"motorised" poems
You pace.
Watching our every move,
The graceful arcs of the confident
Contrasting almost poetically with the
Furious frenzied twitches of the
Eternally ******
The synchronised swimming of academics,
Marks of ten to the best of our
Talented dancers, recalling each
Jump, step, clap with personal flourish.
The strings are well hidden.
You spurn our dance, fixated by motorised,
Radio synchronised monotony.
"Stop writing, your time is up."
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 9:43 AM UTC
Run boy
let the wind
rush wish
to catch up
with your
motorised limbs
let the
sun set
falling want to
coo as
quick as
you can
race your
weary
smile
let the sky
and the
nighted blanket
have envy
of your
magnanimous
retreat
remember
the starry
eyes of
that boy
you
whispered
goodbyes
to
on his neck
like kisses
like
gentle breaths
like promises
the whiskered
kitten in
your heart
which purred
as he
held
your hand
so tight
you
could barely
stop the
wilted
smile
and
flooded
heartbeats from
drowning you
whole
he held
your hand
so
tight
you thought
he
wanted
to
run too.
Nail
half crescent
imprints
of fossilised
hands
they hold you
you trace the scars
they hold you
and you
wish they
would keep
on holding on
as you
run.
Run boy
run into the sun
let the
memories
of open fields and
flower chains
and dotted kisses
trace your
heart with
strength
let yourself
run
until the
city walls are
snowflakes
against the
mountain
until your home
is only
a house
in your dreams
until he
until he is
only a shadow
on the
horizon
and you can
keep on
running
with his
words
on the backs
of your feet.
'love you.'
Run boy
so one day
you can
run on back
and
take him
with you.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 5:51 PM UTC
Maybe he was staring at my back,
I didn't wish to know for sure,
I couldn't wait to get in the car and go.
The heat the same.
The streets empty
Like my heart,
Calmer this way.
(Silence)
A festival,
Men and kids in long shirts,
Black and white,
Their smiles defind the excitement
I fail to feel these days.
Children ran in the cafe
And at the gate.
(Rough edges)
On our way,
A scene in the passing only,
So forgive me I can' t say
What happens in the end,
But then again would it matter,
I failed,
And now, so will you.
(Questions.)
A cluster of motorised Rickshaws,
A white sedan with one man
Inside.
A small crowd,
Nothing unusual.
-An observation of a grown mind.
One relatively huge man,
Huge of muscles,
Probably in his late twenties
Or early thirties,
Stood holding the door,
The man in the white car
With his hand on the wheel,
Their faces a scrunched up paper,
A raging frown,
Up too close I would have ran,
From far,
I could almost feel both of their
Heartbeats.
I could read the story of the man in white
Matching his car,
I was worried
How could he possibly describe
His ***** face, blue eyes
To his daughter too grown
To be fooled with a lie
Of fighting dragons.
Or to his son, whose mirror
Would now own a scar.
How do we a grow up,
With all the mess of knowing
A little too much?
His left hand holding his phone,
The muscled man was pulling him out now.
(Was there red?)
( I am sorry).
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 7:48 AM UTC
I am the Road, I am the Road
People travel upon me to places near, places far
Some travel on foot, some on horses, some on donkeys
But horses and donkeys have now been taken over
By motorised vehicles, such as buses and cars
I am man-made, not nature-made
For animals do not need me, nor do birds
But human beings do not possess the directional sense
Given to birds and animals by the creator
Animals and birds can find their way about
They don't need any roads to get from here to there
Man, the intelligent animal gets confused, oh so confused
That's why he needed to make me the road
I am colored, decorated and named much like
An Indian bride before her wedding night
Accessories like signposts are put by my side
Much like the jewellery that brides wear
And I am painted in white and black colours
The way a bride is adorned with henna
And like a newborn, I am given a name
The Great North Road, Southern By-pass
And the like
The Eagle flying overhead looks on with amusement
Mancalls himself the most intelligent of all species
Yet without making and decorating a path
He is unable to go anywhere. He is lost
Yet lower species can find their way about
With or Without A Road
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 6:48 AM UTC
Motorised thunder,
Tearing the forests assunder,
Death lay in their wake,
And the fear, no, 'tis not fake.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
dim ****** neon
motorised shoulders
a phone on hold to no where
gritty dub
then through flashing smoke
a shape shifter
a beaming gurder of a melody line
a voice
it electric and it hectic
zing zaggy zaggy ding
dsh dsh dsh dsh
everybody’s hot steppin'
plugged into electric
dsh dsh dsh wha
steppin'
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 8:40 AM UTC