"gnawed" poems
Pink-Haired Wildflower
I know you.
I see you.
everyday at least once
Your pedals are short
and cute
chopped off at the chin
Your clothes are loose
and indie
style, you wear so well
You walk so confidently
each stride your own.
You glitter shining vibrantly
like the stud in your nose.
You smile so easily
and laugh with no care in the world.
Pink-Haired Wildflower
do you know me?
do you see me?
each time I pass you on the way
I look at you
and try not to stare
your flowered beauty beholds me
I wonder what you think of me
This bent over gait
dark-circle-eyed
fool. I am
struggling to stay upright.
Can you see the weight on my shoulders?
The stress in my complexion?
my gnawed on nails and torn skin
Tell me, what do you see in my gaze?
I wish I possessed your confidence.
Your grace in billowed petals.
Your fragrance has a trail
that always circles back to me.
everyday I see you.
though I say nothing.
Whatever you are
I want you in a bouquet on my bedside table
as I lie there
trying not to cry
or die.
Let your rank beauty infect me
aromatic surround me.
Be mine.
Lay claim to me.
Show me your ways.
or at least learn my name
as if I knew yours
You're a stranger to me Pink-Haired Wildflower
last night your dyed your hair Blue
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
He loved her and she loved him
His kisses ****** out her whole past and future or tried to
He had no other appetite
She bit him she gnawed him she ******
She wanted him complete inside her
Safe and Sure forever and ever
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains
Her eyes wanted nothing to get away
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment
He wanted all future to cease
He wanted to topple with his arms round her
Or everlasting or whatever there was
Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy place
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His word were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assasin's attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
Her glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon's gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall
Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop
In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage
In the morning they wore each other's face
17.6k
there's nothing like being young
and starving,
living in a roominghouse and
pretending to be a
writer
while other men are occupied
with their professions and
their possessions.
there's nothing like being
young and
starving,
listening to Brahms,
your belly sucked-in,
nary an ounce of
fat,
stretched out on the bed
in the dark,
smoking a rolled
cigarette
and working on the
last bottle of
wine,
the sheets of your
writing strewn across the
floor.
you have walked on and across
them,
your masterpieces, and
either
they'll be read in
hell,
or perhaps
gnawed at by the
curious
mice.
Brahms is the only
friend you have,
the only friend you
want,
him and the wine
bottle,
as you realize that
you will never
be a citizen of the
world,
and if you
live to be very
old
you still will never
be a citizen of the
world.
the wine and
Brahms mix well as
you watch the
lights
move across the
ceiling,
courtesy of
passing
automobiles.
soon you'll sleep
and
tomorrow there
certainly
will be
more
masterpieces.
14.4k
She gnawed at his flesh
She clawed at his skin
To fulfill her filthy sin
Violence
And rage
All this displayed
All of her hate
He wore on his face
And in the evening
After the bleeding
Pass the bruising
Red marks
He’d sniff and snuffle
His body would crumble
With all of the despair in his heart
He was told to remember
As his will was dismembered
And his spirits were crushed to the ground
This was all your own doing
Even though she was stewing
No fault of hers will ever be found
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
In the rectory garden on his evening walk
Paced brisk Father Shawn. A cold day, a sodden one it was
In black November. After a sliding rain
Dew stood in chill sweat on each stalk,
Each thorn; spiring from wet earth, a blue haze
Hung caught in dark-webbed branches like a fabulous heron.
Hauled sudden from solitude,
Hair prickling on his head,
Father Shawn perceived a ghost
Shaping itself from that mist.
'How now,' Father Shawn crisply addressed the ghost
Wavering there, gauze-edged, smelling of woodsmoke,
'What manner of business are you on?
From your blue pallor, I'd say you inhabited the frozen waste
Of hell, and not the fiery part. Yet to judge by that dazzled look,
That noble mien, perhaps you've late quitted heaven?'
In voice furred with frost,
Ghost said to priest:
'Neither of those countries do I frequent:
Earth is my haunt.'
