"furnishing" poems
How dare you feed your shadow and bind your rulebook with the cells of my brain, the tissue of my heart and the calories of my existence.
How dare you tear down my home. How dare you throw away the cushions of my stomach, tear down the curtains of my hair, destroy the pillars of my legs. Until all that was left was the cold brick. an empty house. A hollow heart, a bedridden passion for life.
You ate my muted screams and my broken dreams. Slower, no slower, chew slower. Don’t eat too quick. Weigh that, no! Weigh it again, the scales could be wrong so round it up, log it, 200 left for dinner. Please just let me eat, please give me peace.
Dog-earing her rulebook and breaking its osteoporotic spine. Feeding my life, furnishing my home.
Jul 26, 2021
Jul 26, 2021 at 12:08 PM UTC
When the world starts crumbling around me
I close my eyes and build.
A shelf here, our bed there;
a table for four, a porch for more;
Hardwood floors, soft pillows;
your record player, a piano;
framed photographs of ruins;
a loveseat piled with books.
When I start to question,
I start to build.
And in the long silences between us,
I am furnishing our home,
piece by piece,
until I forget the question,
and remember
that I,
that we,
are under construction.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
sweet jesus
life is outrageous
listless alligators
try to upstage this
drift from forms
to formless sages
residual wages
furnishing your cages
threadbare leather workers
raid our refrigerators
rage is impulsive
sullen lisps and swollen lips
frame our faceless daughters
in their water glasses
houses of hunted howling
hourglasses
dreamcatchers and dancers
humongous lanterns
burning pages
place-mats
on your dinner tables
why do they feel so out of place
is it the way we are made
have you any
doubts about your origins
what is the worst
thing you’ve ever faced
are you exposed
to typos regularly
tokens of penmanship
and fraternity hazings
hostelries and banquets
growth is dependent
only on intangible quotients
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC
Did you hear the one about the Fountain?
You know, that bathroom furnishing-turned-art that was quickly snatched from public view because some found it "offensive, immoral, and repulsive?"
The one that has a jumbled history?
R. Mutt--my mother in German
R. Mutt--Richard Mutt bought the fountain
R. Mutt--a French cartoon reference
R. Mutt-- modification of the name of the plumbing company
What really happened?
A mystery of history.
A beautifully complex objet trouvé, turned on its side to find new meaning.
Art is in the eye of the beholder.
Art is necessary, thus the necessary is art.
For a start.
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 1:24 AM UTC
The furnished souls
Adorned with mahogany
Luxurious pieces in every corner
Eau de parfum, the finest from France
Does not allure the senses
The settees, chaise lounges and recliners
Standing there, forlorn, awaiting guests
The ornate crystal chandeliers adorn the ceilings
Trying to illuminate the gloominess
The flooring of Makrana marble on the floors
As if there is a puzzle to be solved
It looks quizzically at the incoherent footsteps
Of the infrequent visitors, not even interested
Mansion filled with embellishments
Yet there are no worthy inhabitants
The Swarovski crystal curtains, veils the outside world
That waits, without any expectations or superfluities
To furnish the soul with love
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
I saw a good friend die
God **** did I cry
His last words still linger in my head
He told his dad to go to bed
Last time he told me this was temporary
I thought he meant his condition
Then I took a better listen
Now I realize he meant life
And that he knew his position
He knew where he was going
Up in heaven with God
And this sent my emotions flowing
Son I have some bad news
Kyle passed this morning
Pause valentine
A hysterical mourning
But I can stop the scorning
He's in a place so much better
Can't even be imagined, never
So I remember
Farmer brown
And the mine not far
The bike scar in the backyard
The fill by the shed
And the metal bunk bed
To keep away from girls who's names start with A
And the move to Vermont, what a dreadful day
The big stupid game
We would always play
But never won
The hotel in Dubai to Newburgh
And Furnishing the pool, what fun
Never again after catamount
And never again the alpine slide
But always that roller coaster ride
With the ugh, ya know!
these memories I will stow
But it's not just a superfluous list of reminisces
They're a depth forming row of instances
Which brought us steps closer to potential distances
But cut short in your teens
And I'm not sure what it means
Or its true prominence nor value
Whatever it is, it's because of you
July 29th
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
It all seem like yesterday
When we all gathered round your bed
Kneeling for blessings,benedictions
And warnings to live as one
It all seems like yesterday
When you will rock me with folktales
Stories of how you won my mum
And the blessings attached to you as one
It seems like yesterday
When your advise cuddles me in my blues
Re inspiring my soul
With it streams words of gold
It all seems like yesterday
That the devil took your breathe away
Leaving us with a hole
Scars like tattoos
As we mourn in silence
And here,
we standing all in a dark shade of glass
Black gowns,black suits,black tie,in the rain
Spreading our ashes over you bossom rest
Blaming the devil for the theft of a good life
Though your pictures glaze our hearts
Furnishing it with your radiant smiles
The memory of you
We continue to cherish
As we hold today a remembrance of you.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 5:02 AM UTC
On a winter's path at
twilight flits a ghost in
thin repose
gossamer, the silhouette
flights cradling
a silken rose
Drifting through the auburn
forest autumn on her
cheeks replete
furnishing love's
silent solace
drifting with the
perished leaves
she seeks you still
she'll find you not
the petals
f
a
l
l
and all in
f
r
o
s
t
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 11:03 PM UTC
Sweet wind that brings me desert dust and ashes
Or salty mist as blood on burning lips
Sweet wind that carries smells of roads and mountains
And rocks, and sands, and rusty wires, and tires,
And bullet-pierced sandbags, mines, and empty tins
And holy thorns that grow through them
And hot, bleak sky high over them
And dry, cracked clay embracing them
Sweet wind that brings me memories of war
Wind softly stroking dusty oleanders
And rushing all along the endless road
Wind –
Now tell me, when the land so lolls in sleepy peace –
Kids playing, women chatting, lovers dreaming,
Men building houses, furnishing, arranging –
All more fragile than cobweb lace
That busy housewives sweep away on sleepless daybreak
Sweet wind, tell me why I
I try to fill my mind with buzz and humdrum
Of knowledge – words, and thoughts, and numbers,
-- to stifle the voice, the shadow haunting me –
The voice that whispers softly, sweetly killing
To wake me up – to find myself again –
To send me far away where is my home:
To prison, madhouse, hospital, dodjo,
Wet dugout, earthquake rubble, secret lab
Where I belong, where all like me are going –
But still in vain,
For happiness, my prison guard and mate
Me torturing,
And happiness, the evil sheikh of nightmares,
His long, thin legs me strangling, hanging down
My shoulders,
His mud-brown hands me stopping ears, and eyes, and mouth –
And me
Who wanders through my days as empty rooms
And endless corridors of giant fallout shelters
Where lonely steps reverberate in hollow hallways
And ruthless light
In which the shadow of my shadow
Me follows – counselor, and silent friend,
Unhurt by splinters of that broken magic mirror
That **** in air; may some benumb my heart
And let me play the game of words and numbers
That spells ETERNITY;
And let the sweet hashish of words and numbers
Make me forget;
Make me forgive, and live, and lie
That I believe the world of war will never come.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 6:28 AM UTC
Planted on one leg,
extending my
arms to the sky,
I’m furnishing this
space,
holding my head up
high.
Your feet stepped so near,
shoes swept the
grass,
I hoped
you would see
the gold coils
draping my cheeks
and the bonfire
in my
eyes.
I stretched out
my spine so I
could stand tall,
and wished you
would notice
the fairest of them
all.
