"pictorial" poems
With a body wrapped in a crimson dress, she bears a violent temper.
Shining daylight, raging bewitching, captivating cunning.
You arrive with starry eyes and cheeks flushed like a ******
In her curly hair, autumn curtains hang—roaming rays hot.
She glows in the night like a pictorial wall with hieroglyphics concealing madness.
You step elegantly, but you're a dangerously stealthy predator.
Grassy hills in floating flames burn beneath a voluminous haze.
Her look describes fabulous waterfalls, endlessly flowing and shining in the coming dawn. You associate with robbers and kings, but they do not understand, and no one will save you.
Lovely eyes sprinkle enchanting rays, her lips intertwined like a rose petal.
Her heart enticingly calls with her fruit to be drunk.
You hide in the nightlife, dress up, and do your love magic.
Neck fashioned in autumnal garments, wearing scarlet ruby earrings.
Her pink skin smells of perfume, inviting like a grape on a vine.
You invite visitors with your charm to carelessness, forever forced.
Her lips are flowing bewitching rivers—intersecting strokes of crimson. They bring a dream to taste her deep soils and her artfully carved forms.
You are determined to captivate without marrying— you stay lost in rebellion.
Sep 25, 2023
Sep 25, 2023 at 6:19 AM UTC
I log into the network of my self-esteem,
To see the hearts and the wows and the laughs flooding in.
A simple 'like' wouldn’t cut it anymore
‘Likes’ were so 2010, even 2010 was bored.
‘Cause that’s the zeitgeist of the age, you see,
A tendency to wear hearts on sleeves.
Loves and kisses are a dime a dozen,
With a million friends and followers double.
National debates and social justice petitions,
Real crises, distorted renditions.
High definition photos of disaster zones
Flash up against cat videos on every smart phone.
Snapchat filters do not lie,
Just tell a story of hours gone by;
Selecting the perfect background, the ideal shade
To express love on the dozen’th date.
But that’s the zeitgeist of the century,
A tendency to wear hearts on sleeves.
To document in minute detail, with extensive pictorial evidence
Clockwork days of humdrum nonchalance.
And perhaps the generation that came before
Would call it vanity, vainglory, or something more.
But it ain’t like they were without their sins,
We didn’t invent tabloid columnists.
And now that we are at the end,
Let me sign off with this request:
Like, comment, and share your love
Let your heart fall out of your shirt cuff.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 1:53 AM UTC
Preface
**When the broad mind has opened, to gaze the stars that shinning in the unfathomable skies and the glittering Nature, its flowers’ fragrances given to taste the wealthy realms of her, as well as Earth's mysteries—that I ever think of to feel and by my thoughts that spread so deep to try to work with things that sounds of ‛creative’. Here I the ‛moody soul’ started his first journey, leaving his home a few years ago and his up-start was through Literature, Science and Arts and Fiction. Writings and paintings here I believed to be most powerful and that those more often need to convey by the Artist’s conscience and the intensity that gains moral knowledge and appreciation. Here the book has the pictorial paths of Quest and the wanderings, all by imagination’s boat, sails from the western Ideas and its enthusiastic flow. Some finds hope along and also hopelessness, God and Love vagabonding among these ink-stained pages.
Dreamt in the wandering world where no chains shall bind, from the dark veiled lands to the daring spark, no atoms that obscure the force calling light, to aim the glad precious moments of life, to embrace me with a silence and its whispering magic, where gate of hope’s always open to bliss, thundering words are always from roam, the nocturnal pleasure that I only know, and when all will run away as time—why I alone in the upward steps of solitude that caressing wild only wings?
If I met Life as a strange stage of different senses—and I only say you to enjoy the aggressive fruits of my invention. Here it is for all of you can read and evaluate.**
Nithin Purple
Acknowledgement
**This book is dedicated to my parents of Love and support,
from where I got the powers to be inspired—to write and prove.
Special Thanks to Parisian Author and poet Roman Payne of
‛cultural book’ for supporting me as a writer of varying tastes. Also Writer, Wilson B Sanchez of New York, who first gave suggestions
and his valuable sparkling comments of self-improvable topics, which I always bother. Belated friend, poet and writer, Curtis Plaskon from France for his valuable support. Also Poet Timothy & Hilda from Virginia, to them I had good writing memories. And for all the Indians, this book is an open heart to read.**
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
Nationality shipping ******
Strategy damage fragments
***** puke ***** fraction
Biological ***** disobedience
Fannie pictorial laundries
****** manhood caliphate
Woodworks Biebers frites
****** vandal’s fakes
Utmost openly grim
******* ************
Piled dish cell
Discuss **** ******
Jihad imbeciles reincarnation
Fear fears America
Watching emptiness falling
Dinner screaming nonsense
Deadly velvet laughs
Banality quack leprosy
Games flood biting
Tv nation ******
Swallowed road poets
Animal replied stories
Creature’s terminal idea
Explodes gloom stare
Selling young crack
Game scratch *******
Confuse spill scream
Genitals China responsibility
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
I took my ****** sister Marigold to the cinema,
she had asked specifically and eventually
(she doesn't speak a lot on account of her awful stammer
and amazing cleft palate which has won prizes)
so I knew that this was something she really wanted,
and I teased for her bad taste
when she told me that she wanted to see
"Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Charlie
and the Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Chocolate Factory".
It was a Saturday evening and the local picture house
was showing a re-run of the classic starring Gene Wilder
as the enigmatically stylish ***** Wonka,
and not that steaming great pictorial **** served up by Tim Burton
and I knew that town would be busy with oiks
so as a treat I dressed her up better than usual,
and even gave her a hosedown to get rid of the poopy pong.
She had stopped crying by the time the feature started
and I think the Ooompa Loompa costume grew on her
but that maybe the orange paint was a bit of a bad idea
as people had stared as it was Day-Glo and she stood out
like a bulldog's ******* but I stand by my decision
to dye her hair green, it had taken thought and planning;
it was meant to add to her excitement of the day,
so I meant well, even if I was ineffectual in the end.
I sat her on my lap in the picture house
but still paid for two seats but I do get one ticket half price
though because of her disabilities, so it wasn't all bad,
every cloud and all that, you know what I mean?
She tends to get a little down every now and then
but a £1 cinema ticket partly makes up for being born legless.
I knew from past experience that the cinema staff
prefer me to carry my stunted sis rather than wheeling her in
(I do recall that the time I taped her to her skateboard
proved somewhat a disaster - but really, the fat usher
had a torch and should have watched her step
or otherwise she wouldn't have bust her neck).
The Ooompa Loompa costume allowed Marigold
to amuse herself during the screening
(as there were no leggings to the costume).
She barely noticed when the fat little hero
got blown up on screen except to dribble "chocolate"
from her own little chocolate factory.
It was, all in all, quite an eventful outing
and one I might consider repeating but
probably in a different cinema next time,
mainly because we got banned for life
when the manager saw the condition of the seat.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
~
Ivory-teal ruffled his parochial feathers
His tongue dipped in languages
He wanted to learn the pronunciation of life
As he folded himself in Egyptian ink
He opened his mind against the dioramic surface of syllables
Painted in alloy; dripping from a papery canvas
He brushed his ivory creme feathers
in crimson and lavender hieroglyphics
Bleeding their pictorial valor inside a golden sepia lantern
"Go on, light the world with your suspense and mystery"
Ivory-teal twittered to himself
Wrapping the bijoux night around his little body
he disappeared into the stars
The teal birthmark on his forehead; glowing
He took the lantern in his gold beak
fluttering away into spirals of smoke
Toward Mythology mountain
Where a storm of butterflies
were winging their seasonal weather
Ivory-teal sometimes wished he could be a candle flame
Flickering in the darkest of moments
Letting the sunshine bleed through his beautiful feathers and soft skin
But his destiny was a bit different
He was folded in cultural prophetic proverbs and
sewed neatly in parabolic traditions
Where nationality is mixed into colorful pixels inside skin
Accents are curved in throats and lilted on the edge of tongues
Ivory-teal was carved in diamond flex dreams
In a temple of mythical patterns
Imprinted in mercury cocoons laminated with knowledge
The Angel Apostles printed him in their book of Dreamtales
Where he became a bilingual silhouette
He was birthed right here on this mountain
As he balanced himself on thoughts
He had learned to love himself to this point of his life
He wanted to be the change he wanted in the world
He gently lifted the little lantern
It rose up toward the sun and exploded into rainbow fireworks
The contexts that were inside split sideways
Tilting and pressing themselves into the air particles
If birds could smile then that would've been Ivory-teal
As he laughed quietly
"Now breathe in earthlings, breath in the wonders and knowledge of life"
He then spread his gorgeous ivory creme wings
tattooed with all the languages of the world and life itself
He twirled into the sunset and bled himself in a cloud
A mountaineer had been watching and wondered to himself
As he unknowingly breathed in the context from Ivory-teal's lantern
"If flying is a language I would love to learn and speak it with my wings"
But shouldn't he know that language already
For it is the language of freedom
Ivory-teal is one of many symbolic accents
Of that beautiful language
~
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
572
Delight—becomes pictorial—
When viewed through Pain—
More fair—because impossible
Than any gain—
The Mountain—at a given distance—
In Amber—lies—
Approached—the Amber flits—a little—
And That’s—the Skies—
2k
gaming words
stupefied by their
pictorial inaction.
frozen as breakthrough
veriables for
existing.
driving poets to
execution dates too
close to death to be
carried out.
one touch on the back
and front of whimsy.
could very well ****
white noise.
a rare kind of intimacy.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 1:57 AM UTC
my mind
is a colourful
canvas
and
your beautiful
behaviour
is a pleasing
painting
Sep 20, 2021
Sep 20, 2021 at 7:48 AM UTC
paintbrush flows, patterns unfold
occupied hours, the doors closed
hidden in plain sight
both a comfort and a weekness until
little black tablets make a colored world
turn down transparency so you can be seen
on the screen colors
are arranged so
rainbow connections
bring you closer to who you truly are
so embrace your new found colors
in this colorless existence
make a new layer
draw another line
pixel by pixel it all comes into place
blurring into existence
pixie wings and pictorial symphonies
swing open closets
I'm coming out
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 1:26 AM UTC
Warning: This is not a nursery rhyme for the fainthearted.
The promise lit by life,
Was actually lit by your lies.
Owwwww!
My forehead is mine I am made to realize,
Realization comes painfully when I bang the wall.
Sssssssssss!
****** I am hurting myself but that's all,
Never stupidly brave enough to actually finish it.
FREE ME!
I request that entity to let me live my life,
Cursed wasn't how I wanted to survive.
Ouch!!
The misgivings are just that bit too much,
As though a beehive fell on my head as much.
BANG-BANG-BANG!!!
I bang my head to the tune which I play,
And I am unable to bang it on a wall.
Peace is what I get finally
Cursed is how I live my life every day,
Talking to walls like concentrated prisoners.
I dare you to swap it with me!
Yes! Swap your life with me right now,
If you can't walk with me for the mile.
Whispers
The mile I dreamt with you,
The smile you promised,
The mile of my life.
Forget about it
I'm just joking about the swap,
I'm no Devil,
You can't live how I live because,
It's my life,
And I'm happy with as much I got,
I've to breath alone,
There must be some serious curse on me,
I accept that curse.
Loving people and then losing them is a ritual,
I must live alone like a hermit.
But you can live on talking only with the darker,
Idol-worshiping him only.
Enjoy with his pictorial representations & idols,
Only one darker idol can you find.
This is why I averse myself from idol-worshiping,
Because it destroys relations.
I lost not only my telephonic-best friend,
But also my real life best friends started avoiding me.
Not an idol-worshiper is a blasphemous term,
In her religion, in Hinduism.
It destroys relations if you start loving your idols,
And if you even start living like your idols.
You never did quite understand what Ishwar/Bhagwan/Rabb/God actually meant.
All the best with your Kanhaiya,
I wish you all the happiness,
And hope that He gives you what I couldn't,
Let your imagination work wonders for you.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 2:08 AM UTC
steeply angled eyes
supported by hollow cheeks
stare from a semi-circular mirror
with a dark consequence of outrage
like a constricted sunrise
that appears to float
a pictorial cryptogram
defying a resisted
notation of gravity
they are eyes that
momentarily fascinate
then frighten
for you can see yourself
falling through a deep hole
in their vision
causing a complete
dissociation of identity
steeply angled eyes
are watching, watching,
watching.....................
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
All strangeness consumes me
it clings to me way beyond all compass
am I somewhat unbalanced
i suspect I know the truth about
empty chairs facing a white sun
waves of my mind unroll the
white hemmed lace of their thoughts
upon the arid shores of my being
and cause the aquatic butterflies
of anecdotal memory to appear
of white sunlit streets
of meditations on pictorial images
of ideas that spark a rain-storm
of blinding brilliance
am i somewhat unbalanced
i see imaginations, colored imaginations
that turn and twist into
impossible extravaganzas of geometry
am i somewhat unbalanced
i take my shirt of it is bleeding
am i somewhat unbalanced
i hear delirious laughter
it comes from an open window
though my shirt still bleeds
am i somewhat unbalanced
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
Why do I love you?
How do I know?
A simple "I know why because I just I feel it," would not suffice,
Because the answer you seek must be Poetic Justice.
But yet I'm feeling like Young and The Restless,
Pondering on these questions,
During my private session of meditation.
We're not always on the same page, but overlap each other to give new meanings like Metaphors.
Despite the differences, we come together as our common interest connects our likes like Similes.
As we let our curiosity play on as we find new meaning to this love, no Pun intended.
"The Sneetches" is the perfect allegory about the tolerance of people's differences.
I just thought I should mention this for a pictorial image of how I feel,
Your words paint vivid pictures, I can hear your imagery.
Our love is the strongest form, there is no hyperbole.
You're the Personification of how it feels to smile.
Your Rhetoric persuades me to go that extra mile.
My perseverance perfectly prepares me to pursue every inch of your portrait.
It's that sweet taste of alliteration that describes you in every way.
My love for you is like the wind, it will take you wherever you want to go,
And I'll be there waiting with open arms.
There's no perfect analogy to describe how I feel about you ,
But since life is too deep for words, I won't try to try describe it, I'll just live it with you.
Figuratively speaking, if my heart was a glass of ***** water, I'll pour it out for you,
There's no perfect sign,
at this perfect time,
to use the perfect rhyme,
to express my emotions to you.
Instead I'll show you the hopeless romantic that I am....
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC
depicted on her arm
hieroglyphs and pictorial charm
tattoo sleeve deep dive
into an ocean of everything
she finds so hard to relate
left hanging in the air
but don't question it
like the elephant in the room
move right on stranger
it's not speaking to you
there is a cult of believers
a religion based on trust
if you need to ask the reason
non-believer you are lost
in a garden that's a secret
that's already cast you out
you'll never know her freedom
it's a dish you just can't taste
Dec 27, 2021
Dec 27, 2021 at 7:07 PM UTC
Microspasmic and ethereal heavenly chords flow inside the avenues and walk ways walled in by different expanses of grey, a monochrome city.
If you have time to stand on the escalator I envy you; dread your existence and pity you on a Friday morning when everything is more quiet.
Hot sweat growing on my back, my fear and financial disparity exploding on my skin. Fresh roasted coffee beans and legs that prove endless and soft descending from a pink comforter.
I walk through the streets in the uncomfortable light of a September morning when the world struggles and it's health declines, but the light of winter is more pure - a planet bathed in cathartic light.
I never forgot how you looked on those mornings when it was colder - your face a faded navy in a morning still wrapped in night. The fire escape and scaffolding like bones that hold up our bodies and the life that applies pressure to the structure.
Akin to the city you are beautiful in the morning, alive in the day, joyous and free in twilight; restless in sleep. I've found a deep rhapsody in the smile that accompanies your perfume; stepping over a single crushed flower and someone's children sleeping on the street.
A sugary leak in and a vengeful glance his way, thirty-eight hour torment. Sitting upright in the bath with your phone resting on the edge waiting for a response, conversation boiled down to a pictorial exchange of genitals: horror that your **** isn't big enough, trepidation that your ****** isn't neat enough.
Tuesday saw you take that leap into forever, you come back up once you've drowned. Skin to match your nails. A train derails inside you; a man is stabbed to death. I'm awake and it's real and my bones are filled with molten fire which spits out of compound fractures to my ego.
A cup of water.
Nitroglycerin collar.
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
Charging language with meaning
To the utmost possible degree
Chewing on the raw image
With eyes sharpened
Ripping into the pictorial flesh
.
A time suffocated
By terminal space
Remix of coded subjectivity
Black holes of pseudo-subjectivity
Surrounded by possessions
.
This biological catastrophe
A post-human construct
Fear of weaker morals
Elixirs into the cup of life
Ideas of what it means to be human
.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 7:14 AM UTC
Time serves cold
making seasons complete,
silver steals the autumn gold,
and daylight hours retreat.
Window panes are icy etched
transparent around the center,
from the eaves icicles stretched
like frozen tears of winter.
The brook in its silence, lost,
beneath a mantle steep
lies still in solid frost
in a crystal covered sleep.
From each of the chemnies cascades
a steady stream of smoke,
rises up and then fades
into midnights mighty cloak.
Silence is this seasons song
lulled by the essence of the wind
as it lay the blanket on the ground,
and tucks all of nature in.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
Indearment relates to the conscious
mind in strange and inferring terms.
Too often and seldom
hath thou image
been engraved amidst the
fluttering pictorial slideshow lining my psyche.
When I want you, I need you
; desire sprouts from my arteries and spreads like wildfire.
But in rare moments of absolute tranquility (for example the the little death one experiences after ****** do I realize the futility of that very emotion I held to be sacred only seconds prior. "Love" is merely an emotional adaptation to a physical necessity
Self-indulgence is the name of the game.
Wanna play ?
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
"Painting is silent poetry"-[Simonides]
-
On a gold parapet
Hung the hypnoidal painting
of a panegyric artist; goddess
Each thread of her colors
Spun carefully
with dainty fingers
Thus,
Her thin petal story
Fragily unfolds...
She was a aeorial pictorial
Outlined with fairy dust
She spoke silent poetry
Her pen whispering across the pages
Shaping music to words
Though horror embraced her harp-like body
Inflicting the thoughts of pain,
Floating on black sands of time
Thru a movie flick
Conscious spins off its web
tickling a guilty heart
Traumatized and painted with a butterfly effect
She played God
Tilting on her parallel fairytale
Trying to balance
Yet falling all the time
The darkness comforts her burning skin
Though leaving scars on shadows
The Queen of Complexity
Riddle me three
While popping bubble poetry
Her unique mind of madness...
No one will truly know...
The genius jewel
Pretty moon white
Tucked secretly
in colorful silk veins
-
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 9:41 AM UTC
Now bold to keep hold
of child idle wishes,
when in all a boy's life
the bliss is true with kisses.
Verbose promises mostly misses.
&
What is corporeal is made real
in beloved eyes' appeal
yet just one is giving real deepnesses,
heaven half realized in their weaknesses.
&
A young sunken heart congeals.
