"inking" poems
tell me...
will tomorrow bring,
all the things
i'm longing...
stowed upon its elusive wings,
tirelessly beating
and fighting
to show what's dangling
and hanging...
ready for the picking...
awaiting...
such time so it could begin its need for unloading,
delivering
and dropping,
its gleaming
treasures
on those who are deserving,
in no way lacking
so they could be at the receiving
end of this pressurising,
inking
of dwindling
words...
careless thoughts conceived only to
fuel
my deranged ramblings...
incessant mutterings of a shattering
mind...
bending backwards, almost breaking,
risking...
the chance of ever fully
mending...
hoping and praying
for a sentence that's pending
dawn's approval...
allowing
the rising
of the sun...
paving
ways for thriving
wishes,
unbarring
gates for soaring
dreams, unlocking
latches,
relieving...
the heightening
anxieties of grieving
hearts.
constantly whispering
utterances, promising
good will, happiness
and titillating
sanity.
we're thinking...
the earth is spinning,
the moon is setting,
so the sun must be rising
but...
tell me,
tomorrow...
is it coming?
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
.
\ | /
\ •think my /
pen's almost dry•it's get-
ting oh so hard•ideas seem to just
\ fly on by•i'm unable to deal any more /
cards•bottom of the barrel•i seem to be
scraping•trapped in a long, dark tunnel•
coherence eluding...the words that need
inking•i need a simple little trick...•to
soothe this perpetual itch•need my
/ bulb come on really quick•hope- \
fully as soon as I flick on
/ the...switch• \
| ooooooooooo |
•••••••••
•••••••••
•••••••••
•••••••••
•••••
ooo
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
my breath is blue
cold and forgettable
in this dark room
and with my eyes closed
composed of a mind
and all its follies,
that I cannot switch off;
i am lost, yes,
bless'd with a life
i never would have
known otherwise,
of minutes, mountains and
stones, wise men; a home
and sun rise,
here on this rock
me and so many like me
will die, pretending we
never would,
consuming blood and wood
even burning the forest down
'tis his kingdom, filled with
people bad and good,
some mad and filled with
scars and broken days
then there's that who
has no need for a place,
some wear stars and some
wear no face, some are meant
to die, some meant to stay
some go away never to
come back, some find
grey days soothing as they
pass by, some live
in good-byes, and some dye
themselves, some don't cry,
some won't die, and we'd
watch them live forever,
whilst we break our lies,
i live the lies too, yes,
but that's more bless'd, in
this storm of illusion,
outside this dark room
where i bleed away bits of
me, everytime i step out,
loud noises and the clock,
to break me down,
silence louder than words,
empty air for me to drown
trapped in a circle 'round
my neck,
eyes to dream me a crown,
and a mind for the countless
worthless things i've found
gagged and bound,
in the deepest layers
miles deeper than my skin
sinking, and inking my
breath blue.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 2:23 PM UTC
Alexander of Macedonia this time
won’t U-turn from the might Gangaridai.
At the bubbling edge in the Indian subcontinent,
one would dare, taking his last plunge,
believing it here the proverbial Well of Life!
Yet Al Khwarizmi will discover the algebra,
drawing from ‘nothing,’ purely untouchable:
The Zero from the Indian pole.
Not a digit, not a number on its own, yet it’s all.
Every number jumps up in the zero loophole!
Then the whole number bows down into decimals,
escalating the hunts of the 1.618 golden ratios.
Plough through at your own pace
for the uncharted water, for ab-e-hayath.
Sip in a drop of elixir in this secured zone.
Sylhet is in the core, is written in stone.
What do these mean? I too wonder
down the line, I was intrigued by the Arab
and Indian tectonic plates’ slow dance.
Both rolled out, hugging each other
Then the Makkan soil lying at the heart of earth
gets exposed, with Sylhet’s soil it pairs up!
360 Sufi dynamos, mathematically a perfect circle,
find the match giving a perfect heads up
laid on the nine yard show the whole box of wax,
simply inking the vivo jump on the storylines.
What’s under the tectonic-rug at the bottom of the earth?
Shush softly, whisper—the heavens might hear it out!
Hold on to the least bit, it could be all one wants.
The earth, the ocean, all started with a drop of water!
Let alone any well, which way did this original matter,
the first, primeval drop of water stream down
Has this alleyway been exposed here, or in Paradise?
Then how can we say we don't have a secret for Paradise?
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation
raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down
she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”
gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet
she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm
I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup
her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments
parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,
”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”
and she would be wright...
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
Grey is my pain(t)
Smeared on this tain(t)
Seeping in(k)
Entanglement be my kin(k)
Now I thin(k)
Soon I will sin(k)
My mind ramble(d) on and on
Struggle(d) till I'm almost gone
Overused angular frow(n)
Paint over the brow(n)
That had (s)oiled this painting
(Sp)Oiled by sporadic inking
The ***** in my skin
Sung of battles that reside (with)in
My armour though(t) sturdy
In(side) I only bury
Must...
Plan(t) my feet
Swift is my flee(t)
Envision my escape(s)
Beyond the cordoning tape(s)
Shed the armour and reveal the s(h)eep
My vulnerability hid(den) deep
Let loose... The courage I hone(d)
Let them be heard... Voices that groan(ed)
I await... Patient(ly)
Time I bide... Defiant(ly)
Fade(d), bleeding away
Shade(d)... With gloom that stay
Grey is my pain(t)
Only colour, tinting my tain(t)
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
Sharp tongues do damage quicker than blade could manage.
Deeply scaring the mind, which in turn takes time.
Step light little princess,
Heading advice and walking with care
So as to not attract unwanted stares,
Speak when spoken to
and give pause
to process a slogan.
Think aloud only if you are alone,
inking pride deep inside.
Pretty papers leave trails that can be followed,
leaving you to weave lies that can’t be swallowed.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 11:19 PM UTC
A*ll the five hundred drafts and counting
I am so bad at finishing
Each line lyric rhyme
Hoping for a masterpiece
Or a mirror to my mind
Nothing is certain till it ends
And it twists all the thought.
A surprise for few lines
An emotion to hide
Many people to confide
Some memories to write
A few to ignite
Each word to choose
and another to bind.
Inert satisfaction
a final completion
First to last transition
Inking blues
And curves in precision
An unknown outcome
Likesome to troublesome
to be posted on a wall*.
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 11:07 AM UTC
Wide, grey waters rolling in
Invisibly it flows
Like a spreading carpet over mud
Inexorably it grows.
Created by a lunar force
And global winds at play,
Twice each day the tides do surge
To crest and flow away.
Twice each day the tide rolls in
To cover shoals of sands
And beds of oysters, muddy brown
With squirting water glands.
And twice each day the seabirds flock
To alight on draining shores
To harvest succulents and *****
And other tasty mores.
Oyster pickers congregate
In flocks of white and black
Red beaks plunging deeply
In green pastures for a snack.
Amazingly, they all take flight
A thousand beating wings
Which heel about collectively
Inking out all skyward things.
A thousand, million wavelets play
Across the level span
Pursued by wind’s relentless glove
In a patterned, surging plan.
And each reflects a kiss of light,
Each wavelet in the run
Collectively illuminate
Like diamonds in the sun.
Above the waves the seagulls ply
In corridors of air
In squadron flights of symmetry
To weave and wheel with flair,
Their raucous calls at distance
The poetry of sound,
In tidal terms, a symphony
Of seaward things profound.
The haze at the horizon
Of salt spray in the air,
White ,crunchy shells on beaches,
Pohutukawa’s everywhere.
A feeling of things tidal
In a lazy, salty way,
And enjoying the quiet beauty
Of this lovely, coastal bay.
Marshalg
@ the Gate
Mangere Bridge
4th March 2009
Nov 27, 2009
Nov 27, 2009 at 2:20 PM UTC
I can feel the golden warmth awakening my paper.
Everything is so right,
it's a cool spring night,
the city is so alive,
my poetic mind should awaken and come to life,
then why don't I want to write?
Perhaps what makes us put our ink pens to our lined papers,
is when we know,
we must give it love, anger, sadness, assurance, care.
When our minds and bodies are touched,
so tremendously with feeling,
that we must rejoice with our beloved;
as we make it feel what we feel,
inking our thoughts permanently,
scratching the surface until we are content.
But if we only feel neutrality,
it is alright to stare at the white blankly.
We will rejoice another day perhaps,
tomorrow, a month, who knows?
Only time will show.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
her fears were written across her face
inking her skin
for everyone to see
her fears were like tattoos
permanent
her fears could not be erased
she coveted in darkness
waiting
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
*if an idea for a poem pops into one's head
the genie of imagination begins inking
every piece referencing an original thread
one formulates works by this unique stead
of its methodology there will be no sinking
if an idea for a poem pops into one's head
images and descriptive terms then spread
through each line noted on a linking
every piece referencing an original thread
to create one's own mixture of bread
never deviating far from the nub's clinking
if an idea for a poem pops into one's head
always keeping time with a continual tread
the blue-print imparted in one's thinking
every piece referencing an original thread
what concept may spring to one's mind lead
within the verse there found natural blinking
if an idea for a poem pops into one's head
every piece referencing an original thread
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC
I've driven myself in
to the valley of deserted
Tears.
To where it's too hot,
while living is an isolation.
There's no river nor
lush forest around,
its as dry as the desert
sands, then humidity
strikes your nerves
that you'll feel
overcooked.
The crimson sky
Bleeds of its inking
Beauty...
I on the other hand
solidify my strength
to ease the burden
I carry, as i lift myself
Little by little towards
A meaningful step
For SURVIVAL!
© pax
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 11:09 AM UTC
This struck a chord!
That just stabbed me like a sword!
“The earth laughs in flowers.”
How did you even come up with that?!
So much ingenuity
So much imagery
Your words derived from my muted emotion
So relatable, I could fall even without your love potion
Through your words
Petals cried
Lips lied
And kisses had eyes
With a pen, you breathed life into the dead; god in disguise
Sometimes, I wonder what you'd been through to spill like that
But all I could really do is keep on inking and not falling flat
Maybe someday my words could string your heart
Like yours to mine, then I would have done my part
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 11:57 AM UTC
We were all skin and skin and skin...
Fingertips counting ribs
A map of scares and pleasures.
Silence so colorful inking whole lines on our bodies.
Painful and poetic.
Two living hells waiting to find out who burns faster.
Still, applying cold water
on the wounds we caused each-other.
Heavy breathes of confusion on necks,
trying to remember the way we smelled.
We were lost in space.
All skin and skin and skin,
but our souls were three galaxies away.
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 6:47 AM UTC
Don't "take" action...it doesn't belong to you.
Don't "take" action..."make" it instead.
Radioactive Reaction...I, Radio Re-Active
We make, Radioaction.
Iconoclashing against a faction Hell bent on Heaven sentiment.
Fictional filament tethered to the Town Hall Square Circular non-secular content.
Stitching Supra-stitious suspicion.
Weaving away, in the name of good faith.
Imperial pillows to suffocate un-resting heads
blankets of banners-it's story time to go to bed.
Yet here i sit...reaction-ing in script.
Creating activity...through creativity.
Cre-activity.
Recreational reaction.
Revolutionary open-caption inking passion with a digital pen.
"Make me"...such a passive statement with such a threatening proposal...a posing promise...a convenient conviction to tend.
A submissive request to influence choice over chance.
Change over circumstance...situational aggressive targets
subjectively objectifying a marketable stance.
"Make" action...don't just take it
Only then will it be yours to keep.
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 9:08 AM UTC
Bedside table minds clean paper
Pen at the ready, lying in wait
for wording as I wait for the sandman
Thoughts pole vaulting at high speed
tossing, and turning then settling
unable to make it over the top
Mind frozen in time with selections
untamed uneducated words, hitchhiking
around my head, seeking new adventures
on paper with other more interesting fellows
Words stuck in the corners of my mind
spring cleaning energy is needed here
to pull them out of their aerobics class
Forcing the words down my right arm
in Gymnastic style movements
out of my pen they stream endlessly
inking up the page in the stillness
But I dare not move to switch on the light
for the theme will be broken for all time
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 1:18 PM UTC
*when you no longer
give me flowers
my heart began inking
roses*
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
the girl with the blue hair
bled outside of the lines
like the overdose of colour in the
comics that she read.
big eyes and
big lips - the girls on the pages
had hearts for eyes and tears
of fat diamonds.
their sadness so precious.
their affection spans shaped
like rainbows in the
big big blue.
she liked all the colours.
the girl with the blue hair
painted her lips
in the new york cold for
life should be livid, life should
be vivid.
and she
wanted the colours
inside of her blue.
like inking a sketch she
filled herself up.
i was silent when this meant
she threw herself at countless walls
to call
the carnage 'art' -
see how
the girl with the blue hair
became an artist.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
I'm a sinking stone, this I know,
because I fell to the bottom and I'm starting to erode.
I can't feel at home
when she's not alone.
It's useless, I know.
I'm a cracking stone, this I know,
because I like to love until I explode.
And with no container there to hold,
I fall apart and my cover is blown.
It's pathetic, I know.
I'm getting better, you should know;
searching for a good way to cope.
I'm turning my wheels, mending the spokes
by inking my blood into words of hope.
I'm stronger than I know.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 2:45 AM UTC
Would you let me?
Have a thousand years
to make ponderously slow love to you?
I'd just rather we hurry up and get on with it
Why not let me charm you
and make proper woo
to sweeten your heart to my liking?
I told you before, don't get weird or I'm charging you double
I'd like to search the bittersweet corners
of your mind and rewrite them so you realize how much i dearly love you
Whatever you like but I'm not wearing the image of your dead wife for less than a thousand
Would you let me stick a mike up your *** so I hear the throes of your passion
wh think o
**Understand it's not you, I'll be *thinking of*
You should have used just a little more rouge and a tad less foundation here let me fix it
Oh dear the image fell apart, it seems that you are not the girl I came here to find
Less foundation? Brick or grant?
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
Her hair flutters in the golden light
a lioness
she knows words like chiaroscuro
and chimera
Her eyes, lit by twilight
chase the evening star
from blushing clouds
The sunset, pink and red
inking out our silhouettes,
releases shadows
snaking through the grass
and trees,
eloping with the night
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 3:24 AM UTC
**Your name is a golden
shiny bell hung up in my
heart. It tastes sweeter than
apple pie and red hot cinnamon
flavored gum. It warms me more
than the heat that radiates from the
sun. It’s spelled out in four short
letters that sound fun when pronounced.
Its true i'm telling you, your name is a
golden bell hung and tangled between
the ventricles of my heart. It sounds like
secret prayers whispered in the dark.
Your name is slowly taking over my
thoughts**
*it is a mantra now, reverberating throughout my being
in a place where repetition is sweet fulfillment
and to say it , feel it, taste it on my lips..
To drown in the essence, the flavor...sticky sweet
like hot candy floss on my tongue
like a prayer on my lips
and a song in my heart .....
a prickly, tender stroking of every pore in my flesh
your sweetness becomes my depth and in that...
I am whole, satiated and warm with glowing rapture
I awake each hour to the hunger
and the more I indulge the more it becomes a thirst
and yours is the only nectar to quench this perpetual desire
thirst, hunger, desire, longing ..... You*
**Your name sweeps my feet
off the ground. It sounds like
secret melodies carried by the
winds and entering my ear. It’s
the only word that I want to hear
throughout this entire year. These
four letters shall forever be carved
on the chambers of my heart. These
four letters are what let me fall in love
from the very start. Inking my skin with
these four letters is all what I really want**
*like a tattoo, indelibly inked upon my soul
there is you and your music and the melody
which haunts my dreams and fills my every waking hour
to utter your name is like a prayer
to hear your voice is a symphony of ecstasy
playing upon the strings of my heart
dare I say it out loud
would the entire world fall for you'
as I have done?
I’ll share the joy but never,
even at the cost of my own life,
will I release this feeling from my being
you are the message I have waited
my whole life to hear
sing it to me now, in dulcet tones of passion
create your vision of us in your own fashion
and now I own your name, your song, the dream
but you own me..For I am yours...entirely.
sing ..... And I promise the perfect harmony* ~
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC