"jot" poems
Every atom is lenient towards the human being
streaming up from the deep root they spur
laying down the perfect descending of the stars.
They can take on the stellar in their deep club
that shows up opening the windows up in the sky
and down on to the earth cast their eyes!
The slim fit sharp atom knows all the shortcuts
constantly vibrating not a single star can catch nor will it ever
thin out – it has the extraordinary stroke of luck.
But the eyes are on the humans not over the amber.
Dreaming to be physically absorbed within the human being
to be in the human’s divine proportion ever transcendental
a far cry from the sun and the moon but with it both gel together!
Once they came so close almost touched the dream
they rose to the occasion, squaring the circle,
laser scanning through, as above so below, so humble.
Submitted them without waxing lyrical took the brush off
the colour bowl of the day then blindfolding the moon
in the night reached out to the paragon of the phi mania,
flawlessly made to measure, numerically perfect Fathima!
Presented themselves before her as pure blank
whereon she can jot like her chalkboard
or do as she please like she could show up
taking it as her shadow in silhouette, she exactly did that.
Touched down on the earth, in the veil
and revealed her as above so below.
The ocean moved stirred the water but none saw the sunshine
behind the full moon in bloom that steals the starry night.
Day in day out Fathima did all in a veil she lived and gone.
Keeping the atom on its toe ever honing tracing the footprint
in its own shadow as once a human being without a mark
crept in it lived in pi magic and leaped out!
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 10:53 PM UTC
my blood boils over the edge as every word
that spills from your lips is volcanic ash piercing my skin
and how is one supposed to stay calm
when my life has been spent bottling up
way more than I can hold,
this routine is getting old.
I can't take the constant trembling of my upper lip
and quivering of my limbs
I'm not too sure how long I can hold this in.
I take two steps back and inhale deep
but it's still not enough to help me
rid of these demons that won't let me sleep.
Every ******* waking moment
is spent fighting a war I didn't sign up for.
I was involuntarily shipped out
to surroundings unknown and places unseen
in my mind is only chaos and blatant disorder.
So **** the fact I can't think clear enough
to jot down the words exploding from my mind,
but I have a right to explode...
I have kept my cool for far too long.
My mental stability will be revolutionized,
I have the right to do so.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
A strange pattern for
writing has come
to me lately.
The skeletons of
poems form when I
lie down for a nap.
Sleep always calls,
and bones want to
dance and grow skin.
Lilacs bloom, and I feel
the inner thigh of
eternity, soft and wet.
I can't get any rest.
I have to jot down the
notes or they turn
to ashes and blow away,
or, they are buried deep in
mud and slumber,
impossible to dig up.
I sleep with a notebook and
pen, as I drift off,
I whisper to the tortured
bones,
don't cry and try not to worry.
I'll bring you to life.
Jul 30, 2025
Jul 30, 2025 at 2:00 PM UTC
implosions are for starfish and our mission is clear. we have nowhere to be from
and that's half the battle. we are seldom unbridled in the chastity of our carnal bluff...
and our cages are breathing. we are finally designing our most daring Inertia.
both mum on the details in the devil's flotsam. we jot some of the names of the nameless...
on the outside of Dixie cups. like mint julep promise to a tangerine honest.
again and again, we ache through the breeze of our soothing traumas. we court the verity of a sham.
we blast through the congregation of our adversary, snipping varmints from a stale camp
in the southernmost of our due south,; where they fear the bonfire until a vagrant maps
the flaming tongues to a long kiss.... and we crash upon the shore
of Never Asked.
but regret This.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
shred, dash, drop, pinch, soupçon, jot, iota, whit,
atom, smattering, scintilla, hint, suggestion, tinge,
a modicum of good works,
my endeavor, to serve and deliver,
man's bounty of good words
from my kitbag,
fresh, hot, n' crusty
just like me....
Hello Poetry!
Feb 2014
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
You think that smile will make it all right,
Do you realise you’re enraging my mind?
Think it’s okay because you believe your better, why?
Like that grin makes it okay to stay blind.
Because I’m young you think I’m dumb,
You count your manners on one thumb,
You speak out; you smile like I’m making fun.
I got a rage that will make you wish you were numb.
Anger, my rage erupts enough for me to lash out,
Punch the wall, should have been your face, ow.
You have directly affected my mood now
Brewing and steaming, to release I jot this down.
Now how do I get rid of this frown?
Apr 30, 2010
Apr 30, 2010 at 3:02 AM UTC
like a good poet, I whine and whinny:
the muses are unreliable, get too much paid vacation,
unlimited unpaid, and pretend their cells are out of range,
even when they are in bed with you and you’re near desperate
to cop a feel of inspiration
my problem is a variation on the theme. Everyday I jot down
too many possibilities, a handful of words added to the list of
pound bound childless titles, sad faced orphans, dogs and cats,
squeaking “pick me, pick me,”
our reply a casual
“you on the list” rather than admit they are titled, but bodiless
until cupid smashes a cupcake in my face and the bell rings
there they stand - at a friendless crossroads - direction home,
path unknown, awaiting a poet tour guide to complete them
if this sounds a bit like a bad achy breaky country song,
then you and I, on the same side of where I could be headed
cause at the friendless crossroads, always unsure, left foot first? that first line, first step, could be a false messiah,
or a free-at-last, a free-at-last emancipation
but there are no sidelines in a forest there no sidelines in a poet’s mind; there are the minefields of mindfulness that can explore explode and explain why it is tempting to believe that every gifted one deserves a break today
but you cannot be broken or break off from the community
“Hillel said: Do not separate yourself from the community; and do not trust in yourself until the day of your death. Do not judge your fellow until you are in his place. Do not say something that cannot be understood but will be understood in the end. Say not: When I have time I will study because you may never have the time”
my friend,
substitute writing poetry for study, for study is for us the analysis of everything, that is, everything we say, see and know the need to communicate
so
those who abide in the life of good words will not suffer an abdication (yours)
do not think
there are friendless crossroads,
there are only crossroads that the eye cannot yet see a fellow sojourner coming toward him,
bearing an oversized load of
the inside insight of responsibility
that demands sharing
that is why we call our meetings at
a crossroads,
a cross
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
******* mischief misconstrued by me?
Love,
Held together like glue by me
I built this with my own hands
Now watch me cackle with glee
As I hold you over a fire
Like a beloved pet bird!
Fry now absurd lust,
Burn now: we never held trust
I never liked the feel of your hand
Paper and sand,
Throbbing adrenal glands
Proclaiming my fall -
I loved you, is all
I ******* loved you like a saint
I burnt for you at the stake
If I could give you my organs I would
I'd surrender all but my soul if I could
Love love me darling
Love love me so
Bleed, bleed these seeds
Of desire that grow
Sustain me darling
Tell me I'm your girl
Need need you sweetheart
In this forsaken world
I offered my heart on a stick like a lollipop
Just one more year and we could open up shop
We'd have enough,
You'd make me yours
Then I'll do your washing and
I'll sweep all your floors
My heart beats darling
I wish for you now
Sow these seeds with your wicked plough
I NEED you handsome,
Do you love me now?
Do you love me if I bend down and take being milked down like a cow?
Cow, sow darling, I'd be them all
Every barnyard animal, I'd do a four legged crawl
Do you love me now?
Do you love me now?
If I lay down to the floor and pray without a priest,
Will you give me a thought,
Jot my name down at least?
If I was holy as Mary
Sweet as a bud
Would you love me then
Though I act like your ****
Would you kiss me dear, would you hold me near
This trash, abandoned receptacle,
This can, ******* hopeless: perpetual. . .
I'd do anything for you
Watch me moan, pine and weep
I'd be anything for you
Go without food, love, sleep
Go without a brain to sustain, and I'll sacrifice my time
I'll shut up to all men
I'd scrub holes for every dime
I'd be like your mother
Or hope to aspire
Do you love me now?
Do you love me now?
Do you love me now?
Do you love me now?
Do you love me if I bend down and take to being milked like a cow?
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
Eternal flame burning bright for me,
A beacon of hope across life’s great sea,
A symbol of faith for wandering ways,
A guiding light for darker days.
The symbol of life that burns so quick,
That tall proud candle, with unspent wick,
My life it holds within its flame,
Either good or bad, it burns the same.
As life grows long, the candle grows short,
For a life lived carefree, or one of thought,
The candle cares not one jot,
It lives to burn, that is its lot.
Through time the candle grows so frail,
Just like myself, through time I’ll ail,
And just like I, oxygen gives it life,
To cope with all our daily strife.
Our time on earth, is fleeting, brief,
If time is tree, then I am leaf,
My faith proclaims life’s heaven sent,
But ends when my candles wick is spent.
All I ask from the life I live,
Is people appreciate all I give,
I care not for fame, nor even wealth,
Life is good if there is health.
I have the greatest gift of all,
I have my children, I love them all,
The gift I’ll leave hides in my words,
To me as melodic as the song of birds.
My candle of life continues to burn,
I have so much I've still to learn,
Until the day I give that final choke,
And my candle itself shows only smoke.
When time has passed, please don’t be sad,
Think of me with memories glad,
My candles flame, extinguished, gone,
Deep in your hearts, will still burn on.
© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2012
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
which man has saved us from a dystopian future;
where each one of us must decide between good
and evil without fear of punishment from the camera
lens or laws that have become as onerous upon our
lives as a world without any law at all; which man
would be genius enough to survive his own evil
no matter the height of our intellectual achievements,
it is the emotional strain of one life in one world that
cannot care no matter how much we pray beyond
gravity’s last remaining outposts that lays waste to
souls that beg to be equal among beings made in an
image that has not been defined but merely assumed
when tears are no longer welcome as before and
when anger serves the strong well, then will the
light know to assume it’s place in the darkness which
hides from the absence of the knowing, undefined
by Gods or beasts that live in the depths choking
on sinks of man’s glorious quest for immortality
if one man knows of the legend if not each jot of
the law then would the spirit hover above his heart;
must he decide between living as a depraved knave
or martyred by unrecorded history, unfathomed
by meaning or the depths that have no end except
his will to suffer for what he once knew to be true?
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
You are glancing out of the window
Taking a look at nature's creation
Wisps of your hair gently stroking your face
Feeling a cold wave against you
Walking slowly amidst the misty clouds
The endless curves of the mighty mountain
Spinning your head around
Deep down there lies deathly valleys
Defining life beyond explanation
All you can see is plush green colour
Ranging from warm to tender
While I travel,I try not to grasp at people
By their devotion towards work
An independent river flows curvily to reach its destination
Given much ore of its freedom
Captivating nature in just one go isn't enough
You have to soak in as much as possible
Sure one becomes perplexed at the first sight of the beautiful sunrise
And I bet the day couldn't get that better otherwise
The air had its own charm,its own charisma
While the chants and prayers of monks completed the atmosphere
I smile as I currently jot this poem down
Words fail to express my happiness crown
I say to myself-" This isn't imagination,This is reality"
Confused, are you reader?
My heart beats and quenches for the aroma of green tea leaves
Hmm,I'll miss this heaven on earth,
This place,these people,their lives,their struggles
Their homeland.
Their Birthplace.
So this is my travelogue
And currently you were into my experience
My "Darjeeling Experience"
And not a dream,or a part of paper
Cause its far more than your mere imagination.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
Fine arts is my major in school...I have enjoyed art, photography and of course writing ever since I was young; and I still do... I know this may sound odd but no matter the form of art; even if its just scribbled notes I keep all my rough drafts... My mom she calls me the "paparazzi" of the family...I am always snapping picture... Can you believe I have over 900 and counting; notebooks, sketchpads, and loose-leaf binders full of all my ideas, sketches and odd thoughts that may pop in my head?.. I've been collecting since I was 6 years old.... ART; any type was and still is my passion today... I try to carry a notebook, sketchpad and my camera everywhere I go to jot down or capture the little things that come to my mind.... Sometimes my notes don't even make a bit of since but it is the creativity I put into them that makes it fun.... When ever I feel I've hit a writers or artist BLOCK I go through my notebooks. I'm always seeing something inspiring that may take me to another world of imagination. I think I could probably write a book or two with all the thoughts I've collected..
Yep That's Me ... LadyBird
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before dark-fall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
dear bill,
so sweet of you
to leave behind
a paper jot
for me to find
for ev’ry breakfast
lunch and tea
gone missing since
you married me;
- however -
such wilfulness
I do condemn
each crust and crumb,
each stone and stem,
each potluck plum
purloined at night
to satisfy
your appetite;
this doctor’s wife
has had her fill
of poetry
and bitter pills,
and crumpled drafts
in juicy scrawl
appended to
the icebox door;
your words do not
a meal make
how many more
must I forsake
- meals, that is -
before your page
is fit for press
and I can sup
on more…not less
love, floss
ps dinner’s in the oven, probably
Mar 16, 2022
Mar 16, 2022 at 6:09 PM UTC
My spirit will not haunt the mound
Above my breast,
But travel, memory-possessed,
To where my tremulous being found
Life largest, best.
My phantom-footed shape will go
When nightfall grays
Hither and thither along the ways
I and another used to know
In backward days.
And there you’ll find me, if a jot
You still should care
For me, and for my curious air;
If otherwise, then I shall not,
For you, be there.
4k
This Love Song seemed like a safe place to unpack my ****
But a safe place is where Lyrics go to die.
And this is Not a Song.
and it starts like this. all the time.
II
i fella sleep in a widdle boat and told a seagull that i was having a dream
about talking to seagulls and he was astonished to have the pleasure of meeting a boat
that had the good sense to plug the hole with a poet…. because they never wake up
and they do so with extreme prejudice. that simply screams Resident.
In Fact!
He’d never even seen a boat. So there’s THAT. I offered Seagull “ The Cool -Side of The Pillow. “
So I could sit upright for a moment and jot this down. He was like “ What’s a pillow? “
And I had no idea what it was that brushed against my legs
but It was There. then It was Gone. when i stopped using the metaphor.
I was treading a fathom
of pixie dust and transgender proto-gods, all cuddling in a huddle of metaphysics
as adorable as a radioactive abrupt
stop.
III
Ah yes… someone was cooking bacon… and bacon is sleep’s kryptonite. so the dream was a wrap.
and i had a bird’s nest woven from the silk of my discarded cocoon. codename: Chrysalis.
and my mouth was dry. a stubborn dry that follows a deluge of phantasmagoria
on a Futon that is a God to cat hair. My Futon is Oblique and Omnipotent.
Apparently.
Uber Mecca for Cat Hair. I fell asleep on that.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 7:59 PM UTC
My version of a poem
Starts with a verb
Or some word that is utterly absurd
Some rhymed lines
Interesting adverbs and adjectives
Thoughts and feelings on every line
My feelings don't rhyme
Why should every single line?
In mine
Every line a different season
Different feelings will show
Sometimes they stay
Other times they pack up and go
I never know
So I jot them down as they flow
Jun 22, 2011
Jun 22, 2011 at 2:15 PM UTC
In a different world,
A different mind a different body
Perhaps I'd be inclined to try and find the facts behind her fiction
But for now I'll buy in
Because this is too sweet to be reality and that's not what I need
I need a sign from up high before I'll jot my name on the dotted line
I don't need to know every little detail that lies behind her eyes
So tonight I'll take it slow I'll take it steady
We can share a drink and a long and contemplative passing of eyes, sharing of the deep thoughts inside our minds
If we find what we see to be of the proper tone, the proper texture
Perhaps into the wild blue yonder I'll venture...
I'll tell her what goes on inside the deep recesses of my mind
And in those dark spots she may decide my conclusions are nothing but pure conjecture
If she can find some inner part of her that longs for adventure than maybe I'll tell her
I think she's beautiful and she makes me weak in places I wish I was strong to begin with
But she makes me think that maybe I can flip this, fix this.
Put that part of me back together again
Just enough to pass close inspection
I'm this strange mix of a anti social quiet type of romantic who can't seem to find the courage he deserves
So I'll stick my chin up and tell her "Nothing" and something like, "Everything's fine"
Because a mind is a terrible thing to lose and I can't seem to find mine when I look into her eyes
She's got every color of the rainbow and at least fifty shades more
I'm torn
I know that I'm not the best for her, and she deserves that
I know that in my head but my heart can't seem to conserve that, steady flutter it means to burst out of my chest and fly
and I can't for the life of me figure out why
In a different time
I could just bring you flower and announce that you could be mine
And that would fine
But now days we have to dance around the issue because that's the socially correct thing to do
I can't help but feel cheated
I'm an old soul inside a young mind
I feel this way about eighty-five percent of the time
On a different day
In a different way
perhaps I'd say something that could make you stay
But your future awaits
So I'll surrender the very idea of us to the fates
And hope that one day
Things will be different
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before darkfall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 5:51 PM UTC
Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
or SQUAT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or HOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
or TROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
or COT,
The Akond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
with a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or BLOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or PLOT,
At the Akond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or SHOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people **** in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
GAROTTE,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
a JOT,
The Akond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
or WHAT,
For the Akond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
or a LOT,
For the Akond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
or a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
SHALLOTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ,
or a SCOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
or a GROTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
or a ***
The Akond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,
or ROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
or a KNOT.
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
or NOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake
in a YACHT,
The Akond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
Is the Akond of Swat?
3k
Jot it down:
Offerings are moot;
Never they lit the way like exit
Signs in hallways of God
Note, the invocation
Vanishes
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
You might think you need a tailor
But here's the only one you've got:
A poor choice of cloth
Married to a poorer thread
Spawning knock-offs
Over budget shops.
So you may as well invest,
For it matters not a jot
What you think you choose to wear,
It never really lasts.
A tear here, a cut there;
With cheap cloth,
It does not take much
To turn your life ragged.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC
as i sit in the café alone, reading, and drinking hot tea
i look over and see his brown eyes staring back at me
he notices me and makes his way over to sit down
and in those brown gorgeous eyes, i'll surely drown
we talk for hours until the café has to close its doors
i jot down my number and make sure i've got yours
he takes my hands and says "we have to do this again"
and there are so many sparks between us, its insane
i immediately blush, nodding and saying "okay"
and i know it's pretty obvious im a goner anyways
you give me a sweet and tender kiss on the lips
i hear your voice telling me not to give you the slip
i smile and realize it will always be..
him
the coffee shop
and me.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
Right...
catfish slippery
gourd slippery
and I am to catch this catfish
mountains stand behind
covered by mist
mountains have grown
as have my whiskers
and my clothes tear and wear out with time
and I am to catch
slippery catfish
with slippery gourd -
O god
of streams and mountains!
how do you catch, dear god of bamboo,
a catfish in a gourd?
and the waters flow
of many monsoons and storms
and the river has changed its course
many times
while I stand here with my gourd
and myself twisted and turned and all my virility lost
not a jot closer to my task
even with the god of riverbanks;
but all the while this catfish jumps around in the stream
mocking
clapping its fins like a pair of hands
and beating the water with its tail
and the message it sends is: *“Come on! come on!
Catch me if you can!”*
Right...
catfish in the waters slippery
gourd in my hand slippery
and I am to catch this catfish
O god of mist and rocks
how do you catch a catfish in a gourd?
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 5:26 AM UTC