"focussed" poems
Her eyes radiant and sensous,
she proudly wore them.
Her eyes allured praises,
and conquered the art of flirting.
She looked at him to flaunt her eyes.
Which, she knew will tantalize him.
She wanted to arouse his highs,
and have him fantasize about her.
She looked at his eyes,
assuming it's just another fling.
Powerful and authentic were his eyes,
but also strangely familiar and gently captivating.
Her eyes met his eyes.
For the first time,
her impish and sparky spirit
felt something alien.
His eyes were all that were focussed
for, the rest of the surrounding faded.
She didn't feel the air.
She didn't feel the ground.
She only felt the gaze.
Her always rambling mind
went thoughtless now.
Her burning desire to keep doing more
was suddenly extinguished.
She went quiet.
Neither into an uncomfortable silence,
nor a painful silence.
But a peaceful silence.
A satiated silence.
The haunting memories from the past,
the gripping fear of the future,
all dissolved and energised the ecstatic present.
She no longer wanted this to be a fling
for, she knew she was captivated.
This was the first her flirting failed.
And she knew she couldn't be bailed out
from what's to come.
May 15, 2021
May 15, 2021 at 1:18 AM UTC
In foreign land of towering pines
And hammocks, mangrove-torn
A dark-filled night reluctantly
Bequeaths a pale dawn
Upon one battered cypress perched,
Amidst the morning haze,
Bright eyes stare out from part-cocked head
With piscicultural gaze.
Intently focussed on the brook,
That glides beneath the tree
Alive to every shadow’s sound
Yet never truly free.
For choicelessly these eyes are drawn,
As waters break below
And like a flash a head snaps back
And rippled muscles flow.
Within the slightest moment’s breath,
Two mighty wings released,
Two claws full-stretched, two legs reach out
The sinews, strained, unleashed.
The beaten air the only sound,
As time itself stands still
And, tracer-like, on charted course
The osprey meets its ****
With consummate and practiced ease
The painless end begins
The single deadly blow is dealt
As sharpened claws sink in.
Then up away into the dawn
And time resumes its course
Two final beats – then disappeared
Is this magnetic force.
The cypress perch and well-filled brook
As silent witness stay
And as they settle – calm again
The sun declares the day.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
Like a warm breath of air
He hovers in my memory
No superman, a meek soul
Not one to squander his time
But one who worked day in and out
To feed those
Whom he loved and sired
What was he?
A teacher, a farmer or an artist
I cannot say precisely...
All I can say;
He was each of these
Rolled into one
On holidays I saw him
Shut in the loft
a brush in hand
His fingers moving over the canvas
The steaming tea by his side
Untouched and getting cold as ice
Unmindful of everything around
He sat by the easel in the attic
Focussed only on the strokes that fell
When a distinct image shoots out
As the moon from behind clouds
A wave of satisfaction would gleam
Across his face,
His frantic nerves at once hushed
Bearing the look of one
Who, in an instant, conquered kingdoms
He would view it from different angles
Never seeking anyone’s opinion
But gloating if he saw
Our admiring eyes fell on it
Being artistically inclined
He lived more in the world of art
But gradually things changed
To his fright, he found his hands shaky
And the lines on the canvas
Going tremulous and disjointed
Couldn’t hold a brush!
On diagnosed of Parkinson’s disease
His world abruptly lost its sheen
He saw the disease weeding
Its way into his life
Suddenly grown old
He lost interest in everything
We saw him sitting in his armchair
So immobile, for hours on end
His eyes stretched to a far horizon
We displayed before him
Paintings once born of his imagination
To see if his world would brighten
And it worked!
Recently, in one of my dreams
I saw him sitting at the foot of Michael Angelo
To learn the art, he couldn’t perfect
In his life time!
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 8:44 AM UTC
The roaring alongside he takes for granted,
and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward,
in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.
The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet
of interrupting water comes and goes
and glazes over his dark and brittle feet.
He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.
--Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them
where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains
rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs,
he stares at the dragging grains.
The world is a mist. And then the world is
minute and vast and clear. The tide
is higher or lower. He couldn't tell you which.
His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied,
looking for something, something, something.
Poor bird, he is obsessed!
The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray
mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.
2.2k
Me as I am
And you, in part
Become ‘we’ in this process.
A long conversation that’s intimate, yet paradoxically almost one-sided with respect to content.
But I’m not alone in it;
You are here, focussed and listening.
I wanted to write prose about this business, but its shape was a poem.
Between these lines is where the essence of the meaning lies
A space where we sense the sense of it
Our conversation is long indeed and many stories have been told
Some have been slow to unravel and are unravelling still
Some intertwine in complex patterns
And others are shaped into vivid dreams
We ride on them and ahead see fate laid out like a corpse
Unwinding the shroud we face Death
And all the while stare wide-eyed and white faced at our doom and our destiny
It’s here you whisper courage and strength into my ear.
This is the journey of a lifetime
Who leads and who follows I know not
Only the first hesitant step reveals the nature of the second, all else is obscured
Magical and mysterious, harsh yet peppered with laughter
The treasure found along the way is in the companionship of our shared experience
And in me finding the part of myself that I had thought lost
On reflection I needed to have a sense of where I’d been and where I am going
Yet I’m still here on the journey
And can’t see where it leads
As if this were ever possible!
But what I notice is that I need ask fewer questions
And perhaps that’s an answer of sorts.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 1:17 PM UTC
I drank deeply
from her dimpled cup,
focussed my mind,
that was jumping like a colt,
and made my
prophecies thus:
"you are the daughter
of a reclusive prince
(who could also be a pianist )
a dark power wanted
to liquidate him,
but his mind was luminant,
his will was so strong,
he fell head over heals
in love with a gypsy,
a wandering mendicant
who was a magician of love.
**he loved the magic in life,
no wonder he was saved.**
You will
lose your virginity
to a powerful man
whose power will not
harm this world a bit!
**(powerful not harming us
is indeed rare!)**
you will give birth to a son,
who could be a king
(though monarchy now is no option
kings by other names aren't rare!)
even if they make him king,
he would abdicate and in turn,
would lead a life loving trees, rivers,
all in the nature,
light, and darkness he considers alike.
**he is brave, with a heart
brimming with love**.
you are a blessed woman
spirit of gypsy is alive still.
give a hoot about money,
but be contended with
**abundance of beauty you create,
in ways none can imagine!**
you don't want to change
the world a bit as you like,
but let everything go
in the order it should,
and just walk past
the busy streets,
towards
a breath taking sunset"
i heard an eloquent silence.
she jumped up from her seat,
took a swig of Champaigne,
and kissed me twice.
O
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 9:28 AM UTC
I remember the cold breeze blow into your face..
Your Red Shirt waiving whilst your on it..
Then the Camera focussed..
From the Green Grass to the back of your shirt..
Number 8..
And I knew I was looking at
My Legend..
My hero..
You'll Never Walk Alone they sang..
It gave me Goose bumps instantly!
I've never failed to miss a game to watch you since then..
To watch you play.. To watch Liverpool Play..
And then they sang your name..
You AWED me with
Joy and Goose Bumps!
You will be missed dearly..
But as you move on to better challenges..
Remember you Sir,
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart..
You'll Never Walk Alone!
-Shahzaad Zahirsha
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 8:44 AM UTC
Do you know the world unseen?
The one that every human being
Takes for granted every day
As they go about their work or play
For I speak of things like morning mist
The flower in the breeze that twists
The way some clouds evaporate
Or that flake of rust on the old front gate
The struggling mum who needs a rest
The logo on her child’s vest
The smile that means “I noticed you”
A kiss that’s meant for no one’s view
For all these things are here to see
Yet focussed minds just cannot be
Sensitive to all that’s there
For overload would bring to bear
Such cacophony of life’s rich vein
That most just choose to see the same.
The exceptions, friends, are me and you
Who take the time, like poets do.
RD©2014
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
I stare through the binoculars that border my world,
my life,
my mind.
The steel rims,
walls which encase me,
limiting my sight,
my thoughts,
my knowledge.
I yearn to reach out,
to push them away,
but without them I fear I will no longer be able to see.
I feel blind already,
stumbling through my darkened doorway
to the conclusions my narrow mind rests upon.
Stumbling to the same perch,
although the route has changed,
although the facts are different.
The same limited view.
I wonder; when will I see other dazzling landscapes?
And, if I do, will I be brave enough to relinquish the safety of my curtailed vision
for the bigger picture,
a bright overview,
instead of my fuzzy focussed spot of knowledge.
Oh, binoculars, your safety is hindering.
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 7:02 AM UTC
The paparazzi are staked out
For the latest splash trending.
Telephoto lenses focussed
On the door in a non-descript
Neighbourhood.
Eye-Witness copter hoovers,
We are in rhythm with the whirling
Chop-chop
Of breaking news.
Rivetted to our screens.
A door opens to reveal
A dentist
On his way to work,
Wearing alligator shoes
And wollen pants.
We'd hoped to see
A mane boa
Round his neck.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 8:28 AM UTC
Razor sharp
Always ready on the mark
Grit your teeth
Prepare to meet
Sharks and velvet puppeteers
Stiff suits clean cut collars
Spurting jargon to impress
Some other false pretentious scholars
Identically dressed
Fully focussed
Humorous jokers
Turn their backs
Once reached their purpose
Urgently directing to impress
The next unsuspecting guest
Who will help them next?
Meet those targets be the best
Never glancing back or forward
Losing sight of what’s important
They don’t care, are unaware
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 3:48 PM UTC
Claim the right to be mine
Discard the old notions
Feast your soul as we speak
Listen to your heartfelt rhythms
Clone your passions and keep them
Next to you and available to touch
Mother yourself and resist the temptation
From everyday door to door tedium
Even now you don't need the plan
You require nothing but vision
Look as we walk and stay focussed
Our hearts are much greater together
Our minds phenomenal
If we fall we rise above the left-over threads
Because home binds us and caresses us
The silent notes of winter
Frozen and hollow we disregard
Their implications and welcome
The spring and all it brings us
Manifesting fraying in the cold passing
And firming the winds of summer
The bright new year is at last
Holding hands with our souls
Eternally warming between us
Mar 7, 2011
Mar 7, 2011 at 1:43 PM UTC
Great Pan is Dead!
Flag at half-mast,
Great Pan is Dead!
He will not be the last,
The boorish wind will blow
And say ‘Pan It is time to go’
While the nymphs will lament the passing of friends.
Old Ulysses
Focussed as time,
He thought lotus-eating
Was a heinous crime.
Ploughed on with his quest,
He could cut it with the best.
But even he could not compare to Pan.
Oh Deadly Day!
The music has died,
Oh Deadly Day!
Arcadia lied.
Apollo will play,
And the Gods will shout ‘Hurray!’
And sing ‘Great Pan is Dead!’
October 2009
Jan 5, 2010
Jan 5, 2010 at 8:19 AM UTC
Philoxenic appetence
Misplaced
Disproportionate benevolence
Dissipate
Myself: an object, given away
A transient drifter with always somewhere to stay
Exuberant sorrow ever-wishing to deject
Distortion
Deception duplicates
A heart burnt black
Focussed on the lacking, unable to bounce back
Mouths to feed
Needy hands grapple to extract
No fact needed
Smoky contortion
Inhaled greedily
Ready for the downfall
Open to the wind
Upward spirals shy away from the world they crave
Mischievous nymphs dance merrily on a stage,
Unmade
Then lay down to cradle their babes
Slaves to the slovenly
Behaviour of unrest
I know they’re trying hard but is it their best?
Sing a song of sixpence, your fingers in my pie
Life is not serious
We’re all destined to die
High.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 9:41 AM UTC
Heart is connected with the universal energy
Head is logical
Heart goes with synchronous vibrations
Head will analyse everything
LOVE is Lactation of Vitall energy
When focussed it can mean "I love u"
So dil tho pagal hai
when two hearts interact in LOVE
the Spiritual Energy Xchange happen
Dil tho pagal hai
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
discipline keeps the mind focussed
a sick laughing in the background
rivers of knowledge, psychology
i got your back if you got mine
ancestors stole my land, my brain
existence revolves around dollars
you don't know the voices in my head
they are trying to control me, kid
how can they spot my very location?
i was born in a dump, my father a drunk
my momma died during my birth; my fault?
let me blow up all the golden buildings
my mind be the place where i make plans
people told me that "slang" was "horrible"
nobody has to like that, you feel me?
my skin color is black and white, you know?
don't let them get into my head, **** voices
can i walk the streets freely? who trusts me?
golden opportunities all over the place
don't ask a nameless what his name is
he will never tell you but shoot someone
it's simply not wise, we want justice
when your heart is turning ice cold
hour of the ******* hour of the sucker
the bassline trembles, i'm shivering
females are entering my safe house
armed with prejudices and dishonor
i'm already dead, words chocked me
too much poetry, nowhere to go
**** this end, i will come back!
Jun 11, 2020
Jun 11, 2020 at 11:48 PM UTC
His ears focussed to the child's melodic tune coming from the seat behind him in the truck with the Spice Girls blasting radio. He smiles at her brother joining in, but keeps his eyes on the road. Dad stretches an arm over the front passenger seat's shoulder to where Mum has woken to her songbirds.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 9:50 AM UTC
Splattered boots
stand ready, resting
from tied black laces
and muddy roads.
An attaché case
gapes too,
cwtches the photo
of a young woman
with dark wavy hair,
her unframed
forever- smile
focussed on a face
behind the camera
at the moment
the shutter clicked
and clicks and clicks
opening and closing,
packing and unloading,
staying and leaving,
making up a bed
from striped & labelled
winceyette.
Here's a tear
of tissue paper
stabbed urgently
on folded cloth
with random red stitches.
Here's the Star
of King David
pointing upwards,
locked on the blanket
by one steel safety pin.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
He’d go to the Square each afternoon
And sit on a bench, near me,
The one that stood in the shaded gloom
Of a brooding maple tree,
He’d roll his brolly and doff his hat
And scatter his bits of bread,
Then when the Keeper would tut, he’d say,
‘The Starlings have to be fed!’
He’d watch them come in a darkening cloud
And scare the sparrows away,
Then sit and listen to what had risen
At this loose end of the day.
He’d sit and nod, and he’d take it in
As if he could understand,
This Starling patter that passed as chatter
Concerning the world of man.
I never once saw him take a note
Or even record the sound,
He didn’t acknowledge the presence there
Of anyone else around,
He totally focussed on what they’d say
And **** his ear to their cries,
Then nod and smile in the strangest way
And shake his head at their lies.
Then after dark he would walk the park
And head for the studio,
That one dim lamp on the outer wall
Would show him the way to go,
And once inside you would hear him slide
On up to the microphone,
Where he’d tell his tales of success and fails
In a drawn-out monotone.
But you never felt a part of the tale
You were always shut outside,
Peering in from a ledge or bin
With a window open wide,
Then sometimes you were looking down
On the action from on high,
It could be from the bough of a tree
Or a wing in the azure sky.
He must have muttered a thousand tales
Of brooding, joy and despair,
The type of roles that would feed the souls
Of the folk who listened there.
They were light as vim, they were dark and grim
They were sown like seeds in the night,
And at the end, a beating of wings
As a bevy of birds took flight.
He entertains through the winter months
With a new tale every eve,
But stops as soon as the Spring comes in,
As the Starlings begin to leave.
They all return to their northern climes
With their tales to their Viking den,
While he will wait on the same park bench
For the winter to come again.
David Lewis Paget
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
You can be a boulder,
Unmoveable, hard, stoic;
But every stone is permeable,
And the water gets in
To make the rock sand...
Soft, malleable,
With indistinguishable grains.
I know others who swim
Against adversity to spawn in the current.
They believe destination is destiny;
Focussed, driven with tunnel vision.
Some face adversity like a roller-coaster.
When things are going north, all is good;
But they throw up their arms and scream
When going south.
I will catch the west wind,
Change course if necessary,
Tack across the white caps of roiling waters.
I will steer the rudder towards my East.
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 9:46 AM UTC
Ochre scrubbed ebony skin
Wooden jewelery here and there
Picture perfect beauty in simplicity
She walked in moral fortification -
fashioned in decency
Hardwork and wisdom was her charm
Barefeet and weighted with firewood on her head
Pots and baskets she juggled in hands
and through scorching heat she focussed ahead
the dessert sand burning her feet
Not once did she say it was a plight
She was proud to be a woman
The keeper of men and children
Through rain through sunshine
cooperating with her man's other woman
She worked for survival of all
Getting up in the first light of day
Submitting and respecting
Raising her children in acceptable ways
She was the unglorified worrior
A war hero could not fit her shoe
But she didnt have that shoe
So she smiled and made her man happy,
and her children
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 7:28 AM UTC
… On a bustling street,
she shuffles her feet,
her eyes hold a desperate heat,
eyes darting, discretely charting
a line through the crowds that are parting for her.
In a world of abundancy,
she sees redundancy.
Where waste is rife,
her life breathes new life into the rubble
from a fickle society’s burst bubble.
Her world otherwise grey,
she colours her day,
collecting, affecting
what the world has thrown away.
Single-mindedly transfixed, her target mixed; decayed, disused, no longer affixed.
Refused, unused,
discarded, unguarded;
all detected, all collected, all recycled, all respected.
Debris she chases, through a sea of down-turned faces she paces.
Those faces think she disgraces their spaces
but she shows no emotional traces.
She just fills her cases.
She kneels on a cold floor, search no more, search no more. Through a broken window comes dim light, from an oncoming night, passers-by dare not look in from disgust or from fright or sorrow for her plight. Her face covered in feeling but not for the walls peeling nor the ceiling that leaks, nor the floor that squeaks under a carpet that reeks and is torn and frayed in pieces arrayed in front of her.
She kneels on a cold floor, surrounded by more of the same she collected before. Old cushions: tattered. Plates and platters: shattered. Curtains in shreds, ripped clothes, parts of beds. A massacred lounge, wallpaper scrounged. A casual glance at the floor shows a junk-yard and no more. To her it’s ethereal, much more than material.
Her eyes focussed, near to lust as she begins to adjust her treasure, saved from the dust. Within it she trusts.
In her eyes pieces glow to her, in her eyes pieces show to her, a beauty known just to her.
She kneels on a cold floor with a purpose like none before. Within her scrapheap dominion she needs no opinion she fears no ones minion. She knows the beauty she seeks, the beauty that peeks through the grime as she tweaks, the beauty that speaks to her. As she sews it grows and shows and she knows what was once dispose is becoming her rose.
She loses no pace as the last piece of lace delicately takes its place; a tear of pride slides down her face. Her complexion ashen, knowing her passion has brought fashion from a discarded ration she lays down on a cold floor, search no more, work no more.
Daylight breaks, sunlight that shakes and awakes her. Her eyes fill with elation as she clothes herself in last night’s creation. What she wore before goes on the floor where lay more creations from nights before. She heads out toward the sunlight.
On a bustling street, she shuffles her feet, her eyes hold a desperate heat, eyes darting, discretely charting a line through the crowds that are parting for her …
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 2:26 AM UTC
my heart beats for love, my beast to overcome
to not look outside myself, no longer divide myself
send kisses to above, but on earth, I succumb
Your body like cheap motels, perfumed idealistic summer tales
follow me into the season of orange
carve a smile in my face like a pumpkin
trying to keep the spark alive is redundant
who could’ve done it, I wasn’t
I didn’t look below before I jumped in
now I am swimming in all my presumptions
it was gold like a nugget, till it wasn’t
knew I could do better If I focussed on the constant
which is me and all my little flaws, if you could see behind all the walls
serpentine to carve my body from clay
morph and transform is all I know
my new metamorphosis awaits
Oct 17, 2021
Oct 17, 2021 at 12:24 PM UTC
His wife said, you’re too
Nice to people, too
**** nice, you ought to
Be like Rocky; he
Don’t take no **** from
People, he tells them
Where to get off and
Is down their throats far
Quicker than they can
Say, boo boo, but you,
You’re just too nice, you
Even open doors
For dames and give them
The big friendly smile,
And give them the bright
Eyed sparkle. He let
His wife’s words float on
By like butterflies,
Focussed on the art,
His word management,
Giving form to his
Notions, painting out
Scenes, putting plots to
New ideas, and for
Another thing, his
Wife added, what’s with
The dame in the ****
Photos everywhere?
Who’s she? In the frame
By the bed, on your
Cell phone, tucked away
In your pocket book?
Are you some kind of
Religious fruit? He
Looked at his wife (she
Was a looker, had
A nice face and cute
*** and watched her mouth
Move, saw her tongue, like
Some small snake go in
And out and how fine
Her eyes were in the
Morning sun, how they
Shone some, and he said,
You know, your mouth moves
Quite prettily, your
Lips, they’re like parting
Thighs and how I just
Love the way your head
Tilts slightly to one
Side just like some odd
Inquisitive bird,
And by the way, the
Dame in the photos
Is St Therese, and
She’s just there to bring
Me comfort and to
Remind me how pure
And heaven sent a
Woman can be and
That there is more to
Women than meets the
Eye, but his wife stood
And shook her head, and
Not another word
By his wife was said.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 2:13 PM UTC