Framed in little honest pictorial pieces.
(Can you see the furrowed brow
Consternation crinkles his babyface)
&
No kisses but fish lips in wallet sized b&w
No love lost boys of Indian summer nights
I see with my mind the questions wade
Discovery of Why oh why
“Kawawa mo” sadly see it on his face.
&
In wallet sized black and white, kids in
Photo booth time machine, young trysts
Proof of life, fake smiles in matte finish
Click click flash, wishful first kiss missed.
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 12:00 AM UTC
A master photograph
shot by a master photographer
hangs on the wall
A thousand mundane words
turned into one haunting frame
though it does appear
to be a tad askew
I think it helps.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
When poetry describes the historical,
One refrains from becoming hysterical.
However by use of the judicial rhetorical
A Poet makes full use of the allegorical!
So when writing poetry I remain stoical,
That though some may think me radical,
Employing words they considered lyrical,
I try never to appear, irrational or critical.
To write about the mystical and cryptical,
Using strict rhythm? Can be diabolical!
As for themes regarded purely mythical,
I shy from words too pictorial or technical.
My approach to topics humourously comical,
Is to compose lines thoughtfully satirical.
In turn this allows me to remain sceptical,
Whilst appearing not too fanatical or cynical!
So, if with words I am reckoned economical?
I hope my rational thoughts are not illogical,
But in using descriptive words, is it ethical
To ensure Poems not be too whimsical?
Now, without appearing to be pontifical,
Though I'm always careful to be veridical,
I'm allowed at times, to wax philosophical,
As I attempt to depict matters paradoxical.
Doubtless some will find my words inimical:
Fanatically methodical and chronological?
But in attempting the facetious or ironical,
I'll avoid the pitfalls of being too graphical.
Should poetry be left to the technological?
One might find it becomes too puritanical.
And suggest the Poet was unduly practical!
Such is the way of the biased hypocritical!
If my poetic lines appear to be egotistical?
Then readers must understand, that's logical.
But please I beg of you, never be heretical,
When lines concern the canonical or political.
Will a Poet's thoughts be considered farcical,
If a reader is left bemused and quizzical?
Or should he stick to the unequivocally canonical?
Personally, I'm happy if my poems are grammatical!
So I'll conclude thinking poetry may be symbolical,
And my many rhymes, in quantities numerical,
May not satisfy the purist nor the global ecumenical,
But they deal with topics that are never hypothetical!
Rhymer. July 10th, 2018.
(Your turn Jim!)
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
A.
drone this day empirical
from where we were once the we
rained from, a high excursion
which savvy the drop, weighing in, a fault
trying to convince the day when Sun
embellished from the ravine of your hand,
a catacomb secured by the rolling
of your body like a boulder keeping
a minute sacred, christened an evinced noon
that was your repetitive finding. onto
a netted frame caught, dripping out of
a felt space in need for graphs to measure
from, a well unnamed which presence
resembling your body, resounding
the fluency of what the physical ascribes
an iamb of a crowd inverted, diminishing
and inflected in a day's livid sigh
housed in a jar that is a mouth
words assemble an ikebana willing
a delayed color that was a lack.
held a device that was a sky
or a gleaming face with a high price
claiming a solstitial -- when I went
to your home it was Saturday all
week inside my ribcage chiming worship.
plastered to a sheen all is equal underneath
equatorial tracing a sphere when
I found stroking the innards of a calendar
it is November. it is Saturday.
B.
he comes from
low wattage this night's post
a wonderful polyp
to begin a
blight
apparently so from a cut blackest gutter
carrying an ample water virulent
when taken in and again in
a savingslight of metamorphosis
climbs vertical so the winged moon
is a black bird in the blackest
cage / baltic a different fraternity
of land with the same pictorial
this lovely stillness calling it work
a flood could mean pernicious is blood
brewed from this climate
it is here past Mandaue hillsides dreaming
if place were rumored as same-silent.
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 7:45 AM UTC