You got in your car,
I could see the
wheels rolling,
left me
grounded here,
with the sun
burning through
my fibers.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
Walking down the park
Moon hides behind a cloud
Stars bringing a spark
Silence changes to sound
Fireworks in the distance
The universe is making a vow
Filling the void with existence
Your mind is there to allow
Galaxies beyond measurement
Twilight shines in the dark
Changing my usual temperament
Twinkle my eyes through the park
Grim mood no longer in consistence
Gods are furnishing to endow
An end to perishing is my insistence
To my will countless planets vow
Feb 16, 2021
Feb 16, 2021 at 7:14 AM UTC
i have this reoccurring dream, it's me,
standing unearthly in the front of the altar, did god bring me to his home or is this just what they call church?
lonesome, that helter-skelter tenebrous loneliness, estrangement all around
pews blessed with the strange vacancy i relate with the open ended depth of my heart, as if people were supposed
to be there, as if people were
supposed to believe
i'm spitting up blood now, this isn't how to mend and no; who are we kidding, this is exactly how we knew it all would end
veiled with
necklaces, wrapping songs of Hail Mary around my throat,
the layered thought that god could look down in any given second
and strangle me with his own prayer,
you see i'm shouting at the ceiling but
tears only result in bent puddles on the floor
faith only results in a plethora of bibles, and the ashes of their contents.
slitting my wrists with every unanswered scream, every unlearned rosary
he's laughing at me, he's laughing at me, this ungiving god, furnishing a strange pigment to the room, staining a strange potency
transmitting this repulsive image- this memory, of this entity, of this effigy- we're all on hands and knees. withering, it's relentless,
tampering with the various degrees of energy and just what am i here for,
maybe that question is it, maybe
it's me,
maybe it's the way i was made and maybe it's the way i never called you back and
maybe it's that the day i was created was the day god cracked and
it's rumored my nostalgia-grade voice grips the air the way his hands hugged nails
i'm sifting through the times when these mumbling statues shattered, every rejected cross was found dropped,
the day i was created god became bilious and vomited for the next 16 years,
maybe it's today that he'll stop
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 12:14 AM UTC
Couch and cushion
comfort me...
gently,
mimicking your sweet
embrace.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
Grandmother had told me tales of the past,
Fairytales that we’ve all heard of,
The maidens in the scullery maid attire,
transforming to the princesses with the
embroidered and jeweled gowns; rivulets of silks and satins,
blue as the sea, greener than the highlands, more purple
then the dusky skylines, a true stamp
of royalty, poise, eloquence, and beauty.
And ensembles topped off with gold
encrusted and amethyst crowns.
Sure, the fairytales were what I lingered
onto during the years of my inexplicitly
innocent childhood, that I wished I still had.
I missed it, the tales, the anecdotes
that shaped my perception on love, hope, and faith,
far off from what I viewed in the looking mirror today.
I missed my grandmother’s hands, brittle and worn,
but kind and warm; I still thought about them
as I cleaned out the attic in which I’d forgotten existed.
And I grew up, my memories of it faded,
now covered in cobwebs and bristling wind
that sent a chill up my spine, but I found
much more than what my memory had allowed me to collect.
Amulets from what I assumed to be my grandmother’s youth
were stowed and tucked away in the alcove of a velvet shelf,
hidden by the splintered of decaying wood.
Next to the swell of the dresser, the door of the
furnishing remained ajar, revealing manila
colored increments of letters, some harbored
by the envelopes, some pierced out in the open.
The edges had crippled away,
flecks falling to the sandalwood bottom.
They were timeless, old, maybe not important,
to the wandering eyes of a stranger.
But to me - they held a mystery
that was waiting to be unraveled.
A story of my grandmother’s life she never shared with me,
just as private as she was open, perhaps I’d find in those envelopes
the same mindset I also had when I was young.
Perhaps she believed and dreamt of fairytales I had once done,
paraded around in the jewels and bangles hidden way,
basked in the ambiance of a sweet love
that was doomed to end in the decay of both parties.
Little figurines of silver and gold were placed under one
of the drawers parked away in the furnishing,
toys form her childhood, weighted by standard and price.
Her words I had adored as a child,
ate them up like sickly syrup and supported
them as if they were undiscovered treasure, but
now I finally got to “see” my grandmother’s
treasures deposited in her attic, the very place she
had hidden the most interesting stories that she
left for me to discover after she left.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 9:26 PM UTC
The rage, the grace, and the ferocity in between,
This relationship promised, to be nothing but pristine,
Calling out to me desperately, yearning to meet,
Now this is a bond, to which I could always retreat.
