"mustering" poems
I
To-night, a first movement, a pulse,
As if the rain in bogland gathered head
To slip and flood: a bog-burst,
A **** breaking open the ferny bed.
Your back is a firm line of eastern coast
And arms and legs are thrown
Beyond your gradual hills. I caress
The heaving province where our past has grown.
I am the tall kingdom over your shoulder
That you would neither cajole nor ignore.
Conquest is a lie. I grow older
Conceding your half-independent shore
Within whose borders now my legacy
Culminates inexorably.
II
And I am still imperially
Male, leaving you with pain,
The rending process in the colony,
The battering ram, the boom burst from within.
The act sprouted an obsinate fifth column
Whose stance is growing unilateral.
His heart beneath your heart is a wardrum
Mustering force. His parasitical
And ignorant little fists already
Beat at your borders and I know they're cocked
At me across the water. No treaty
I foresee will salve completely your tracked
And stretchmarked body, the big pain
That leaves you raw, like opened ground, again
4.6k
Across the oceans so far from home
Anxious to see what comes your way
Overwhelmed by a culture you've never known
Mustering up courage to face a new day
Foreign eyes present a mystery
Searching every corner for kindness
Desperate desires to run and flee
But this opportunity you cannot miss
Teamwork and bonding
In bright faces you find comfort
A new place for more loving
It doesn't feel like work
Sweat blood and tears
Open arms so welcoming
No longer any fears
It feels so good to be helping
A new perspective on what it means to be alive
How can a people with so little give so much?
Pura Vida a motto to keep love in the light
Now forever your heart will be touched
Butterfly kisses in the morning rain
Make you want to do it all over again
These Ticos' kind hearts will never bring pain
Merely the fullest life and no need for shame
Many of Earth's citizens don't know how to live well
Peace and love is not a flowing thought
War and hunger gets caught in the swell
Struggling when the meaning of life is forgot
So when the sky is crying
And the world feels strange
Place your enlightened ear to your shell
And rise as a leader to be the change.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 3:23 AM UTC
the thing i regret the most
is l o s i n g you.
i held the most beautiful flower in my hands
and tossed it to the wind.
how cool it was to be your best friend.
thank you for that.
and iv’e tried mustering the courage to say something to you
but every time i see that blank look
on your beautiful face
i want to to stab myself for what
I did.
i did this to us…
didn’t i?
but if we are strangers,
would you let me meet you again.
if i bumped in to you by “accident”
and said sorry in a way that made you talk
to me
how would you respond?
if i was given the chance to rid myself of this anger and resentment,
would you take me back then?
if i wrote books of poetry,
and every one of them were labeled
"SORRY"
would you take me back then?
i can’t take this anymore,
she isn’t for me,
you were…
i see that now.
grant me your forgiveness,
i understand if you
don’t.
but just know that i am sorry
even if sorry isn’t
enough.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
Hesitations grips me
Sometimes with a soft gentle squeeze and sometimes with an iron fist
That split second where you see that girl with whimsical hair and a playful smile and your body is screaming at the top of its lungs “GO AFTER HER YOU FOOL!!!” while your brain mulls over the endless stream of stressful situations
I can hear Robin Williams calling out to me “Let me hear your YAWP!” and I’m shaking, quivering, rattling, generating the vocal ferocity of a lion! And all that comes out is a whimpering “yawp…”
Hesitation grips me
A harmless compliment to brighten someone’s day, no harm done, just a quick simple “I like your pants” a smile and I’m on my way
Simple! Wrong!
That flickering candle of pleasantries is cut short by a swiftly shutting window of opportunity
The breeze not hesitating to extinguish its light
Hesitation grips me
How many moments must I suffer paralyzed lips before my can of complimentary worms is opened?
How many lovely strangers will continue to mill about their days in unblissful ignorance of my enjoyment of their simple, subtle or overt characteristics?
This hesitation grips me!
It shackles me and holds the key in front of my face and all it requires is one real Yawp! The mustering has begun! That key is my freedom of hesitant chains! Just! One! Yawp! I think I can I think I can I think I can! Just! One! Yawp! “yawp…”
Hesitation grips me
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC
In the broken kitchen chair he sits
Weeping the tears of a killer
Face buried into the palms of his grisly hands
He sobs uncontrollably for he knows what these hands have done
He cries as a child might having seen his parents murdered
Gasping and struggling to draw in a full breath
Snot running from his nose, curling over the stubble of his upper lip
With a clenched fist he wipes this away
Rage building in his veins, hatred, and remorse
His face grows red as he shakes uncontrollably with anger
Unsure of what to do with himself he rises quickly to his feet
His chair crashing back to the floor behind him
He paces the kitchen back and forth
Feet padding monotonously over checkered linoleum
Suddenly, abruptly, he stops, his gaze drifting to the counter top
As he catches sight of the skinless corpse he screams
A blood curdling scream that chills to the bone
Unable to bare the sight of his disembodied victim any longer
He barrels out of the kitchen
Crashing through doors, splinters of wood marking his trail
In the bathroom he now stands
Sulking in shame before a ***** mirror, staring down at his bare feet
Slowly, he raises his head, eyes squeezed shut
Fearing to find what he might see when he opens them
He pauses here for several moments, collecting his thoughts
Breathing deeply, hoarsely, sporadically huffing
Mustering all of his courage, he makes this final leap, opening his eyes
In the mirror before him he sees all too clearly himself
Wearing a skin that is not his own
Face, hands, feet, all that are exposed
His own pale skin standing out in bold contradiction
To the beautifully bronzed hollow man that he wears
His pale and bony knuckles crash repeatedly into the face of the mirror
Over and over again the thud and the crunch
Broken skin and shattered glass
Blood now smeared across what little reflective surface remains
At last he can see himself no more
Slumping down into a ball on the floor
He sits alone and rocks
The mere shell of a man remains
With dripping hands he tears away a patch of flesh from his thigh
Groping the floor blindly his hand closes over a shard of glass
He is now far too numb to feel pain, dead inside
Gripping tightly to the broken glass this broken man begins to write
Carving his apology into his thigh
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC
Trust in Faith
It's raining and the sun has returned home
although I am by myself, yet I am not alone
mind engages intellect, with time to consider
how this heart of mine, has grown so bitter
Not long ago, reflections of the past were a delight
then in a brief moment, my happiness took flight
once having a life with meaning, love and security
now with remorse and desire, for a heart with purity
Continuing to pursue life normally, while anxieties drown the mind
no matter what I might do, any sense of happiness seems confined
confused with mixed emotions, and knowing that they are both true
yet despite my conflict, still mustering the will to tell her, I love you
With each and every passing day, I look forward to behold
once again to greet those yesterdays, those yesterdays of old
but those yesterdays are buried, the fear of the future takes hold
all of what now remains, are those few tomorrows left to unfold
Worries must stem from this lack of control, how not to consider
thinking of how few years are left to live, could anyone not be bitter
the unknown of what the rest of your life will bring, an awesome fear
when you advance in years, only then does it become all too clear
Times passes, the body ages, memories flounder, and reality sets in
maybe tomorrow the mail will arrive, addressed to: The Next of Kin
finding yourself in an emotional upheaval, there is but one thing to do
forage deep down inside, and uncover your faith, your only rescue
Faith will give you the strength, it will guide you to trust in the One above
fears of the future and of the unknown, disappear in this world called love
experiencing midlife crisis, something you can and will successfully overcome
but first never stop searching, trusting in G-d, and to depression never succumb
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 7:38 AM UTC
Puddles form
around our feet,
rain falls relentlessly.
Water drums
a staccato rhythm,
keeping a beat
of its own accord.
Streetlights bravely fight
against the deluge,
mustering a translucent glow.
Alone we stand,
laughing at our
predicament.
No umbrella, no coats...
no reprieve.
The torrent washes
over us.
Soaked to the skin,
warmth is shared
by a kiss
in the storm.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 2:22 PM UTC
“The Maiden”
Over her long legs,
Hips sway in a salacious manner,
As she strolls,
Past the gaggle of gentlemen,
Mustering the valor to face,
Their glances varying from curiosity,
To disgust,
Perhaps intrigue as these men,
Behold this exotic form of femininity.
An aura of mystery emanates,
From a tenderly warm demeanor,
Welcoming the viewers,
Who encounter this daughter of Aphrodite,
Capturing attention regardless of,
One’s alleged reasoning.
Intrepid knights receive the blessing,
To witness the hazel windows,
Into a maiden’s soul,
Deeply adorned with unbidden intensity,
Bestowing a small glimpse,
Into a beguiling beauty,
Mistaken as a cozening siren,
To an untrained eye.
Many chaps desire her,
Until revelations bereave these fellows,
Of security interwoven into the fabric,
Of society sewn with fine threads,
Uniting into an existence of conformity.
Some licentious men lunge,
At the maiden,
Gaping at what these fellows,
Observe as a tantalizing goddess,
Desiring to place lascivious hands,
Upon her soft skin.
Misguided stories allow life to be given,
To glaring spectators,
Spewing jeers of rancor,
Bemused as the unknown,
Deftly saunters near,
The valley of Oblivion.
Like the majestic Mona Lisa,
The maiden consists of subtle nuances,
Painting her tributes behind cryptic techniques,
Allowing one to inspect her façade,
Learning her similarities to the wind,
Feeling her spirit,
Rather than glancing upon visual proof.
The souls encountering the maiden,
Gain respite from strangling thoughts,
Placated by her light,
Revealing the contrasts,
The highlights to expose,
An extraordinary beauty,
Manifesting from genuine kindness,
Breaths of generosity,
And irrevocable love of all shades and tints,
Within a painter’s palate.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 9:15 AM UTC
Autumn warmth
and rusted leaves hide
the shrouded chill lurking high
in northern lands,
mustering its icy warriors
to creep down in the night.
Keening winds gather dark clouds
about them cloaking the moon and stars
and with furtive breath ****
the warmth from all about.
Icy blasts ravage the tired trees
as crystal flakes
cascade down from heavy skies;
beautiful, dancing nymphs
misleading my sight
numbing the air,
reaching out to every
crack and cranny.
They gather higher and higher,
blown into dark corners
climbing to my window ledge
as frosty tendrils slink down from the roof,
twining down my window pane
obscuring the outside from my sight …
Then, as morning’s pale light
oozes in through tight closed shutters,
I open my door onto a strange
and barren world:
all that was ordinary and familiar to me,
through verdant spring
and hot high summer,
to autumn’s parade of golden hues,
is lost to the white shroud of
Winter’s Creep.
© 2010/2012
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 5:04 PM UTC
The children are running and stumbling
A humbling experience, but deliverance
Is only gained here by running in fear
Away from those who hate and ****
And warp the will of those too young
To see people hung and murdered.
So they are herded with the living
Into an unforgiving world of pain
None should see, even less see again
But they remain in these clusters
Mustering and lining up for food
A homeless brood of adopted waifs
That should be naifs instead of this,
Nomads, glad of a blanket for bed
On the hard ground, all they found
To call home during flight, for tonight,
Not all are children, but the hurt
From blurted out hateful names
Is not the same for the young ones
Who should be having fun and not
Suffering through this hell they got
From being born in the right city
In a time of no pity and no rescue,
No kindness the world should do,
Instead they cringe from angry faces
As if they were disgraces for living.
Nothing left for giving to them.
These are orphans now, not sons
Not daughters, what was begun
Has ended for them, permanently
While nations stand by silently
Watching the perfidy and sighs,
Ignorant of their cries and destitution.
No restitution can ever come to some.
To most there is only memory of death
And running, out of breath, nowhere
Because nobody is there for them.
It is their problem.
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 8:27 AM UTC
I am the leaves
on the streets you walk on
The unexpected shadows
I'm the scrap of paper
upon which you absentmindedly scribble dark things
I'm the bird in the trees
you always hear but never see
I'm a daisy, or a clover
in a garden of huge sunflowers and roses and oak trees
Or the bottles you keep hidden in your room
I am the sunbeam you feel
but you can't turn around to look at because the room is too small
I'm the hole in the curtain
I'm the notebook
you forgot about long ago
I'm the fish in the murky pond
-you can see the ripples and waves but you can't see me
I am bits and pieces
Here and there, now and then
I'm a mustering hum,
picking up, growing
Gathering momentum
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 11:14 PM UTC
one second everything was perfect
and then the next it feels like we’re drowning
suffocating under the stomach of a whale
and frantically weaving through the teeth of a shark
and feeling the kelp entangle on your arms
and the faults burn you up
and your feet sink towards the mud at the bottom
your tears just dissolve into the ocean
almost as if you never cried
but you can still feel it in the back of your throat
all as you watch the light over you become less and less visible
and your lungs compress
and finally you lie still at the bottom mustering the strength to rise again
you’re drowning to death
but you’ll never exactly die
and that’s the most painful part
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 11:59 PM UTC
If I could repeat this life there would be much to do,
Hearts to mend and deeds to undo,
Time spent mustering courage would transform into acts of expression,
My journal would be blank for my prose would meet your ears and not the page,
I'd share my mind's cavern with you,
And the journey would be ours to conquer,
If I could rewind and reverse time,
I'd relish a life with you.
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 12:06 PM UTC
Not many would better understand than me the meaning of first hand serving experience.
I volunteered and used to teach in a group called 'Swapan' (run by the social service group Nishqam of CITM Faridabad, now known as MRIU) which undertook imparting laborers' kids free education.
I don't believe in donating because I don't earn yet, but I volunteer whenever I am able to go out to their world. I just wait for the right time I get to be in contact with such people.
What I did in Swapan program was more than just teaching; we used to take care of their health by getting them periodic vaccination, by having them attend a regular school near our college, getting their fees deposited, organizing events for mustering funds for the same and many more.
But at the end of my 2nd year I met a serious accident, just prior to my 4th semester B.Tech-Biotech exams which pushed me into a 23 day coma; I was close to death. But I didn't lose my spirit even after I came back to my senses.
As the path of destiny had it, CITM became MRIU which didn't continue with the MDU degree I'm currently enrolled into. So I was made to shift colleges and go to Rohtak for college since then and there was no such opportunity anywhere in close proximity.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
being called the good guy
the nice guy
should be a compliment
when really it's a polite way
of saying you're not good enough
you're not the best looking
you don't walk the fine line
of bad boy and *******
you're swimming in a sea of sharks
always stuck in second place
but the girls like you
they like your sensitivity, your compassion
though a perfect personality can't compete
with a cocky smile
or razorblade lips
after all someone has to be the friend
gay or not you're at a comfortable distance
at the edges of arm's length
locked in a window
waiting forever to come in from the cold
to take off your boots and
dry your skin by the fire
to say "this is where I belong"
your shoulders don't carry the alpha weight
never mustering enough masculinity
but one day you'll be the catch
father of the next year
husband material
not appropriate for a boyfriend
you'll age like fine wine
in some time foreign to now
in the mean time what should you do?
stand on the sidelines
while her heart gets beaten to death
endless brutality when she's had enough
only to say it isn't enough?
it's never enough
but keep yourself good
the world could use fewer ********
eventually someone will see you
for who you are
and that'll be beautiful
one day
no matter what you should always be yourself
it's the best you can do
it's the only honest thing to do
extend your arms with sincerity
some day someone will walk into them
and realize all that you are
which is simply not good enough
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
Sometimes I've had about enough
All these ******* buttercups
Puckering up
At the first scent of gruff
It's disruptive
To my mustering
I mean
Must we
Smother trouble out of ****
Must we malfunction
Into a skit
A script
Skipp-ed
To laugh tracks
Pre-writ
Until the last laughs
Where the curtains close
To fading claps
All the cards
Are all on the floor
Little adorable torturers
Peering through the doors
Afforded by our tor-mentors
Over it
We will get
Even get on with it
Cuz all of this
This is that and that is this
Is ******* ridiculous
Is worthless
It is foulness in its stench
The bowels of our regret
Unkempt and ******
It's ******** soaked in ****
Where the credits never roll
And the patrons only stroll
On outta here for a beer
And a night on the town
And all this
Flapping of the gums
And slathering of spit
Is glossing over my ****
And it's all we will ever get
If we would just submit
Wipe the sand from our *****
And remove the ******* sticks
We might find
We have loosened up a bit
Just don't be such a little *****
And other inflammatory ****
[That's it]
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
I jumped on my bike as fast as I could
but not fast enough, it did me no good
the bully kid was big and mean and acted very tough
laughing all the while he quickly knocked me on my duff
Rubbing grass in my mouth, slapping me in the face
him laughing at me, me feeling so disgraced
he punched me so hard then left me crying on the ground
I slowly stood up, was there anyone else around?
I gathered up my books and slowly climbed on my bike
and pedaled straight home mustering all of my might
"What happened to you, son?" Mom was the first to see
I cried as I replied "I got beat by a bully!"
"I'm so sorry for you son, I'm so sad that you were harmed"
just then my dad walked in and immediately looked alarmed
Dad quickly asked me "Son, did you give him back the same?"
I sheepishly said "no" re-experiencing the shame.
My dad just stared awhile then said "I don't like what you're becoming.
Next time you better fight, give the bully what he's got coming!
First you punch him in the stomach then you hit him in the face
He won't hurt you any more, when you put him in his place!"
I slowly nodded as he left, then Mom quickly gave my cheek a kiss
"I'm so proud of you son for not fighting him with your fist
The Lord's servant doesn't need to fight but should be gentle instead"
"Yes ma'am" I quickly said as conflicting counsel twirled round my head
The next 5 years at school when tensions flared I was a gentle talker
as a bully approached my sophomore year I threw him against his locker!
Thank you Mom and Dad!
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 3:13 PM UTC
From dawn until dusk
To the sweat, dripping musk;
From attacks of musth
To that One Golden month.
Rising solid in the dawn--
As the bronzed Ego of Purpose--
Mustering self-esteem's brawn
Cools my trademark Nervose Verbose
But do appointments, notes,
Lectures, hecklers, and Beckers,
Distract the mind that dotes?
The Heart Desperate for Nectar?
Hah! such defensive thoughts....
Fallacies of Neuroses.
Just polishing my doubts,
Vainly "pleasing" my unease.
Monday's mundanity
Fails my lie of character--
Left with Insanity
Railing lines under pressure
And then, faces--balance blurs
Into downed neurons
Where not nobody cares to
"Think about the children!"
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
I can't breathe.
An invisible hand rests on my shoulders
Bearing down with a weight beyond my ken
And keeps my head under water.
At the bottom of a waterfall's pool I sit
Caught in the embrace of the great cataract.
This bed was made of my own choosing
Flinging myself with abandon off the cliff's edge
To enjoy the moments of breathless exhilaration
The beautiful abandon in the weightless fall.
The entry, difficult, but not impossible:
Reaching hands parting the ice-cold waters
So the body can slice through
Like a hot knife into butter.
The first moments, not unbearable:
Tumbled down to the bottom by the churning waters
But bolstered by two lungs bursting with life-giving air.
As time slowly ticks on, second by agonizing second
Pinned by the embrace of the waterfall and losing oxygen
The need to breathe arises.
Pressure builds within the body, as if to compete
With the weight of the waterfall
Growing greater with each passing moment
Threatening to force the breath
The body so desperately desires
As conscious and subconscious lock in furious battle
Over control of the lungs.
The conscious fights on,
Aware that I am still trapped at the bottom.
One voice alone can cut through the turgid waters
A lifeline to cling to and use
To drag myself up, hand over hand
Fighting against the pressure until my head breaks the surface
And I can draw a few gasping breaths
Before the line is severed
And I am pummeled to the bottom once more.
The waiting game resumes
Each time unsure of survival
And each time mustering the will to hold on
Until that precious lifeline appears
Hoping for the day
The line will knife through the water one final time
Anchored securely, no longer doomed to separation
And I can climb forth
Leaving the waterfall's pool
Far behind.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 3:45 AM UTC
I lived a life throughout this land, and with time, wisdom have I earned
I'll try my best, this is my pledge, to share with you what I have learned
with a growing strength and new found wisdom, surely I've become brighter
out of somewhere then came this burning desire, to be this new type of fighter
Not with muscle or aggression, this is not an obsession, I would ever aspire
but with pen and paper and the truth to shape her, to this could I ever admire
discovering this power close at hand, knowing that it would finally afford
an opportunity for me to persist, because the pen is mightier than the sword
You, my adversary, might steal my money or cause me some shame
but know for sure, the words of my heart you would succeed only to inflame
mustering the will with all my strength, to oppose you when you conspire
but in the end the truth will be known, and the truth alone all will acquire
I have nurtured this dream since I was little, to find a way to bind
to make my words and thoughts come alive, and of a singular kind
so just plant this one thought in your mind, and never ever let it go
only with paper, pen and writing again, can you ever expect to grow
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
I am having hard time accepting truth
No clue how to survive
World without your presence Is not a world
In which I long to be alive
No one cares the way you did
Space in heart nothing can fill
Numb myself with substances
Sorrow impossible to ****
No hope for better tomorrows
Barely make it through today
Room shrinking with each breath
Choke on each word I try to say
Pass the time getting high as I can
An attempt to avoid dwelling on greif
Temporary band-aid to cover wound
Relief always too brief
Move only when necessary
Every step exhausts my feet
When walking I slowly trudge forward
As if legs are stuck in concrete
Around others maintain composure
Can even manage to smile
Inside back of my mind pain throbs
Prowling all the while
And I bottle up tears within
My eyes never stay dry for long
For my effort is ever in vain
Failing to be stable and strong
This is more difficult than I ever imagined
Nightmare manifested in one blink
Depth of my agony cannot be captured
In range of sound or intricacies of ink
Box of memories stored in brain
Mustering courage to close
Replay past moments until my head spins
Speeding in circles train of thought goes
Is there end to the madness I feel?
Chaos warps perception into knots
Drive myself crazy examining events
Can't quite connect the dots
Feb 16, 2023
Feb 16, 2023 at 12:22 AM UTC
Five hundred moons the bud
on slender, lithe, soft-skinned stalk
belies its strength in quiet latency
bundled in its own promise
Nurtured in ancestral love's soil
bending, bowing, under weight of rain
shedding seasons in quiet deferrence
unaware, its own verdure burgeons
Soft new petals on florets of truth
weep in its turbulent spring
gentle drops of elven victuals
mustering, nourishing itself
Twin blossoms of vibrant azure ice
blazing brilliance, fulfillment
I am a humble bee in grateful witness
Yes, your eyes
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
Colargrins
I pull daggers from my sinking heart, liquefy blades, and splash back in spades upon the staggering departure of my starts.
Ill finish even with a diminished will.
Im not always first, but **** it in the last minute in nervous fidgeting of my reality rippling through residual hauntings of the feel of the feeling of your reeling in the excitement.
Dauntingly, flaunting, the alarming charm of tongue, eniticing the romantic knifing of lungs, in spent breaths, confessed of the love of truth.
Rasp out the hiss, as whisps of winds licked from jackals lips.
Whip the words in willful waning of the facts.
Aim to ****
Ill just Relax to the drop of the ax
Im a ridiculous idiot
Meticulously breaking it down to absolutes, in my astute fickleness.
Lustily finding finesses in the regrets of others, smothering prideful chuckling of chummery in distractive strumming of the nothings, shielding the view of this place, changing the hue of my face in the light.
Step away from the light
You dont wanna see what lurks within the night
My lackluster mustering is the recipe for disaster.
Ill just master the disguise, with too much time, miles of smiles, lies, and cold hand shakes that imply my maniacal despise.
Hi!
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 2:58 AM UTC