"motifs" poems
As I go to sleep
Dreams come knocking
My subconscious mind
In a rendezvous with me
Am I asleep?
The REM phase kicks in
What do I want to view?
I do not have a choice
I am just a spectator
For another movie
Do I know the cast or crew?
Is it a blockbuster or horror movie?
The conclusion is inconclusive
I may not be a protagonist
Maybe a figment of my imagination
Or, a vivid description of my days events
It requires psychoanalysis
My subconscious mind is in control
Why can’t I have control?
It’s not within my control
I am asleep and my mind is awake
Freud wrote extensively about it-
In the ‘Interpretation of Dreams’
But still, outside our realm of understanding
The symbols and motifs can give clue
Ancient cultures have recorded on clay tablets
But we may not be ever sure
Or maybe the soul is guided somewhere
Or it could be our inner desires
Maybe it’s an unknown world
Where we go out to venture
Let there be beautiful dreams
And dreams that inspire
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
His fur catches twinkling light
spots motifs hypnotize.
He paces the cage, restless.
The black claw wants
to tear open raw flesh.
Pulsing dense warmth
flows in the heavy air.
To get closer—
just for a while,
to look into gold-red, cold eyes
To touch the mystery,
to ask what it feels
when it rips apart the skull
and slurps the fading beingness…
Is curiosity worth it?
Nature is no accident,
Nothing is left to mere chance.
Stare too long into his eyes,
the barriers come down…
Is that you, or is that I?
An ominous gaze is a gift
that unveils the fated future.
If they open the door
He reacts without control.
His instincts unerringly
detect unspoken warnings.
Run away,
Turn to stone,
Scream or Faint if you want.
The shrinking, narrow space
puts everyone to the test
in a world of large and small cages.
Feb 20, 2025
Feb 20, 2025 at 6:35 AM UTC
A bedspread on which bold, red and blue
esoteric, Tantric, motifs embrace
copulating triangles, the ideogram of cosmos
batik printed in vermilion on it's center
is spread, right there on the play-field of cupid
where the confluence is to happen,
a transmitting point of fecund energies to infinity,
a point on the spring board to transcendence
Beloved, here in the holy fire, receive in ecstasy,
the sacrificial offering I bring from the
incessant Ganga of my lineage,
Shakti and Shiva come in for divine union,
together here on the mark beyond time and space.
right in the center is "THE BINDU" the mystical point
both culmination and beginning of the 'beyond'
passage from here to timelessness of cosmos, we invoke.
Here Shakti is holy fire leaping up for Shiva's offering,
sublimated they fuse, may that be the seed for karmas lumenant.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 6:21 AM UTC
I can't wait 'til
Nightfalls
Tonight
I will
Construct nightmares
So insane
Phantoms couldn't fathom
Fantasies make foul turns
Fascination fails
You'll frail frantically
Your chain of the thoughts
Become a train
Derailed
From Loco motives
Your emotions
Are now
Monstrous motifs
Built moments
Before happiness
You'll stare
In terror eyes
Scared as cats
You scratch
Along the wood floor
Forced
Through dark corridors
The doors
Horror tore off the hinges
You're inches away
From no longer living
As soon
As you've given
Yourself away
I take
And make worse!
Death dances
At arms lengths
I've never seen someone
so anxious
To reach
Too anguished to speak
How shall I satisfy?
This shallow heart
Is empty
But simply filled the rows
Of this cathedral
With people
Who payed
To see the price
You've payed
I guess,
Hell sales
This thriller will terrify
Eye's should stay confined
When I
Comply to my conscience
Can science comfort you
It claims this isn't real
Well
It really helped me
Make you feel
Comfortable enough
To sleep
Deeply
Anesthesia
Will be the
Reason for your sweet retreat
As soon as your
Sound asleep
I'll compile vile thoughts
And send you on a journey
With intent
Of you never returning
A one-way trip
From float, freight or flight
As long as it brings
Fright
By mars at night
Where nightmares
Are the day
And you're fearful of it's sight
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 11:37 PM UTC
Images extracted from
the tapestry of my dreams.
Sewn intricate...
Into a patchwork.
A quilt,
embroidered with lavish sequins and ornate beads.
Bringing forth fantastical motifs...
A dazzling display
upon the backdrop of my dreamscape.
Yet...
This mosaic of dreams
does not warm me so.
It never lasts.
They fall away like autumn leaves
come the dawning sun.
They get washed out and pulled into the tide,
as the waves beat upon the shore of wakefulness.
They fade into fragmented memories
that make no sense...
Incoherent and disjointed.
Eventually, they disappear...
For they do not belong
in a world of worldly things
and ticking clocks.
Their intangible and mismatched nature
render them inconsequential...
Naturally...
They get misplaced.
But I am stubborn.
I will fashion such a blanket.
One that skirts the boundary
of this realm and the other.
I will tailor it so...
So that...
I will sleep tonight,
swaddled tight and cocooned within its
glorious seams.
Tucked within the safety and warmth of
this blanket...
Woven immaculate...
Out of
worldly things and breathtaking dreams.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC
Journeys rendered dateless,
Unending,
Wayward and extending out,
Round the compass points --
Dizzying aspiration to cease this race,
To slow my sprinting soul,
This pace splintering, in exhaustion.
Expiring breath of hope or of home
Evaporated in a distance
Vanishing and
Disconnected.
Drifting
On trackless tides, across
Labyrinthine depths,
Within the vast heart
Of the world
I cannot run from.
Yet, I moved to and between
The center or its peripherals, in
Singular or collectives,
Seeking pattern and
Drawing connectives –-
Brushing by and
Bustling among
People
Entranced In their own
Objectives.
I watched their movements
And their exchanges,
I heard their rituals and
Invocations.
In all these transitions,
They have no inkling
That their seemingly trite
Lives merely manifest
The epic motifs of the heavens!
Our imaginations mirror
The vitality of the gods!
We are as immortal as they!
Our simple, sensual stories
Are also enduring legends
Unfolding,
As our pages turn,
Our flags are unfurling!
Just as our fellow
Olympians of old
Engaged in a marathon of
Endeavor to heights
Unimagined!
From those mystic days
Since Orpheus’ ardent lyre
Sang notes
Of Nature’s divinity, Her
Eternal sweetness.
We need only sense that
It is in Nature’s essence
We are sharing.
With her, we are joined in
An undying marriage,
A unified pairing –
Our human heritage,
Our dignified bearing.
We share in that song,
We share in that sweetness,
We share in that race,
We share in Her immanence.
This journey is our own.
It goes on, unending!
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 1:11 PM UTC
Exists silhouettes
Bits of her motifs
Scattered amongst their fields
Like metaphors and similes
Pleasantly dancing,
The wind as her lead and yet
The wind is her own
Je vous vois!
Je vous vois!
I'm never too far for her to reach
For I will be where she is.
In wildflowers.
Meditate.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC
shes sat by the window
like a flower to the sun
burnt deep
paled lotus, mechanized motifs
cigarette, sweet parallel steams
lips pink, eyes deceased
silica tears, seeded
fiber optic designed !release
enter
automated dreamstate
delve
inside the beast
oscillating
pirouetting
psilocybe
serene
days gone underground
plagiarized by peace
prototyped the touch
she’ll never know
it’s me.
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 7:07 PM UTC
So, now we must go,
Choose a direction and flow-
Do not worry about the destination:
Enjoy the adventure in meditation.
For ebbs and flows will come
And do not forget where you came from;
Small veins in a cloistered rock.
That eventually leave and flock.
The showers clean and fill our souls
And end up, sometimes, in dark holes
I have cried over the thought of reaching the salty abyss-
But let your motifs be safe with this freshwater kiss.
We may meet again on a sunny day...
Or, up in the clouds when the sky is grey
Let the moon guide you to an eternity,
For we watch over and envelope you in fraternity.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 10:45 PM UTC
“every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree and there shall be none to make him afraid.”
Letter from George Washington, 1790, to the Jewish community of Newport, Rhode Island
<•>
multiple motifs present poesy alternatives,
but one supremes
safety in your own chosen orchard,
supping on clear water, wine and figs
children of trees, nurtured by one’s own hands,
children of your children, running the grove,
shouting out in sweet safety
the wasps happy shameless pollinate,
dreaming of more generations,
ruefully smiling, thinking of
Adam and Eve, who ashamed of
their apple’d sexuality,
hid their nakedness of course beneath
the safety of
fig leaves
you do not pray for safety
you do not ask for anything,
nothing to fear says the father,
for you already live in our own
George’s garden of eden
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 1:37 PM UTC
A Reading from the Book of Puppets
**Her
Ventriloquist venom is never ending
engineering every word I should say**
Pity me as her words drip down from my mouth
Look to me... my paralyzing awkwardness admonishes all attempts at paucity
the ***** of vernacular continues
Manifest as a million babble born words
look at her and you’ll know why
***Would you sell your soul
if you spoke staccato and she smiled sadistic?***
And when she’s not there
***I lay prostrate on the railroad tracks
of her impending presence***
restrained
and retrained in the tailisman rope of your arrival
Look there now, a Tongue tied in knots, a mind firing (shots)
I am reduced
she is labyrinthine, in both style, and substance,
a sapiosexual maze, a soothing syrup mixed with
biter bile
why then does
nothing feel better than to see her smile
Why validate her pleasure
with my defeats?
Stuck and ****** into a singular melodious smile, the tune of which I can’t help but dance to
Why? Because at the end of the day
your eyes jut out
candelabras in defiance the night
notifying the world
of all you want but have yet to receive
a shallow existence .... a marked man... a million morbid motifs
made of mucus and stuttered star beams
You are that rare being, a glimpse at myself both wretched and alluring
A soul already tainted::: still I seek to embrue, the boredom
I am voiceless
in this decaffinated life
a tendril of hair
a woman domestic
a shadowland chaser
a light that’s poetic
The addictive tape worm of my soul
cdh
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 1:15 AM UTC
Seeing such said-to-be veracity
made spurious by truer voracity
left me in a downward maudlin spiral
caught in the gravity of pejorative thoughts.
(They were right about you)
Shown to be mendacious and meretricious
with such audacious and ignominious cupidity
that is, apparently, insatiable
by external stimulation.
These words are for thee.
(They were right about you)
A
Mistress of Verisimilitude
Sorceress of Perdition
Goddess of Rapacity
Nugatory Luddite
Fatuous Epigone
Specious and unctuous Girl
of gratuitous turpitude
These puerile and rather flavorful words
fueled by seemingly insuperable motifs
arranged in a terse, inimical verse
for a rather insipid person
who will likely never even know of them,
and yet;
such sweet felicity.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
watching the clouds from my plane seat
listening to Lana Del Rey speak
compounding words and motifs
wondering how this all came to be
me in the sky, diamonds in my eyes
and worry draped over me
trap me in the mind, time after time
the power of potent poetry
Mar 31, 2023
Mar 31, 2023 at 7:00 AM UTC
The audience, silent, took a breath in unison
Included in the orchestra was every instrument imaginable
Banhus and Gadulkas played folk and polkas
The brutish brass, bodyguards and protectors of stringed melodies
Included in the orchestra was every instrument imaginable
A concert harp, plucked by fingers long, smooth and sharp
The brutish brass, bodyguards and protectors of the woodwind class
Saxophones provided a melancholy lilt, the timp was traditionally built
A concert harp, stroked by running fingers, smooth and sharp
Every sharp and flat note was passed through the throaty reeds of oboes
Saxophones reminiscent of ‘jive’, the timp in its size had nowhere to hide
This exhibition of musical traditions played late into evening with no intermissions
Every sharp and flat note accounted for, motifs carried whispers of folklore
Banhus and Gadulkas, swapped stories with bassoons and bagpipes
The exhibition had finished, piano keys rested, every note has its operatic death
The audience, silent, took a breath in unison
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 8:56 PM UTC
gently bid the night goodbye
it nourishes no more
the unblinking stare of the stars
no match for my candlelight
wakefulness is more coveted
as everyone else dozes
pieces of calm snatched away
from a world that eschews it
in silky silver voice i sing
lullabies to the waves
the sand gets between my toes
soft and grainy roses
the wakefulness that comes now
has white metallic motifs
shimmering away
mother of pearl
lights the road
across the ocean
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
21.11.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 4:24 AM UTC
I dreamt of Freud yesterday
With his imposing air of superiority
Suffocating my need
To have a little autonomy
Libido and Thanatos
Runs past my mind in fast succession
Oedipus and Electra
Pauses the screen in motion
I dreamt of Jung today
Diving into the collective unconscious
Floating on the symbols
That is universally serendipitous
Archetypes and motifs
Flatter the culture of humanity
Anima and the persona
Sheds self unto the lights in harmony
I’ll dream of the future tomorrow
When everything’s all said and gone
The old will always be with the new
As written of past in stone
Though conflicts harbour trouble
And dreams reproduce it’s latency
Anxiousness is part of life’s bundle
So conquer it we must, positively
Nov 15, 2010
Nov 15, 2010 at 5:39 PM UTC
At the velocity in which I'm moving it's hard to capture an image of me.
I have purple dreams, yours are green.
I don't pit stop, I don't need a break when money is the key to breaking free.
But don't ever question my motifs, your only seeing one side of me.
So it's hard to find the right person who can sit in my passenger seat, so I drive pass her, because I am in need of someone who can catch up to my speed, indeed, one who understands loyalty, my artistic need and open-minded philosophy.
I am grounded currently but I'm trying to travel globally.
Unfortunately, we all have to go through the pursuit of happiness, meaning there isn't any security that you will reach your destiny.
Will I receive someone who can be my gasoline ?
Who do you have to lean on, when the bills stack up constantly ?
I'm breaking my back so I don't have to go back to the start of the track. Yes it is a race to the finish.
There's no way you can win it, when your team can't envision the same vision of being crowned first position.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
your screaming cigarette smoke rises and i,
in anticipation,
know not
what
to make of you and your-
my!
my misinterpretations of you.
your exhale clouds my kingdom and i
am walking with intention,
trying
not
to mention
that my bloodstream is swimming with-
(drowning in)-
the friction
between us.
soft-spoken?
a shady spectacle,
that cigarette is,
exploited by your splendor…
bear with me! I’m
baring my soul, your
spirit-
[make me drunk on your truth!] i
know it-
(tho’ hidden by soft petals,
pollution—{your
body}) – exists, it
is brimming, is
dancing
at the edge of
your smoke, (your
exhale clouds) my
vision,
…, my apocalyptic intimacy:
pure, untainted thought
shared in mind- (no words required)-
a b s o l u t e l y g r o u n d e d !
your
inhale, (i
watch you dying!), you’re
still alive, my
(cough) inhale, I’m
dying!- you’re
watching and I’m
still alive,
on the brink of chaos, i
watch,
on the brink of perfection, i
write
you
with
fragility,
but speak
in harsh ironies- you
do affect me, i
regard(less of) your
opinions,
the ones clouded by the ocean
of your self-imposed
poison, (this
catastrophe of your
tidal tombstone).
condescending? i
told you, no, i- i
just speak in
mundane repetition
of scarlet lies,
mundane motifs
in this life.
It’s just that…
(no. never mind.)
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC
On the riveting tiger skin,
intricate tantric motifs
nature has deftly sewn,
indicative of the mystery
of communion predicted
by the stars, the fish in
intergalactic oceans
that dream beyond time,
her lush, **** body spreads
in anticipation of the union
foretold,in palm leaf scrolls of yore
the ancients wrote, as revealed to them,
defying all human logic.
Shiva, merges with Shakthi
Lingam, the ******* plough of creation
seeks Yoni, the fertile awakened
feminine soil that awaits sowing.
The churning of the milky sea begins
in excited, repitative, motions
till nectar secretes, bringing sublimation.
Then begins transformation,
she becomes the devine lust
of the universe, the receiver of pollen,
to create, proliferate, sustain and spread,
the circle of mystery widens every moment.
The tiger skin on which she lies
before him assumes its grand version now,
it's the sky, without a beginning or end,
she now is the drawing of the universe
reduced to the symbolism of female body,
a pure white piece of cloud, taken by wild wind
above hills, dales, that in course of circumnavigation
gets pregnant, then, rains in torrents over the earth.
the union, an energy in waves, spreads
creating fertile imagination, in all beings
earth in green pulsates, with the universe,
the rhapsody resulted is in all colors.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC
You're in love with a rotting Ginsberg
The desert's tanks are overturned
and your motifs are stale
Fooled into the belief that anyone cares
That clumsy wordplay is acceptable
or that your name carries weight
It's the same piece, week after week
With drugs in your system
and stoic aromanticism
How do you expect to write a novel
When ideas melt in tablespoons
or are blown in dusty clubs
You sit and watch rain fall in archaic gravel pits
By a window, long overdue for cleaning
and Jandek plays mournfully
Watch as that jaundice coloured sky opens
When the winds overturn dustbins
and form trash streams, ironic
Another languid day you waste on cannabis and ennui
Whilst the world burns; it's people raving
and the war is raging
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
I remember going to Taj Mahal lying on the banks of Yamuna river.
After having a glimpse, I said “It is the best monument ever!!”
It revealed the exquisite Persian architecture and mystery,
Built by Shah Jahan, The Mughal Emperor of history.
I was amused by the beautiful garden leading to the lanes
Of huge multifarious fountains.
And the intricate carvings of the magnificent Quran
Represented the emperor’s glorious clan.
The monument of love made of white marble
Showed the greatest love story possible.
It was where Shah Jahan and Mumtaz lay
Showing their love for each other every day.
I took a last glance on the epic dome
Because now it was the time to go home.
I, very sadly farewell bid
And stared at the monument until from sight it completely hid.
The Taj Mahal’s motifs, calligraphy, love story makes it a wonder true
Under the skies blue with an orangish hue.
When I see Taj Mahal through my eyes
The beauty of the whole world in it lies.
Sep 13, 2020
Sep 13, 2020 at 9:56 AM UTC
He has given a luxurious twist to the dying art of weaving and popularised the use of Khadi. Award-winning textile designer Gaurang Shah is more than happy that the Indian fashion industry has welcomed handlooms. “As a textile designer, I would like to say the Indian fashion industry has embraced handlooms with lot of admiration and helped revive our ancient traditions of weaving art, like the jamdani weaves, that we use in creating our fashion pieces,” Shah told IANS.
“It also reinforced its unparalleled beauty around the world,” he added. The designer says that one must acknowledge the passion and intense amount of production hours every weaver at the looms puts to bring out timeless pieces of handlooms.
“The fashion industry did contribute to bring them back into vogue in recent years,” he said. Shah showcased his latest collection of 40 garments titled Muslin at Lakme’s Fashion Week Summer/Resort 2017. His anthology for the gala was inspired by romance of nature.
Giving details about his range, he said: “Our collection incorporates weaves and techniques from West Bengal, Andhra Pradesh, Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh and Rajasthan. The amazing all-in-whites collections integrate gorgeous Mughal motifs and geometric patterns on Khadi, chikankari embroidery and Parsi gara.”
The designer’s collection involved 50 weavers working relentlessly for over six months. Shah, whose handloom creation made its way to the 69th Cannes Film Festival when Deepshikha Deshmukh, producer of Aishwarya Rai Bachchan starrer “Sarbjit”, stepped out in an ensemble featuring Paithani and Kanjeevaram details, says that handlooms are a glorious heritage of India and it is important to preserve and help the artists’ community grow.
“I would like to add that a few years ago this beautiful art was fading away. Thanks to persistent effort and motivation from label like ours, followed by the efforts of our Prime Minister Narendra Modi, that pushed Indian handlooms to higher level of acceptance,” he said.
Shah began his journey in the textile world with just two weavers and today the label works with 700 weavers, and the number is still growing.
“The biggest contribution we as a designer can make is to keep our artisans motivated and also help them gain confidence that it is a highly profitable profession,” said the designer, who has styled the stars like Vidya Balan, Sonam Kapoor and Kirron Kher.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 10:00 PM UTC
******* caught in a razor blade crevice of a smart phone left broken on the floor of a public bathroom in a run-down bar in Nottingham (with battery and SIM removed) and like a run-on sentence the scene grows monotonous.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
Toute personne qui me connaît sait une chose: je coeur tout britannique.Ainsi.une campagne magnifique mariage anglais de drop-dead à la Maison Boconnoc Et Estate?Fait pour moi .Surtout un aussi beau que ce jour élégant .avec ses fleurs colorées .tenue élégante ( bonjour superbe robe Jenny Packham ) et la galerie à couper le souffle des images capturées par Sarah Falugo .Voir tous ici .\u003cp\u003eColorsSeasonsSummerSettingsGardenHistoric HomeStylesCasual Elegance
De Sarah Falugo .Boconnoc Maison et Immobilier est un lieu de mariage robe ceremonie fille typiquement anglais .La maison remonte à l'an 1250 et les motifs .complète avec parc aux cerfs et sa propre église est un joyau caché dans la campagne des Cornouailles .Emma et Terence étaient
http://www.modedomicile.com/robe-demoiselle-dhonneur-c-60
mariés à l'église sur le terrain et ensuite sur le site avec vos amis et votre famille à avoir une partie de jardin et gifler repas dans la hauteur de l'été anglais .
Emma portait une robe élégante de mariage Jenny Packham .Les décorations étaient un mélange de bouteilles en verre de couleur et de belles roses anglaises .
Photographie : Sarah Falugo | Robe de mariée : Jenny Packham | Lieu: Boconnoc maison et le domaineSarah Falugo robes demoiselles d honneur photographie est un membre robe ceremonie fille de notre Little Black Book .Découvrez comment les membres sont choisis en visitant notre page de FAQ .Sarah Falugo Photographie voir le
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC