondered
which whims did not let you get as far as you could
which fears and disappointments did not let you mark your own destination with your compass
It is not only one Ithaca
not only one destination
why did not you come back like a ghost one night why you borrowed your dreams from the deads
Every night you hear the ship that sails
Why you never search the sailor who longed to look with your eyes
and to measure the loneliness of the deep ocean
You went back to the youth room
and you wondered why you did not paint the path you deserved, but you let the boredom and the everydayness smother a small alley with a half-
an alley to walk
an alley to get lost ...
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC