"incongruity" poems
And I will make sure that if anything were to happen,
It would do little to affect you.
It's not everyday
You find a goose that lays eggs
With speckled jewels and golden flakes
The world is full of incongruity
And there's no doubt about the certainty
That something bad may happen,
And we don't want that, do we?
So listen carefully.
The world is a giant carboniferous spicule
Hanging in a nest of hydroxic gas and particulae
Spinning within the gaps of a blackened dome
Of limitless space and out of control
There is no telling what way it will go
There is no prediction that has fortold
Any number of moments in this tumbling slumber
Between the darkest hell and the further horizon
I so deftly advise you with all certification
To please place your bets and fly by echolocation
Your eyes will mislead, your ears will displease
And there is no way we can refund divine warranties
This machinery
has a half life of quarks
And energies that vibrate into other orbits
Trajectories
Retaining the spin and informative piece
Of that golden goose let loose amongst the canopy
Of dark,
off into neverland, straight on
Till new morning,
Beyond the stars
So please good sir don't migrate away from me
I have so much to give and such pain I have seen
Those that fatten their goose with **** till it quacks,
Those ravenous souls who ate their gift for a snack,
And when life finally cuts them down to their last,
They will howl and yowl and pray that goose back.
This is a game,
Have a good little laugh
Don't waste your time or your money
On a daffy Aflack
Policy that keeps you policed to the earth,
No way to fly,
Stuck in the dirt.
That is no way to live in the dream,
That is no way to let death trickle in
So please, pretty please, make sure you have coverages
And a couple extra dollars in the pocket of those jeans
Wander freely, you great big atomic bomb, you.
Do catastrophic damages and I'll pay your dues.
Ride the road coast to coast,
Fly a bird 'round the world,
Take a truck till you're home,
Find a love you can trust.
Find a place where your egg
And your legs seek nowhere else
Lay down those roots,
It's Eden or bust.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 1:03 PM UTC
When he was still an atheist - he prayed.
He did not settle down on bended knee.
Forgiveness Love and peace are his today.
He might have lost and never found his way,
Hidden within Source helped this blind man see.
When he was still an atheist - he prayed.
Though many sacred blessings came his way,
He never saw the incongruity.
Forgiveness Love and peace are his today.
At times he questioned choices he had made,
He thought his life unlocked by good luck' s key.
When he was still an atheist - he prayed.
Although in war, angels came to his aid,
He never saw past physicality.
Forgiveness Love and peace are his today.
When he could see his whole perspective changed,
He found he lived in Love's eternity.
When he was still an atheist - he prayed.
Forgiveness Love and peace are his today.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos.
I am earless with music.
Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows-
foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution,
air freshener and the outside
sweet at my back
all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke
blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference.
There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor
born partially of personal encounter and-
nestled in the hive mind of social experience.
A distillation of regret and remorse,
of lonely,
of irrelevance;
this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears,
eaten by rust.
Four cans of beans,
kidneys,
in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells
melting into other curves
and I swerve close and around guiltily,
noting you only as the source of this pungent spring.
You are smiling apologies
ignorant of my apparent inhumanity-
blind to my selfish hands..
Pinioning belly flesh,
flattening,
reaching
and gaining attendance from a better man
retrieving every dropped can.
I’m retreating,
shaken,
tense to alternatively slacken.
My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign
and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream,
moving from shampoo to conditioner,
the whole store is infected with smell.
Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind-
don’t look
**don’t
look**
I can sense little else but dread
drawing closer
you are now crouched so close I’m gagging,
taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood
roiling in rot,
currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you
fumbling
with my electric ears,
surfacing
in a breath of Amish silence
broken with simple request
and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of
that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body
that she is excluded and I don’t know why.
I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk,
over childish lady bugs framed by yellow
or dots of red alternating to black,
an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 1:42 AM UTC
I sit alone in this connected world,
separated from the selfishness I see spreading
amongst everyone around me
with everything to gain by filling their hands
before filling their hearts,
by silencing their inner voice
and shouting out loud.
It must not be hard to live life in the singular,
letting words and sounds crash against guarded ears and eyes.
The true trouble starts when a mind becomes a collective,
letting in every thought, every notion,
leaving judgment to fend for itself.
It becomes harder to keep your identity in an overflowing sea of mediocrity
from not allowing any idea to rise above.
How does one feel empathy when living life in the former,
cast away on an inner island?
Is it a feigned truth to goad the soul
into cooperation with a strictly selfish mind?
Is it the weight of expectation crowding out viewpoints and virtue?
I can’t tell because for once in my life,
I stand staring at this alien concept
and see no wisp of familiarity floating in our shared air.
So my lungs seize at this ether bereft of merit, and I collapse.
Only to wake in a suspended reality,
one where the naïveté of my mind
rationalizes the incongruity of the external world
long enough for me to delve within.
In these cloistered rooms of society,
I find sparks without kindling,
wasting away into ash,
I find whispers discarded from distracted diaphragms,
but most importantly, I find recognition,
recognition of this middle ground,
neither reached nor acknowledged by that strange outer land.
It is in these discarded thoughts
stowed far beneath consciousness that I seek my own truth.
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 1:24 AM UTC
The hiker cannot dwell there long,
concealed on a high gull-lined cliff,
overlooking the grey of the Sound.
Framed in a solemn March day,
two curiously juxtaposed species hold her gaze.
Silent as a fawn she watches
a black wolf beneath her arboreal outpost,
hunched in the fashion of Asian street vendors,
observing the other creatures.
Great humpbacks frolic in icy waters ---
spouting volcano plumes of spray
that catch the freshened wind ---
riding white-capped waves,
till entropy dissolves their mist to atomized brine.
Whale-song, too distant for the hiker's gentle ears,
comes rolling in tsunami-like
to the aurally attuned wolf,
which ***** its head and nods
in musical agreement with the odes.
Then little lupine brother
rears back his head and howls,
so sorrowful a moan, as she has ever heard ---
answering his water-brethren,
hunters of krill upon the seas.
Giggling at the incongruity of this lone celebrant
singing pack-songs to leviathans,
she hurries on her way,
lone wolf herself returning to the pack.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 10:12 PM UTC
The yellow rays of the sun fell on the Bower
Like a golden rain
And a bee kissed with the tongue a crimson flower
Like a song refrain
As a silky butterfly sweet as a shower
Poked fun at my pain.
© LazharBouazzi, December 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 12:22 PM UTC
From the fourth floor of my nineteen-story house, I peek out of the tinted windows. These are my only windows to whatever is outside, and they're tinted yellow and black. I am the first person on the moon. I am the first person on the edge of the planet. Will I fall off, or am I bold enough to carry on?
That, I think, is what has been bothering me for so long. I do not live in a nineteen-story house and neither am I peeking through yellow-and-black windows. No, these colors do not have any significance either. They are not symbols or metaphors. I have been making everything up as I hammer my fingers onto the keyboard and weave these unfathomable lines of thoughts. I am not the first person on the moon. I am not the first person on the edge of the planet. In fact, there isn't even an edge. I am an insignificant speck of dust. I am not even Horton's Who.
I just counted the number of 'I's in the first two paragraphs- fifteen. Fifteen of the same alphabet repeated throughout. That is, despite whatever you might say, a bad start to an essay (if you'd call this one). "Of course not, repetition is an important literary device!", you might say. Horseshit, I say. These words have no intrinsic meaning. These horribly structured sentences are disgustingly unfathomable. That's the second time I've said 'unfathomable'. Third. My 9-year old sister writes better than I do: "Today, I woke up. Today, I ate breakfast. Today, I horsed around with my dog. I am very happy. I am not hungry, because I ate today. Today, I ate." You can understand what she's saying- she woke up, she ate, she's not hungry, and she's happy. But what of me? I woke up, but just so. I ate and so I'm not hungry, but just so. I am happy, and yet I am not. These words that I write mean nothing to me, and yet they mean everything. Being the extreme nihilist that I am, life has no intrinsic meaning, and yet it is more meaningful than a poem that I once wrote about my tenth-grade crush. I've forgotten her name long since. The most absurd of all is that it hasn't been so long- perhaps a year. What is more absurd than the most absurd is that I am yet to turn sixteen; this I will do in a month's time- yet what is most absurd about the more absurd than the most absurd is the incongruity of the facts with reality. I shall not elaborate on this, for it has become nothing less of a meaningless telephone message constructed at the time of a drunken stupor.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 7:35 AM UTC
Five. Cinco.
Half of the ten and a fifth of the twenty five. Mathematics are a funny subject, don't you think? Some man just made up letters to correlate with numbers to transcend to concepts that in all reality could mean nothing and the square root of a orangutan could actually be yellow.
I contemplate on that a lot, being the Grace that I am, wondering if what's real is real, if words are just words, or all they the pygmy hippopotamuses flying in my dreams. Anything is possible. Dreams could be reality, and reality could be a dream. Or maybe there is no such thing as realness, and everything is just madness.
I learned a lot from my friend the Mad Hatter, how to love, how to be disappointed, how to fall into a pit of despair and how to wear a hat like a ****** deviant and love it.
But the most important thing I learned is that sanity is very subjective, because what may seem totally sane to me, completely within the norm, may seem like complex incongruity to someone else. Maybe we're all mad. Maybe no one's mad. Maybe its just you, maybe its not you.
Special. That's another word that always got me, but I prefer to think in the realms that everyone is different. The world is in different shades and hues, none are ever quite the same, so why should people be that way?
But maybe yet again I'm only speaking in riddles and soliloquies and monologues and standing over all my conquests I am screaming my thoughts while they utter not a word, fearful of manic me.
I'd be afraid of manic me. She is quite the finger-twitching tyrant.
Words are words but are they real? Are they what you mean or are they just lies, lies, words that you scream until she dies, dies, and the world is at peace.
Oh, that's not right.
I once wrote a short poem similar to that I could recite by heart, but as my heart has changed the words become jumbled. Death creeps its way into lies, and heavy juxtaposition ***** with my meanings. Eating my words, until I am not a girl anymore, I am a leaf, or a bat, stuck in Wonderland until the end of my days.
Funny how Alice the savior became Alice the bat.
Wait, I'm not Alice, I'm Grace.
Oh, I do not know who I am anymore. And that is the tragic beauty of Wonderland. You just never know what, or who, tomorrow may bring.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
I'm broke like a joke that ain't even funny
I'm pretty good at everything except making money
I never cared for its garish symbolism
Its incongruity between power and weight
Or the increase of gravity you get with the more that you make
I endeavor to remain just as light as a feather
But if you feel obliged to give me some
Why that's all the more better!
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
In particular evinces of comparable obliviousness
To implications of extraneous misunderstandings
That bring a melancholy of limited constrictions
Makes one articulate anxiety in dazzling reform
Of vibrant linguistic experimentation of lawless incongruity
Resulting in rhetorical pyrotechnics that defy inflections
And a wild farrago of tongues that boast a fecundity of speech
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 5:49 PM UTC
Foolish Iniquity ensued by sensation,
all to which led to such a foreboding culmination.
And what was the interpretation?
The evaluation of pure desolation derived from wickedness,
and destruction caused by commotion produced by the most riveting of distortions.
Her visage was more than what my aim wanted.
However, when she took me in,
I was more than just delighted.
Had she not known that I was peasant compared to her royalty?
Yet, my loyalty far surpassed our incongruity.
But my days had never left without a urge of urgency.
And for that, scrutiny had to take place.
And when I noticed the connection to the King,
my words I began to be misplaced.
Her heart chasing down the stairs of emotion.
Commotion awaiting at daybreak.
Her heart is still mine, to date.
The king's tyranny fell alongside the shores of his own
consequence; decadence.
And thus, the many people were saved
and no one ever complained.
For it wasn't the relationship that was aimed,
it was for the timely-tamed.
My reward was given for my works,
And a stab to the heart around lurked.
And subjected I was to my own powerlessness,
All because of my decadence.
In pain I awaited for my death,
But to no avail.
Was I ever so frail to even care?
I was granted another chance to redeem myself.
My heart so gracefully allocated to the night.
A chance to shed light to those within the purest of darkness.
My actions were not for naught, forever in my might.
They were all freed by me,
Yet, imprisoned I will forever be.
To show the way, if need be.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
Patchwork sky beyond the reach
—They breach the alley way
Swimming swathes amidst the blue
—Flash the knives and young curses
Lost for incongruity
—Mere kids, mere savagery
All, now, is coated silver
—Empty packets hunger
We move on toward our night
—Shame young beasts grow old, too.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC
The poet looks
and delves.
She wonders if he ever stops,
him, this rushing-forward-breathlessly train,
if he did park himself in fantastical paragraphs;
the poet is dumbfounded at him
ceasing.
In construction sites of grammar,
where free ideas float in ruins,
poet wonders how,
how, how
he came to plan to live
up
to an exclamation mark.
And condensed so many dribbles and strikes
of strange and fruitful, even withered
paragraphs into one line and pointer -
a smile and a lope-stagger dance of a walk -
an exclamation mark.
The poet stares, once again
astounded by the little streaks of the universe
and longs to hold on to something.
Disarmed,
she can't quite put a finger on it,
his gaping honesty and his quiet one,
that contradiction
shouting in her face
while whispering in her eyes.
The poet laughs -
laughs of, in, out
of sleep.
Summer is here.
And she chooses to notice.
He laughs too,
but he's always been noticing
and the poet writes down how
she learnt to bite and chew into the fruit of the world
and taste
it sour runny sweet cold explosive lingering
just as him.
The poet saw all
colours rolling in one
strange song of limbs.
She did not like the music
but she made herself a blank white canvas
and listened
and laughed
clean, silly laughs
fluting out of the incongruity
of simple,
simple
moments.
Fun life, easy stretch of the mouth -
it is possible to smile down at
what a clown pain is.
He declares this boldly
without saying a word
or two.
The poet is dumbfounded at him
being.
She did not see and had not seen and now only began to picture
but she was blind.
He said he was blinder and that
was true. The poet
did not smirk but giggle at the irony -
he lived in pop-bold spectacles,
she slept in black and white films.
But both were blind.
We cannot see and
we
are blurs.
The poet likes that life scrapes away at her
because she can see chinks of white sunshine
through all the sheared-off layers.
Clean, clean,
bright, bright -
he teaches her in a beam
without a hello.
The poet writes poetry
on breathing action prose.
And she laughs -
You are everything I don't want
but I'm curious.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 5:48 PM UTC
"Regular-sized Rudy?
Why do they call you that?"
"Just look at me,"
A touch of incongruity,
like a rogue ****** in
the parking lot of Rite Aid
that's like really close to the entrance
He said: "I want us to
be happy, and normal,
and I want to treat you better,"
Just look at me.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 12:26 AM UTC
Rebellion – for too long the status quo,
is, in our day, a predictable show.
Antichrist irony, absurdity
shockingly daring incongruity
no longer shock the bourgeois, you know…
Alone in the temple of glass with a rock,
you’re out of traditional symbols to mock.
Surrealists did it much better than you –
and it meant a lot more in ’32.
You chew your cud on the cattle-wagon
overused shock-tactics (moo ! ) now draggin’
(or herding) aboard the iconoclast train
(b)lowing through boxcars your bovine refrain:
“to, um – make people think…” Oh Lord, how uncouth.
Nihilist narcissus – tell me, what’s Truth?
Must creative always be subversive?
I discern, in your frenzied discursive,
a dull and predictable lack of life.
While you brandish that plastic butter knife
I seem to note, in your constant ******
dearth of artistic ability. Must
bohemian acolytes (some yawning)
ever be deer in the headlights, fawning
before the ironic gesture? It’s sad;
the bitter is sweet but the art is bad…
They circle hors d’oeuvres on opening night
like moths around white wine in candlelight,
cerebrating in a modernist void:
contemporary aesthetes, overjoyed
to know once more that life has no meaning;
the planet is doomed; that kings are queening;
that chic just arrived, escorting philosophy
(Forgive us, Duchamp, for all this monstrosity).
I long for Hudson River School sunsets
Old Dutch Masters, religious art, portraits,
Red, green, or black propaganda-art? NO !
The view does not merit the price of the show.
I’m dada-ed to death, beyond the surreal.
Conceptual gimmicks have failed to conceal
your want of ability, values, and faith
In the book you despise it is written: “thus saith
the fool in his heart: that there is no God…”
You: Postmodern Art – to the firing squad!
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
I recently agreed to leave my body to science
In return for free cremation & disposal services.
But I insisted on one small qualifier,
A precise stipulation that
The first-year medical student, to which
My cadaver is assigned,
Be female & lovely,
Brilliant & curious,
Fevered & insane,
Seeking a miracle cure for broken hearts.
The damaged among us,
Yearn for a magic elixir,
Some long lost potion,
Arcane & miraculous,
Insightful & perfect in simplicity.
A man who truly loved women,
My last woman dissects me,
I, a species of man she would master.
Cuts out my heart and weighs it,
Divines my psychology from slice of spleen.
Or liver, toxic, cirrhotic,
Surely, random entrails hold some key to me.
I--in all my incandescent incongruity--
Must render up some gender-specific clue,
As to what it is men really want;
Proving, again, the simplest answer is best.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
Frustrated.
With myself, or you?
You’re content without me
And that’s not fair
Because I’m not content without you.
One way channels of affection should not exist
The world is out of balance
How can you be right for me, and me not right for you?
When will my own chemical orientations be reciprocated?
I couldn’t be more sure of you.
Sure that you fill a void in me no one else can touch.
But when I speak to you, confide in you--
When I anticipate a mutually appreciated interaction,
And you don’t speak—don’t show—don’t need—
Well, I find myself here.
Rolling on in these ruts, unwanted, with love unrequited.
Frustrated, but not with you.
Because not caring is no crime,
And life is yours to live.
So live on, love, and I will rust.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
Every book has a last page, every song a last verse to sing.
Every sentence its full stop, every beginning its ending.
Every existence will one day cease to be,
In the inevitability of death, there is unity.
'Death is simply a beginning,' confidently some state.
'In death, there is nothingness,' others iterate.
But the lock of death in the living world has no key.
In the ignorance of death, there is unity.
In the hearts of some resides unwavering misery.
Others march on, donning costumes of pseudo-normalcy.
The actuality of their loss, still others refuse to see.
In the incoherence of death, there is unity.
Cinema, literature, poetry have ostensibly tried to explain,
With the knowledge directors, littérateurs, poets feign.
No living soul can grasp its intense incongruity,
In the incomprehensibility of death, there is unity
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
Before the sun peaks through the sky
Lighting all the things I wish to hide
Before the early birds rise
There is a tranquility
The silence is eerie
Calmness settles over me
I find peace and acceptance
Within my incongruity
The uproar in my mind
Is temporary replaced with feelings so sublime
I feel my body glide
Levitate to meet the sunrise
I have no need for explanations
or external reassurance
When kindness lies within my own eyes
Walking down the dirt roads of this ghost town
I think of the rarity of this complacency
My eyes are no longer crusted shut
I feel no need to reflect or recollect
I merely observe the beauty
Enjoy the present unfold before me
And wish for the apocalypse to come
To make this absence of human activity a permanent reality
I cherish the foiling of connectedness and singularity
Alone but always together
The wildlife waking in the cheatgrass
soothes me into serenity
reassuring me that the sounds of consciousness
will not affect this new-found levity
I come to accept the ticking of time
And I radiate optimism and readiness for the day
I wait for the bus with patience in place of anticipation
I love driving through town
relying on others to get around
As long as I am not the one in control
I am comfortable being lost and directionless
I enjoy the distraction of the passing landscape
It seems too immense to be
a manifestation of my imagination
The way it removes me from my sad body
Into something much more than me
The beauty of the world is limitless
It envelopes me
Sending me to equivocal destinations
I feel this weightlessness become a headache
And soon I come back into my body
And into the thoughts and obligations I try to avoid
Fearing that this moment of happiness
Is slipping from my reality
I try to find some peace of mind
but I have no motivation to fight for an illusion
I return to my old darkness
Avoiding the light and the images it shows
With no basis for its existence
I begin to see all displays of optimism
as noxious naivety
promising but never quite what it seems
when it comes to me
It's always superfical and fleeting
Like the affection of my mistress
It is devoid of any true meaning
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
Happy days are numerous.
Continue to enjoy the limitless splendid days
until night falls.
Apologies for wrongdoings become comforts
for the poor and inconsolable.
Forever doubt the incongruity of jocular locutions
and reality
in order to truly find the blissful song of life
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
A boy told me
That the skin on my back
Is beautiful
That it makes me unique
I am not sure
If his words
Were supposed to make me feel pretty
But they made me think
Made me wonder
How a near stranger
Could admire my skin
Almost as much as I despise it
My skin
Is a combination
Of freckles
Of scars
And of spots
These marks
These sun-stained,
Disease-ridden patches
Are not beautiful
This lack of pigmentation,
Scattered formation of color
Looks more like a puzzle
Than it does human
And often times
I feel more puzzle
Than I do human
See I know what it's like
To feel your skin changing color
To feel like your body has betrayed you
The cells that are supposed to protect
Have instead chosen to neglect you
Denying their purpose
Into abandonment
I have spent hours in the mirror
Turning my reflection into stranger
Staring at these flaws
Picking apart every piece of my complexion
Until all that remains
Is insecurity
But the problem with self-hate
Is that it never ends in satisfaction
Only in disappointment
And destroying yourself
Is not an art form
There are times
When I forget
That my body is home before anything else
That it is mine
Before anyone else’s
And although it is shelter
It often feels more
Like the aftermath of a storm
A battlefield left behind
The remnants from wars fought
And wars lost
Some say
I should take pride
In the incongruity
In the mess
In this map I call my body
I have been told
To embrace the blemishes
That they merely proof
Of survival
Of being alive
Of breathing
And it is easy to say
Something is not that bad
When it isn’t you
Who it is unfolding
But this disease
Will not ruin me
It can take parts of my body
To twist into ugly
Turn my immune system against me
And leave scars as evidence
But I refuse to
Let this disease
Make me into anything but
Strength
I have spent years
Trying to find comfort in this skin I am in
Wondering
How unlucky I got
To be this mismatched
Forgetting that I am this lucky
To be this mismatched
And that originality
Is as desirable
As my skin is unclear
This skin that I bare
Does not define me
These tattoos that I have gotten
To cover up unwanted memory
Do not define me
These scales that I wear
Not by choice
But by default
Do not define me
Only I
Define me.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
Oh my fool who loves me still
I wish your love that I could ****
It is wasted at my sill
In songs and poems, words and rhymes
Sadly insufficient lines
Better if your tongue would still
Your heart not hardened
Your happiness not killed
Instead I hope a knowing strength to will
An understanding of your place
And position in this race
For you my darling
Who I cherish
I would not wish your heart to perish
The truth my friend
And truth is fell
Is that I love you
But not so well
This incongruity of love
Turns friendship to a kindly hell
That is why your smile's bitter
My wise sad fool
For your wisdom does not bear
On the foolish course you swear
To love me
I do not wish it,
I do not ask it,
Your love I don't implore
I ask instead, to please explore
Dig deep into your very core
To understand this tug of war
And why from you I don't want more.
Rather I would wish
That instead of this cold dish
Of a love that's not extended
I hope your pain to be transcended
And from these ashes
May you be ascended
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 9:20 PM UTC
Scattered, dilapidated
ancient monuments,
pieces of a puzzle,
a mute challenge,
to someone
who plays a mysterious game,
unfathomable to us,
A lone girl in hot pants
stands perplexed,
on the incongruity of it all,
in that vast complex,
a tourist, with an uncertain interest.
(A curious element,
introduced, apparently by a child,
playing a cosmic game,
sitting somewhere in universe)
Light dims as sun goes down,
and the scene sinks
in to an unknown storehouse.
a jumble to sort out later,
by budding time, within an emerging star,
in an unknown distant galaxy.
We watch silently,
standing here, in Qutb complex,
temporary witnesses to eternity's games.
It looks so deceptively simple,
like an ordinary evening
in Delhi.
*
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 10:46 AM UTC
In a moment
Or an hour or a day
We feel the incomplete nature of ourselves
We perceive an incongruity
Between desire
And reality
Reconciliation of the incongruity
Does not happen in a moment
In an hour, or a day
Some say the incongruity will always exist
And to release yourself from desire
Will make you one with reality
Consider though
The dead become dirt in the cool earth
We all become one with reality sooner than we desire
Perhaps we should appreciate the incongruity
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 3:51 AM UTC