There it goes navigating, through the undergrowth,
Creating dense and lush bonds, tied by an eternal oath,
A stream giving life, to everything in its path,
This is a land that lives, beyond the clusters’ aftermath.
The stream takes us, to the hinterlands of civilization,
Technology absent, in the face of more than one distraction,
The blood red soil, furnishing the steady stilt houses,
This is where humanity comes to life, in many disguises.
Ambition stronger, than a finely brewed espresso,
A life seeped in tradition, transcends the status-quo,
Manifesting in the coffee, that shoulders the community,
The elements convene here daily, with sincere loyalty.
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 9:20 AM UTC
I brought back a string of pearls
from the cemetery of vows.
It camouflaged a black dot;
size of the berry seeds.
I felt like a magnet to its deceiving hue.
As I move it over my wrist,
the dot sticks to my transparent veins.
Streams of blood absorbed the maleficent mellow,
furnishing me to be the new home.
Nov 4, 2020
Nov 4, 2020 at 3:03 AM UTC
Away with the light of Summer,
Warmth of days will surely diminish.
Chromatic leaves sweep and swoop upon each other,
Blanketing quilt; a tessellation finish.
Sweet Autumn,
Spiced fair to account its name
Prodigious, and far from lame!
A season with truly original custom.
Permeating brilliance
Rich hues; copper and amber glow.
Day reaches sentence
Night begins to grow.
Oh sweet Autumn,
Subtle shrouding darkness,
Sorrowful rain precipitates.
Temperature of unique sharpness,
Flourishing life emancipates.
Welcome to furnishing Fall
Period of brisk enthrall.
Somber reign; transient existence
Harbinger of wintry persistence.
Bittersweet Autumn…
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 3:56 PM UTC
gently comes the night
half light soft furnishing
comfort quiet shared
enveloping everything
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 5:04 PM UTC
Last night we tiptoed in laughing circles
around the truth we both know
a sound
a syllable
a feeling lighter than air,
a helium delirium inflating the balloons in my heart with joy.
It's hung suspended between goodbyes and goodnights,
a weightless pause spun heavy in meaning,
words made shy and sweet by the newness of it all.
And last night you rambled through your hiccups
about the importance of getting it right,
of furnishing words in fireworks and gestures
lamenting your romanticism,
which I hang in garlands around my room
and through my mind,
throwing open the windows of both
to shout,
a sound
a syllable
releasing a feeling lighter than air,
a helium delirium of joy.
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 4:15 AM UTC
-
[Note : i am flushed with heartbeats,
fast panic breaths
and thought.
i have overwhelming stream of ideas]
...it’s ridden through in our flooded veins
it’s furnishing our museums
it’s marred out on parchment
it’s mated together in privacy
[Note : i tighten my eyes closed for relief]
forbidden
persecuted
tried and executed
preserved in wetland peat
it can be called out
without the feed of the moon
without the woe of the ocean
[Note : i clamp my hands over my ears]
senses
census
pleasured
genetically vetted
it can be rutted out
falling **** through the generations
the speed of the molecule
or flitted across our grid electrically
microscope
magnet
telescope
prism
morse distressed
music
pressed
repressed
and invested against
through historical text
it’s collected in your visage
and yawned back at you
off of your morning mirror
it’s in your needings
your trolling of prayers and personalities
and the breaking of your vocal jockery
[Note : i dry gag and go silent]
information is energy
not erased
but converted...
...and then nothingness
an unwearable yelling void
expanding pressure-less
precipice
rapid
the immense feeling
of feeling nothing
the code/no-code
the necessary ill behind the facade
of the purpose currency
[Note : my thoughts slow,
i note my breath
and my heart]
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 11:54 PM UTC
Is That a Prophet on Your Roof?
A woman of Shunem gave to Elisha
A small room on her roof, furnishing it with
A bed, a chair, a table, and a lamp
And, truly, what more does a man of God need?
It’s possible that the neighbors gossiped
About keeping a prophet on the roof
And what did the owners’ association say
About extra rooms and extra prophets?
A little room in which to pray and sleep,
And friends – what more does a man of God need?
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
No time left for art
As the worker bees descend on the sun's rays
Dereliction of duty breeds insecurity
Allowing the conveyor belt to move
Our greatest hopes rely on the wallet
And not the gentle stroke of the brush
The sword of literature and design sheathed
As machines dominate our minds
Destiny of redemption lying in wait
As we inhale the sourness of greed
No fate too unfathomable for idealism
Perhaps no fate at all for pragmatism
Alas, no time left for art
The conveyor belt pushes forward
Transcending individual furnishing
And descending into the darkness of want
Complete injustice for need
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 10:47 AM UTC
Each tear is already searching for smothering trenches in the frames of faces; slowly, gradually, the happy, jubilant joy ready to show itself is fulfilled, and the pretended but real sadness is realised. The delicate telescopes of the ear-cups are wound up by harsh, turbocharged bomb-quarrels, leprous howls. Untouchable and often incomprehensible is the pain of all the sorrow that trembles! The pregnant alarm bells hidden in the depths of the soul ring differently each time, and in different ghostly tones.
And perhaps every fearful loneliness may have somewhere a preconceived pair of opposites. Truth-ness is never visible on the inner walls of their eyelids. In the inner soul-reaches, the vocal cords of Being are constantly changing! When we look at faces, almost everything is dull and fades away - but sincere emotions can be recorded crystal clear even in a streaming tomorrow! Compliments handed down from saintly romances, and curtsy etiquette that only "some" can understand!
In the meaningful moments of materialized lives, the death of the deed must once be captured in action, so that we may dare to be ourselves in silence and hope anew! - The dafke-furnishing charade: brainwashed, accumulated, enriched, syrupy tactfulness, and the phlegmatic-parochial boorish manners dictating fashion-trend, has been taken more and more seriously. Valuable treasure-houses are thus allowed to pass away and fall into urine-smelling oblivion. Give or take a few decades, and those who were once deliberately crucified by the luxury-eye-losing tabloid media for their cultural eccentricities can win themselves prestigious, laurel-coloured prizes merely for the worthy cause of their death!
Even former exotic beauties are only remembered by broken nail clippings...
Feb 25, 2022
Feb 25, 2022 at 1:28 AM UTC
I can feel in my soul,
the howling wind,
I can feel in my soul,
that mankind has sinned.
The burning rays
of our raging sun,
mark the point,
where our suffering begun.
As sure as the water
always flows,
away our liberty and sanity
so easily blows
The nature of
our evolution,
has handed us only,
one conclusion.
Our time it is limited,
and divine,
our responsibility is to ensure
that our future continues to shine.
So easy it is
to presume
that this life
is a darkened room.
But history paves the way,
and our lives are deteriorating,
way beyond reason we will expand,
until there is no explaining
No code to decipher,
our actions, our deeds,
our depravity,
coupled with our grotesque needs,
the hand that feeds,
the furnishing of our greed
A flower that thrives
in a meadow golden,
the sign of a prosperous delight.
Watch as it wilts,
tarnishes this wonderous
unsurpassable sight.
See our dreams
and how they grow,
into the arms of desperation
they so easily go.
Taste the sweetness,
the nectar of existence,
indulge in addiction
its the common insistence.
Behold our infamous stature ,
a not so glorious rapture
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 8:47 AM UTC
I don’t need a crutch for creativity
I am clearly clutch creatively
Knowingly nurturing
Flowing, I’m furnishing
The room inside your mind
That you needed help to find
The grape fresh off the vine
The soulful spark of the divine
That which you can not define
Unrefined but never crude
Intimate but never lewd
Food for thought:
I consume thought for food
I transform it into rhythm and mood
I transmit it with my attitude
Take you to a higher altitude
Flying oh so free
Through clouds of crisp creativity
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 10:35 AM UTC