'Come, come,' Father Shawn gave an impatient shrug,
'I don't ask you to spin some ridiculous fable
Of gilded harps or gnawing fire: simply tell
After your life's end, what just epilogue
God ordained to follow up your days. Is it such trouble
To satisfy the questions of a curious old fool?'
'In life, love gnawed my skin
To this white bone;
What love did then, love does now:
Gnaws me through.'
'What love,' asked Father Shawn, 'but too great love
Of flawed earth-flesh could cause this sorry pass?
Some ****** condition you are in:
Thinking never to have left the world, you grieve
As though alive, shriveling in torment thus
To atone as shade for sin that lured blind man.'
'The day of doom
Is not yest come.
Until that time
A crock of dust is my dear hom.'
'Fond phantom,' cried shocked Father Shawn,
'Can there be such stubbornness--
A soul grown feverish, clutching its dead body-tree
Like a last storm-crossed leaf? Best get you gone
To judgment in a higher court of grace.
Repent, depart, before God's trump-crack splits the sky.'
From that pale mist
Ghost swore to priest:
'There sits no higher court
Than man's red heart.'
7.7k
You worth more than a thousand golden crowns
and continent wide silks
and all the brighter, wilting stars in the dark
and had you pulled the universe to you,
it will surely crawl under your thigh
as a machination made only for you.
And you worth more than the ten thousand horses that I had slain
and I pulled them onto your sheets
as whispery faeries gnawed onto its skin
onto its slippery vein
gory, but lovely all the same.
Alas, you worth more than another ten thousand of them running
hooves clattered across the impenetrable glass of auroral dome
and I saw you rode on another ten thousand that had not deserve you-
as you deserved gold and stars
and all the greater fury of this land,
not treachery and I.
Gold was the color of your ruse
and your words deify scorching stars into bloom
and you reek of rust — the finest yellow there was.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC
I feel as if my head is sliding off my neck like ice cream melting down the cone. I am a witch melting, shrinking smaller as my spine stacks horizontally like shiplap. My body has been refurbished into a pinball machine. Something so tiny as a silver ball destroys so much. It bullets through my body, shooting off like Cuban missiles. I feel the turmoil and chaos seeping through the gutters of this old home of bones. It's like spilled oil sludging through my blood vessels or rats scattering through a sewer, nibbling and feasting away on these muscles of mine until they are frayed like gnawed-on cable wires. At odd hours of the night when time is propelled by the safe travels of breath (that weave in and out like Victorians at a ball) from sleepy children who have yet been touched by monsters or nymphs, whereas each of my breaths steer Odysseus's weather-beaten boat through ten years of treachery. My heavy, melting head slowly sloping like clay off a bust makes its home on my dingy pillow as I lay on a prison bed with cold shackles around my ankles that make my bones shatter into a mosaic as if that could shrink my ankles so I can slip out. I feel like a chained hawk at these hours of the night when I just want to fly until I screech to a halt and flail over the cliff that waterfalls into the ends of the universe. I'd be reluctant at first, perhaps, but what other escape does one have other than to make an autopsist's Y-incision on one's body, then slip out like a hermit crab freeing himself from his heavy shell? Embarking onto a new dimension where there's hope for a radical swap of atoms that don't shape a crippled, deteriorating human is the only choice when you want to live a life other than what you were cursed with. May we then find peace and live as naked souls bearing no heavy shells.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 4:53 AM UTC
It was her grandmother’s,
on her step-mother’s side,
not really a relative at all.
A hideous thing, it was,
crudely constructed yards
of yellowing ivory, with
giant creampuff shoulders
and a scratchy hemline.
The bodice was decorated,
sprinkled with dull gems,
crusty pearls.
The veil was, by far,
the worst offender.
A gauze with blotchy
brown stains, misshapen
holes, gnawed by rats.
She bit her lip as her step-
mother wrinkled her brow,
poking at the skirt, the train,
hoping it would burst like an
odd bubble or
mushroom at
any moment.
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 6:03 PM UTC
A dancing Bear grotesque and funny
Earned for his master heaps of money,
Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey,
And cheerful if the day was sunny.
Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood
He tramped, and on some common stood;
There, cottage children circling gaily,
He in their midmost footed daily.
Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle
Were quite enough his brain to puzzle:
But like a philosophic bear
He let alone extraneous care
And danced contented anywhere.
Still, year on year, and wear and tear,
Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear.
A day came when he scarce could prance,
And when his master looked askance
On dancing Bear who would not dance.
To looks succeeded blows; hard blows
Battered his ears and poor old nose.
From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon;
He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon,
Capered in fury fast and faster.
Ah, could he once but hug his master
And perish in one joint disaster!
But deafness, blindness, weakness growing,
Not fury's self could keep him going.
One dark day when the snow was snowing
His cup was brimmed to overflowing:
He tottered, toppled on one side,
Growled once, and shook his head, and died.
The master kicked and struck in vain,
The weary drudge had distanced pain
And never now would wince again.
The master growled; he might have howled
Or coaxed,--that slave's last growl was growled.
So gnawed by rancor and chagrin
One thing remained: he sold the skin.
What next the man did is not worth
Your notice or my setting forth,
But hearken what befell at last.
His idle working days gone past,
And not one friend and not one penny
Stored up (if ever he had any
Friends; but his coppers had been many),
All doors stood shut against him but
The workhouse door, which cannot shut.
There he droned on,--a grim old sinner,
Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner,
Unpitied quite, uncared for much
(The rate-payers not favoring such),
Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare;
Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear
Danced back, a haunting memory.
Indeed, I hope so, for you see
If once the hard old heart relented,
The hard old man may have repented.
4.6k
Do we have any idea?
Have we even got a clue?
Can it be that we don't give a ****
what others are going through.
Are we so wrapped up in selfish mode?
So devoted to our own.
That we should sit back and watch
as others are gnawed down to the bone.
Should it be that our own offspring
if they were cast away so far?
Would we worry about that pipeline
bringing fuel to run our car?
Or would we stand aloft in horror
as they were thrown unto the ground?
Or for fuel thats cheap and plentiful,
is it ok to make no sound?
We hear about disasters.
Tsunami strikes upon Japan.
Earthquakes raging out in Haiti
Watch death befall our fellow man.
Throw donations in a bucket
at the supermarket doors,
then forget because of shopping.
but we have paid towards their cause.
Could you ever even fathom?
Your children crying as they play,
not for Barbies or Play-stations
but for the pain to go away.
Never asking for the latest
made by Hamleys or Mattel
rather just an handfull of food
to help beat the starvation battle.
Wash it down with poison water
from a river filled with ****
or collect in rusty tin cans
from a worn and stagnant pit.
If this was the plight of our children
things would surely be said.
We would try to move a mountain
rather than our young be dead.
Could you ever really imagine?
Could you ever really get,
that a million hits on You-Tube
turn endangered species into pets?
What if someone could ask on face-book
about your daughter or your son,
saying"It looks so cute and cuddly,
"go on e-bay and buy me one."
If only we could all be happy,
not feel a need to own the place.
If we could learn to be contented
by a childs smiling face.
Treat the world with awe and wonder.
Treat its creatures with respect.
Treat each other in this same way.
Treat nobody with neglect.
Then perhaps we may push together,
make our Governments do right.
Let's lead the World with people power,
no more starvation or blight.
Let's be less materialistic
let us have a life of worh
Not by owning all we see,
rather sharing this our earth.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC
Caucasian cadaver in the windless woods.
Carelessly hanging from a tree.
Colorless face looking down.
Carrion yet to be seen.
Creation of an evil man.
Displaying his departed art.
Completed, his compelling plan.
Of helping death do its part.
Few colors, fewer sounds.
White skin contrasts the black dress.
Faded yellow floating all around.
Splatters of red fill the rest.
A frightful figure that overwhelms.
Above the confused and thorny trails.
All the shallow know themselves.
At the sight of this female.
Breathless before being dangled.
Dead before being displayed.
Beautiful body, cold and mangled.
Death magnificently portrayed.
Multiple stab wounds in your back.
Added to the smell of war.
Mind immersed in barren black.
Gnawed eyes to watch and adore.
Dripping, dim and dreadful.
The portrait he wanted to smear.
Your future as empty as your words.
Your hollowness shown clear.
You don't know what you're missing.
Elders still die, the young still grow.
The leaves below are hissing.
At the corpse of a girl I used to know.
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 11:37 AM UTC
a storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the ordinary edge, into the unknown
An unsent letter lay on the rustic log cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light comes in,
where it laid fallen, half *** crumbled, yet never a wadded ball;
never an unspoken thrown paper stone, a befallen regret was all.
Silently atilt and leaning against the canted wall's slant
behind the gathered dust a squeaky hinged burl wood door
A timeworn tarnished copper wind up clock roosted,
an old lip smirched coffee cup time stood still;
an empty bottle of gin sat near the bed post headboard
where the ink stains and blotted spillings let the memories in.
Stained pages torn and bent like fallen paper wings
returned to the unread sender … postage due, south a heaven sent ―
A sullied envelope, gnawed and mouse chewed,
for a nest of new beginnings ―
just read: Lydia ... ♡
... followed by a scribbled empty heart
The time aged brown tattered tablet paper left behind
stifled like the unread heart it holds upon the threadbare pages
of smudged tear’s ache and spilled gin
The weathered rock hearth fireplace filled with spent ashes,
hand rolled cigarette butts, traces of an aching lament;
scratched up old vinyl records lay ***** and tired out,
from a time of sweeter fallen fences, a musical bliss, and
a lost angel's abandoned red slinky party dress,
aside a busted off black velvet high-heel stuck sullied
in a hollow knothole in the ancient barn-wood floor
a sparkly pearl pink jewel entangled in a spider web
An unsent letter lay on the rustic cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light gets in
The final unread words silently said:
*"We lost our way,
it all went wrong,
it all turned bad"
..."This is the outcome when someone you love
up and throws you away"
...“I’ll reach out from the inside
I’ll rise up again and do without”
..."You went out into the world
with an untamed hankerin’ ―
like a carefree restless gypsy breeze
and come back worlds apart"*
The Unsent Letter,
just whispered words to the dust in the wind
in quivering ink:
...*"how can I ever unremember you...?
a thrown stone sinks wordlessly as a rock...,
an old wood bucket with a rotten hole the heart,
fallen forgotten, rock bottom as an empty well"*
just signed: ... ❤ August
January 1st, 2017 ... august ... wild is the wind ♡
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 12:20 PM UTC
come closer.
I won’t waste breath on lullabies.
I’ve gnawed the years,
spat blood and marrow.
If you want the taste,
the true taste,
take it alone.
Drink alone.
Stagger the road alone.
Laugh till your ribs split—alone.
Howl till your lungs tear—alone.
And when sin claws your door,
let it in,
alone.
Alone is the blade.
Alone is the wound.
Alone is the grave.
Guard your fire,
your shame,
your cursed name.
No one carries it for you.
No one shares the dirt.
When the earth shuts its jaw,
it swallows each skull
alone.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 8:28 PM UTC
I have gnawed your name onto the inside of my cheek
Like carving love notes on willow trees
And I have painted your portrait on the back of my eyelids
Romanticizing the outline of your jaw
Like an artist would his brush
And my skin remembers every brief moment when
Your hand and would brush against mine
Like the leaves on the willow tree
With your name
Carved into
Its bark
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
I can see myself now,
Shouting "farewell" to this place
And the lonely souls who occupy it;
Floating around in oblivious, liquid states.
I've felt the tug of roots from the trees,
Grasping my ankles, begging me to join them,
But the promise of concrete skies and neon greetings have gnawed their way
Through my skull.
I won't apologize for giving in to my desires,
For broadening my knowledge
And making use of my short existence.
I am not limited
To this simplistic, little rock.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 8:48 AM UTC
A monolithic sculpture stands upon a hill.
Ornate work of marble marks the artisan’s skill.
Clad as a knight of yore, with stony gaze held high.
Pilgrims travel from miles around to fall under his eye.
Epitome of courage, virtue, and respect
effused upon the villagers traits they should reflect.
Elements gnawed at the stone but failed to corrode
the manifold of lofty aims the knight would bestow.
Dark years beset the kingdom causing disarray-
Tyranny, vanity, and deceit led the people all astray.
Artisan's work above, a shining icon of probity.
A resolute bastion against the world’s impulsivity.
A day will come when the people reach distress;
crying out, they beseech the artisan’s redress,
but long has the craftsman been journeying far away
humbly allowing his handiwork, the message he conveys.
Jul 23, 2021
Jul 23, 2021 at 9:26 PM UTC
'BITE deep and wide, O Axe, the tree!
What doth thy bold voice promise me?'
'I promise thee all joyous things
That furnish forth the lives of kings;
'For every silver ringing blow
Cities and palaces shall grow.'
'Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree!
Tell wider prophecies to me.'
'When rust hath gnawed me deep and red.
A nation strong shall lift his head.
'His crown the very heavens shall smite,
Aeons shall build him in his might.'
'Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree!
Bright Seer, help on thy prophecy!'
2.9k
Time went by as it's wont to do
It passed by without a trace
But, as the years transpired
He could not forget her face
He met her in the park one night
An offer from her lips
She could make his whole night special
She would use her woman's hips
She burned a mark onto his heart
A face he'd not forget
But, he sent her on her way again
Like others that he'd met
A ticket back to Georgia
To the home from where she came
He declined all of her offers
He didn't even know her name
Since then he'd had more offers
Fed more girls and brought them home
Many left before redemption
They would rather fight alone
But, she...somehow remembered
Not for her actions left undone
But, for the fact she took his offer
Left before they saw the sun
He never knew how long she'd
Been residing in the night
Never knew just what her reason
For leaving home and taking flight
To him she was a question
Left unanswered to this day
Did she use the one bus ticket ?
Did she venture on her way ?
He took her to the station
Left her waiting by herself
Never saw her board the Greyhound
No luggage for the shelf
He'd been back to the town park
Hadn't seen her since that night
Not that he'd been looking
For he knew he'd set her right
But, without proof of her leaving
The question gnawed at his insides
Did she take the chance he gave her?
Did she board the bus and ride ?
He was often at the diner
Eating meals with those he picked
Those he felt would take his offer
would try to heal the wounds he nicked
He'd get them all to open up
A mental knife slice to their brains
Make them see that they were worthy
Try to release them from their pain
Some would go and some would not
Still, he would venture back
To the park so full of vices
Where so many were off track
One day while he was waiting
For his dinner to be served
He saw across the table
A face that left him quite un-nerved
He swore he'd seen the girl child
The one whose name he did not know
She was in the diner with another
Inside, protected from the snow
He caught a glance, and that was all
He looked again, she was not there
He looked around the diner
Where she went he knew not where
He really wasn't certain,
If it was her he saw that night
But, it raised that certain question
Or was it just a trick of light
Did she go home back to Georgia?
Or was she still there in the park?
Was she at home with her parents?
Or was she hooking after dark?
I guess he'll never know the answer
Nor, will we without much fuss
Is she still waiting for redemption?
Did she get upon the bus ?.....
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 7:22 PM UTC
Barnacles crunch like fast food under your sneakers,
my gnawed-on boots.
We pass over cat-eyed shards of glass
still spicy with beer bubbles
and still fizzy with teen rebellion;
It molds like an infection here.
In a town nicknamed "Little Norway." ~
This place hoards candy-colored suburbia in its pockets.
Houses like skittles weigh down its pants
and it belches out tourist traps weaker than expired pepsi,
yet it still manages these moments
where I can trot by your gazelle legs
and blast Julie Andrew's confidence.
And I want to heap myself on the oyster shells, say
STOP
Put this moment in a snowglobe,
sigh into it before we move on,
do anything before the wind whips it away.
Etch it into your hand if you have to.
But breeze dimples the water like a golf ball
and rips at the seams of the shore.
Please don't forget me when you leave.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
If Thoughts Were Audible,
Would you try to catch & make
Every fluttering thought your Bible,
In your craving
To come face to face
With that one thought
Which would have the answer
To what is the question,
That has gnawed at you since birth.
What if you bumped against
Hitherto infrasonic tremors
Of a morbid sigh or curse,
While hoping to tune into
A blessing or yearning,
Would you consider yourself
The ****** of the Panopticon
Or a prisoner of it?
Would the nail-biting curiosity
Of groping the trail
Of fragmented thoughts
From all (how many?) corners
Make you lose your own 'stream of consciousness',
as they would call it?
Deaf now to your own mental utterances
Would you (n)ever speak again?
[Since,
Your eavesdropping mind
Would already know
What the other has to say
As would he, about your thoughts
Before either uttered the first syllable.]
Or,
Would you start thinking
About what to think first
And what order to place those thoughts in, next,
So you could fool your mental trespasser,
Sending him off to a parallel trail of thoughts?
But of course he would be able to
Hear through your strategy
As he would also know
Of that moment
When you decided to
Guard your own thoughts.
But the question is,
Do you have any left, now?
A numb stare is reflected
In your mental neighbour's eyes
As you both confront
The fact that
*Deaf people don't have
Songs stuck in their head.*
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
You managed to horribly fail every test
Yet you bore the honorary family crest
Until you abandoned me
As friendship isn't free
Leaving me incapacitated
In the infernal infirmary
You had only exacerbated
My own gory purgatory
But I want to see the end of the story
Though it's not going well
Carrier pigeons bring messages of your progress
By ******** on my head
I solve the problem
By staying in my bed
When all I see is red
From all the blood we bled
There was a deep connection
Crossed with a ****** infection
You were so fundamentally friendly
Was it just for the drugs we were blending?
Now I just have nightmares of your life ending
And ponder the value of the time we were spending
Your spirit animal is a coyote
Mine an exploding car
My fragile heart is imploding
From all the black tar
Coming from your lips like the needle
Rushing through my veins until I'm fetal
From your sedating voice
I heard an invading choice
Live alone or die alone
The dog gnawed the bone with it's clone
I just want to hear you're doing fine
So I can stop feeling so **** guilty
And I don't have to hear about you again
For my heart has been untamed
When I feel this constant pain
From a friendship down the drain
There is no peace to be attained
For the friendly fire in my brain
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 5:57 AM UTC
you wish to buy my meat.
the butcher's cut is ripe and cheap;
a fresh-faced lamb of london streets
and everybody craves a piece.
******* ribs. thighs.
money is no issue and they'll all see you gloat:
"my spread-eagled angel will be gnawed down to bone."
(god knows there's no heart in the matter.)
you wish to play the maggot.
you want your prey half-dead.
my flesh rots and decays on your tongue,
bloodied on the slab of your mattress.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 6:10 PM UTC
He asked if I'd stay,
and my silence trapped him
like a mosquito in amber.
The seconds rumbled past, unhurried glaciers,
two hurricanes, a drought, and a war came
and he was still rolling his joints,
tapping on shoulders, asking soldiers for a light.
When the sea rose and flooded the town,
he sat in his swollen armchair
exhaling smoke bubbles,
while parrotfish gnawed at the carpet, and later,
his eyes glazed with a tired sort of expectation
when the manatees swam past
in their solemn triumph over the suburbs,
as if any one of the lumbering sea cows
might come bearing my yes.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
In the cloudy evenings with strong hints of rain
You heard them once and you heard them again
The air would rend with their cacophony
The torrents would send them in ecstatic glee.
Even a few years back you could find them around
The harbinger of monsoon with harsh croaking sound
On your yard and garden in quite large packs
Frolicking for insects, the great jumping Jacks.
They scoured the marshland in search for food
Calling in monotone and setting you to brood
With your mind gnawed by the incessant rains
That rattled your thoughts and the glass window panes.
But then lands were devoured by the human sharks
Soon disappeared open spaces and parks
Came up apartments and rows of house
Urban growth you accept without grouse.
Now in the lonely evenings with fair hints of rain
The rains will be back but you won’t hear them again
Their habitats are gone there aren’t left any bogs
And with these are gone your neighborhood frogs.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC