"imprinting" poems
Sit in a crowded gymnasium
on a Thursday.
Basketball is not the point.
Stare at the orange speck anyway.
Silence your phone and his voice from before,
Still inside your head,
words the color of the burnt orange ball.
Find music in the squeak of the rubber soles,
Notice the referee's slanting stripes, and how they blur
when you stare, until even pictures inside your head blur.
Nod to the man wearing the red cap beside you,
whose words dribble across your mind,
They imprinting a message:
travel
next year
last year
time
killing
foul
out
losses
hope.
Maybe you miss that last word,
Or maybe you see the message graffitied on the score board.
Maybe you close your eyes and open them again,
And notice the white jerseys gleaming in song with light,
The same light that slants up toward you,
Your shirt should also be white,
With the same light shining on those who travel
and on those who foul out.
Sit in the crowded gymnasium
on a Thursday,
and forget about what he told you last night.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
What would the world look like
if thoughts poured
through fingertips,
imprinting secrets on
window panes
dinner tables
library books
her arms
your back
I wonder.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
Soon I will forget
and soon after
I will forget even remembering
For the world is several
times my size
imprinting its pieces in me
as fading images
The raindrops that pool to a puddle
forget how they once were an ocean
and the tree trunk loses sight of
its humble stem origin
Just like those
I’ll forget in a while
what was once
where I head
who am I
piece by piece
past and future break from the
now
oblivious
knowing nothing but grief
and not knowing
for what
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 7:38 AM UTC
Planes fly into the towers
Planes fly from out the craters in the towers
Black plumes of smoke choke the sky
Windowless planes flying into the towers
And now another, now another
The towers rattle
Planes take-off from in the fire
And go off into the city, into the stars
into our minds.
Planes like laser-lights, jetting off,
imprinting themselves
into our minds.
Over and over and over and over
and over and over and over
There were as many as 1,000 planes
or more.
Desks, glass-shards, people
High-heels, telephones, people
Falling, smashing down from the towers
A Warholian dream
Dying icons on every TV set, 24 hour access
On every channel
For months on end
On end
Headlines recoiled by an antichrist
Rumors he was in Pakistan
In Switzerland, at the mall
In your mind.
The towers burn forever
The towers burn forever
Frozen in pixels online
In our minds.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 8:51 AM UTC
(This verse is painted for my Loving Daughter P Suzanna Christy on her 8th birthday)
It was the day she began to move out,
She’d been in the cradle of her mother’s womb
Some seven years before silently in her dreams,
And her dreams! Who knows? But He knows.
Her mother, yea, yet to be a mother then!
Then in her travail, yet rejoicing in God’s Gift,
With her friend and neighbors close by she was wriggling.
Her father, yea, yet to be a father then!
Then in his journey, anxious, yet praying all the way,
None but the Father in Christ is beside him.
She reaches the eighth milestone of life,
How she hath reached is by His Mercy.
I remember the day of entry into the world,
She made a cry within and it was not heard unto us,
We could not know why she had cried within,
But we know for she had prayed within,
And now we’ve learnt that her first cry would be to Him.
Her mother’s friend took her in his arms,
And showered thousand kisses on her tiny forehead,
And it is he always the God-sent providence unto them.
Her mother rose from her anesthetic sleep,
And her every breath, it’s the fact, pronounced THANKS unto HIM.
She longed for her God’s Gift and took her in her arms of love.
I watched her imprinting kisses on the silky cheeks.
Every one wept and there were tears of joy,
I collected those tears in the deep of my heart.
She hath reached the eighth milestone of life:
She flutters as the dancing star in the sky,
Like the tiny trout in the running brook she plays,
Sweet like the ripe apple ‘midst the orchard,
‘cross the horizons of joy and laughter she traverses,
Dressed in the Blessings from Above,
She looks purple with floating frilled skirt,
She wears the smiles of her mother,
Filled with friendly wishes from her school mates,
She walks amidst the song of her little blooms.
I can’t hold her joy she experiences,
And so her mother shares it with her
And too with her for she hath carried my prayer in her womb.
She grows with the Heavenly Grace,
And does proclaim the Glory of Heaven in her life.
Now she’s a little plant to grow more flowers,
And every flower shall be the message of His Mercy
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 11:22 AM UTC
The first light of day sprung,
as the sleepy town awoke from it's dreams.
The cool spring breeze sweeps across the land,
making colorful dresses and shirts billow gently.
Wispy cotton-like clouds douse the sky,
only letting the robin egg blue peek through.
Silver bells hung on the wooden doors chime in unison,
creating melodic music as the baby grass sway back and forth.
The sugary sweet smell of warm buns linger in the air,
just pulled out of the oven from loving hands.
Children's laughter echoes all around,
their colorful chalk covered hands imprinting the pavements.
And as soon as the yellow light began it ended,
wrapped in a dark cloak.
Tiny shimmers sprinkle the sky,
illuminated by a frothy round.
Slowly, the sound dies,
and one by one the lights go out.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
I live in Kerala, South India
Where it's usually unbearably humid and hot.
But it’s been rather different lately,
Cool gusts of wind have been brought,
Along with some rains that have turned into floods
Poisoning even fresh water with mud
And so the people, just like the fish our local fishermen catch,
In a net they have been caught,
Leaving friends and family distraught,
Coz trapped by water, a symbol of life,
People have suffered death
And been left to rot
In the houses where water breathes in human space;
Imprinting in our minds a memory we would like to erase.
Everywhere I look I see prayers, with help sought,
But people are just having their hopes shot.
The only grace is that atleast those who have their heads above water
Are having their prayers slowly answered.
I thank God for the army,
Who for the safety of our lives have fought
Pushing through broken homes with everything they’ve got.
I thank God for the navy,
Who have sent men in fleets
Just to save our countrymen off the flooded streets.
I thank God for doing everything to keep us safe and alive,
All so that we would not have to make that final dive.
Quite literally.
Right now, we may mourn this disaster that has led to our demise,
But I promise you, our beautiful state will rise,
And when I say this, I assure you, I speak no lies.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 8:22 AM UTC
Substantial quadrants of hate
Throughout these veins circulate
Spiraling in frenzied states
Adrift an ailing coma
Infinite corruption clawed my corneas
Birthing the erasure of euphoria
Imprinting trademarks of memoria
Leaving in wake vile aromas
All confidence dissolved to solvents
Due to definitive involvement
Susceptible to gaunt installments
Marring my skin with melanoma
Mother Earth serves as a mime
Humanity must be refined
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 1:23 AM UTC
In My Sole
It was just a normal day that we happened to be together. Your hand in mine-us side by side, and then you broke away. You broke away to stare at something from far away so it wouldn't be self conscious of you peering into its soul. You stood there looking so intently at something I couldn't see. I couldn't see what you perceived for I couldn't believe that there was something you saw that I couldn't conceive. So I stopped...I smiled and I took a picture. I took this picture of you staring in the distance with this half acquired smile... a moment in time that I would be sure to keep with me forever. The moment penetrated my soul ever so deeply that I decided to keep the picture somewhere it could affect even the ground I walk on. I keep the picture in my sole... In the sole of my shoe so no matter where I go I'm walking with you.
Faded Photograph of a Photographer
In an old...
wallet
box
attic
was an old faded photograph of a photographer.
Meant to be...
left alone
put to rest
forgotten
it was since then brought back by nostalgia and the impossible life that was now to be lived without you.
You liked to be...
behind
smiling through
holding the camera
as you were the photographer but not this time, as you were the photographed...
In front of
smiling at
holding a pose
while I became the photographer, photographing you, the freshly captured photographer in the faded photograph.
In an old...
dream
heart
memory
you never faded but remained the still whole of a perfect silhouette.
The perfect photographer preserved in the perfectly faded photograph for...
love
life
forever.
The Imprint
I just stood there watching from feet away floating in a time that was once my own, and watching a moment form before me that I burned into my memory. I watched a much younger version of myself sitting with you in all of your perfect imperfections. I wanted to talk to you again, to hear your voice be directed toward me for one last time, but I knew that was something that I could not do for I had already had my moment. If I intervened everything could change, and I would be stealing away precious time from a younger me that would never be ready for anything shorter than forever with you. Instead, I kept my safe distance and watched as the two of you got up from our bench that we spent hours on talking or just sitting in silence. The look on his face-the look on my face was a priceless glance as the two of you walked with interlocked hands in a silence as perfect as a symphony. You then seemed to notice something out of the corner of your eye as you began to glance toward my direction. I drew back at first before remembering that I was not something that could be seen by you, but merely a ghost in time. You broke away from his hand and you continued toward where I floated, and you just stared right at me as if you could see me-as if you could feel me. With your half acquired smile I finally felt like I was home again, and I watched the younger version of me capture a perfect picture of you. With that I was once again in our old attic, holding that old photo, that was taken that old day, imprinting a forever timeless love. A love that would live on in my soul for...
love
life
forever.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 3:35 AM UTC
My lala sassy Coco beloved.
queens of purple heart mine.
to those loving me near or far.
~~~~~~~~~~~
And you sweetheart
You the awakened one when I fought to stay alive eons ago precioso mio.
Don't worry you woke me up
this thunderous hail winter
upon waking up opening my eyes
transforms to eternal spring.
And as the decades passed revealing so many secrets that you scattered of gold bars and treasures throughout Earth
for enchanted frog little me
in a tini pond destined to search you in your ocean
All treasures now conceived in thought understood grasped too late,
slide like water through my fingers
lost in inaction
Recaptured
in memory thought apeacing me giving strength.
The mind makes everything that's gone very real.
Amorsitos, hermosos you have many names I know you by a few
my precious king of hearts
I own only my heart of gold
jewels are my kids all grown-up
I love your family jewels.
Cariños mios your hands your voice
the way you walk talk as if you sway me and visit me unexpectedly
and it happens often
~~~~~~
Lover long sun kissed limbed
It all lingers true and clear.
Any woman queen Angel or scribe
would go nuts just hearing your tantric sensual voice
but not the way like I can.
Holding your hands loving me imprinting me with
your fingers kissing your palm prints
all over my pristine remote
unexplored seashores.
In your Island for private
romantic lovers you and me
You must feel safe here dear
just a poetess dreaming of you.
My mind make it all real.
and it does again and again..
your voice bridges any gaps
Our dream breathes and lives
when I hear your voice you melt
me or freeze me evaporated me
I cry and laugh and hear God
speaking to me in your voice
it's all so amusing
And bittersweet
I miss and love you all so much
tini litt baby girls and boys mine
"I give my life to save yours
if only any of you ask, you wrote"
I love you adore you.
Te amo the amo.
~~~~~~
By Karijinbba
All rights Reserved
Jul 5, 2021
Jul 5, 2021 at 5:32 PM UTC
the
Light in You:
brimming (my) heart
imprinting my (soul) with magic
feelings only dreams (can) paint; i am
soon subsumed by the (Light) of your rays
(the moon) dances behind your eyes
you are (all i)ts bloom and rise
with you there's no (need)
for a clever disgu(is)e
i will meet (You)
on the other
side|
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC
*Imprinting herself around me
a tenderly etched embrace
Integrity of heart and soul
intact, time shan't erase
A scarab if a beetle
a nova if a star
An amulet of conviction
pulsing light from afar
My hand is open to her
my life freely given
To be loved simply by loving
ancient wisdom recently rewritten*
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
I’m a stamp -
no, I didn’t say “I’m just a stamp”,
or “I’m but a stamp” -
but I am a stamp
a postage stamp, that is;
unique and proud, in my own class,
for I’ve carried queens and kings and emperors
(I still do)
and I carry Presidents and Poets and Rock Kings
and Pop Kings
and Musicians and Legends and Heroes
and Gods and Nations;
and I carry **** blondes
and old dames who’ve dedicated their lives to others
I’ve borne with no complaints
the weight of genius
and soldiers and founders of nations
and martyrs; and I do not discriminate
and with like gusto and color
I’ve carried tyrants and murderers and charlatans
and once-were-legends now the shamed;
and look, I can encompass the universe
and within the shapes formed by my perforations
I’ve held together flowers and birds
and all wonders of nature
I am each a poem, a work of art
I’m a stamp -
no, I didn’t say “I’m just a stamp”,
or “I’m but a stamp”
(What? You heard me the first time, did you?
Well, I’ll say it again for emphasis!) -
but I am a stamp in my own right, unique and proud -
though, I acknowledge,
the image of Royalty or Heroism or Greatness has
not saved me from various knocks and hard presses
and the ******* bin!
But then, so have mighty royal heads rolled!
but look, hee…heee….heee…
I can be absolutely adorable,
and I just love, love it when you lick me;
and often too
I’m a collector’s item
increasing in value, and even with artistic merit -
though no doubt, there are countless with no idea
of how so darling precious I am
which is I why
I say proudly again:
I’m a stamp
no, I didn’t say “I’m just a stamp”,
or “I’m but a stamp”
(And what? Why do I repeat myself?
Well, there are thousands of copies
of one issue, aren’t there?) -
but I am a stamp in my own right, unique and proud
and I’ve created worlds all of my own
with pen pals and commerce
and industries and clubs round me;
and I’m not alone, you know,
well-supported by relatives
like prepaid postal envelopes, post cards,
letter cards, aerogrammes
all of us served loyally
by unquestioning Gurkha-style postmen and women;
and I’ve brought hearts and minds together
and I do it in a day or days and or weeks
and if I feel like it, I even arrive decades later! –
and there’s nothing you can do about it!
And oh yes, I can see, you’re prone to neglecting me -
you ungrateful scoundrels! -
first replacing me with cold
Franking Machines,
and cheap, unimpressive, unimaginative franking marks
and with postage meters
imprinting an indicia;
and all of you now
deriding my world as snail pace
in your world of instant e-mails -
but I persist, and I still am of much use
for - listen carefully -
and I say proudly again:
I’m a stamp
no, I didn’t say “I’m just a stamp”,
or “I’m but a stamp” -
but I am a stamp in my own right, unique and proud;
and if you, once in a while,
want to show me your loyalty –
come to a local post office and lick my royal ****
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 10:03 AM UTC
A shimmer in your eye.
A glance at your face.
Sets my heart apace.
The sounds around me turn into echos of each syllable that comes out of your mouth.
Your lips become my focus.
As it moves my mind traces out each perfectly formed line imprinting them in my memory so that I can dream tonight.
I become a photographer behind a lens.
Waiting, watching as each word is pronounced how it contorts your face.
Waiting, watching for the moment my finger can click the button that will set start to the explosion of light as morning dawns and your face is illuminated catching the perfect timing in a matter of seconds hen your guard has been let down and your heart is revealed bringing to life the well shelter untamed emotion of my meaning to you.
The the shutter closes and once again the wall is up leaving the mind to wonder if the eyes have played tricks on it again.
But the acceleration in the heart beat ask the mind question itself again, if only it can find the right box with the right photo of that millisecond when the heart felt as though it had been struck by an arrow causing the stomache to knot.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
I find my mind now begins to daydream
Each and every moment you come near
That even when my eyes begin to close
I see your smile in my mind so clear
All of my thoughts become like a mirror
As your beauty they capture and hold
Imprinting deep on the walls of my heart
The image which each day lights my soul
My heart and mind being easily captured
While each day new feelings begin to rise
In this lovely game as old as earth itself
As love finds a way to place its gift inside
So many moments I find myself to daydream
On the precious moments when you come near
In vain I try to arrest my feelings for you
As the reason for my falling becomes so clear
Deep within, my heart begins to shine brightly
Much more radiant than a thousand burning suns
As I quietly give in knowing I must remember
The joy I feel comes alive because of only one.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 11:44 PM UTC
Looking out, I hear the croaky calls
Of husky-throated birds and the
Frothy licking of sea tongues.
Purplish azure spreading widely,
Timelessly, when once my Father told me
The beauty was infinite and he smiled at the pair of
Big bright brown eyes
Glowing up at him in belief and awe,
Believing the secrets of the sea
All the wonderful things he told me.
Holding my hand, imprinting the sand
With our shallow foot prints: big and small
My chubby hand in his, the other
Collecting the glossy, opaque nails of sea dragons.
Sometimes we found sharp, dull-colored ones
And these were the faded scales of their leathery tough
Skin. Craggy black wings folded jaggedly-
Mountains, the ignorant people called them
Only we knew underneath those folded wings
Lay a sleeping, ancient dragon with its
Golden eyes watching out for its children,
The White Sea dragons that ran along the edges of the waves.
Speeding on rapidly, diving under
Out swimming the run of short brown legs
Decisively deaf to a child’s sunny yells.
When the sky was littered with stars
Before I began dreaming I could hear
The rush of wind as the dragons unfolded
Their restless wings, the gentle splashing
As their children twisted in and out of the water
And what Daddy said, Sweet Dreams,
Arrived shortly thereafter.
Yet today I search vainly for their younglings
Gone in sunlight, in the midst of red foreigners
Coming out of hiding after dragon-hot sunsets and
Only behind closed eyes.
The spikes on their powerful wings
Have melded into dark shadows of trees
The jar of multi-colored sea glass remains
By my bed, reminding me of how when Daddy’s eyes
Could no longer burn bright with belief
In such magic, he placed the spark in new eyes
That were identical to his:
In both shape and color.
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 11:17 PM UTC
October, you are made of dust and I am a gun.
I killed men once.
When I lifted her veil I felt all of their features melt into one.
I smiled, it was all your storm in me.
October, you are a briefcase. You are six months long.
Tonight, there are tigers reaching out over my head
and I am your god out dancing on his weekend, say,
would you look at all your glass, bursting at the seams?
Would you ask him if I ever got there? Would you tell me why I keep pulling your explosive from my chest like a name label? Would you explain how metal peels as easy as skin with the right amount of madness?
October, I am no more than your casualties.
I am every sadness they ever said you would be.
Silver hands. I can carry these men but I cannot hold them up.
Mother, I thought I saw you standing there but it was just a bullet trail in the darkness.
I am buried in all of your letters, imprinting the both of us on the backbones of these papers;
they tell me I've become all the keys you sent.
October, you are a ballroom with all that break break break and I am falling but I haven't even left the ground yet.
When I rain down on you remember me, like the first sunset you ever wrapped yourself up in, and when they say
that I was never a stronghold, show them all the letters I tried to write you but never sent,
tell them about how the flesh ripped from my bones and left me a relic,
ask them if they can hear me breathing over all that storm.
October, you are confetti leaves falling under tyres on your wedding day,
and I can't be the light that catches them, I can't tell you that this world will wait long enough for you.
So tonight I am burning my name like it's the last thing I'll ever have.
And when they bring us home in our body bags,
remember that the choices we made were the choices we wanted to make.
October, you are a dust storm, and all your colour's left in me
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 7:58 AM UTC
bitterness of iron:
remove the milk
in bate of oxen blood spills
a bovine scent coagulates --
two membranes,
five and nine in aluminium
warp the boiling point --
two hundred, ninety degrees Celsius,
left standing, half a day:
cardboard instruction sets carbon constriction
imprinting
burnt hair, burnt hooves --
the taste of not eating
a liver, raw --
Where is the nameless face
carrying cups of coffee, bought
on a journey
somewhere, and nowhere et al . . .
kindreds, wrapped in the smell of decay:
the uncured hide around his hips,
or was it his wrists, never touching?
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 7:09 AM UTC
A little bird in the cage,
A cage with invisible bars
getting dense with every passing second,
The more she tries to free herself, the more it bites on her skin,
leaving scars, imprinting her mind and soul,
The cage has thorn around it,
Getting sharpen with every edgy spell of her kinship
The more they do, the more sharp are the thorns,
the more they cut, the heavier she bleeds.
The more they misinterpret her shrieks,
The more her wings get shattered.
A helpless little bird in the cage,
Lies in the pool of her blood,
Trying to get out of unbreakable rage.
Mar 6, 2021
Mar 6, 2021 at 2:38 PM UTC
The mosquitoes supped histamine limpets into our puckered flesh
dew gilted grass entombed our feet in dappled domes
refracting the overhead fireworks
smears of whirling color
accented by smoke mote ghosts
I forgot to wear my contacts
my near-sightedness
makes you giggle nervously -
a hard full body ****** of a laugh
it arches your spine
pulling our hand-holding into an expansion
only the lining betwixt finger inlets
galvanized our pulse
well, that and your voltaic laugh
its flourishing timbre
resonant
reverberant pyrotechnic
thickly glazing aural canal
lascivious tomes penned themselves
densely
upon neural plane
dendrites imprinting chemical insignia
moment captured in impressionistic blurs
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
Her voice echoed in eternity.
While blood spattered from that small body
On that notebook
Lying on the floor
Imprinting red palms on it.
She heard them call out
To the Almighty
From the foggy little distant mosque
She offered a prayer
For the future
A bright one..
For the children of God
For the mothers who bore them
Who don't have to wipe their own tears
Where she could live for a hundred more years
For their childhood
The one spent..
Looking at a misty sunset
That tastes like hope
And feels like a dream
With a privilege of coming true.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC
I tried to be a girl today
Painted my nails red and blue so I’d stop biting them
Tried to be pretty
With unbrushed hair and acne and calloused fingers
The nailpolish chipped off and I peeled it away
My hands wrecking the paint in place, colors end up beyond the lines of my hand, its everywhere, its ugly, Its suffocating, I take it off.
I want to say its a metaphor,
Something about how I cant cover up what I am with pretty colors and shiny surfaces.
It’s got to be indicative of future and past behavior about how I mess up preconceived ideas or something about how I break the molds that others try to put me in,
It happens every time.
It smudges, curve of fingers, grooves imprinting the paint with traces that I am there
Breaking the construct of beauty
I feel I cant say its anything more than smudged paint, despite how true the metaphors would be
Nothing more honest than the disfigured coverup and what lies beneath
I tried to be human today
Felt alien in my own skin
Wounded as I fought the judgement of a species I dont feel I belong to.
According to my mother I am an enemy of God for finding a temporary yet more beautiful love with her than I’ve found with a man.
I tried to be who you wanted, it never worked then, dont expect it to work now.
The mold that was casted does not, has not ever fit me.
I’d apologize for failing your expecations but theres no apologizing for finding solace amidst the storm.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC