"precincts" poems
A poem nebulously arrives
at the precincts of mind
like in every pregnancy
it changes a whole lot of things
A firefly with a drop of
oily yellow light so feeble ;
but one gets lost in the
happiness it brings
I haven't ever known
a happiness similar to this.
In the days of my childhood,
I used to sit in a room opening
to the vast green rice fields,
At the sunset, when light fads in to darkness,
the gloom that spreads around
makes one ask, 'what if the moon
wouldn't appear tonight?'
A drop of light appears from nowhere,
flies to a bamboo grove,
this I couldn't foresee,
it turns out to be a firefly, its light
pulsating like a coded message,
to more fireflies so shy and want
the pain of darkness to foster them,
I close my eyes and wait for the sound
of their wings flapping in my subconscious.
Now, they come in swarms, a spectacle
one can't explain, all I know is
that I was yearning for their presence.
They are guests for this celebration
of light, I crafted with my pain,
and love, the antidote, for all that angst.
A poem is born as a dome of effulgence
these fireflies create in pitch darkness
that meditates alone only on light .
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
Independence is our cry,
pride is our name.
We are all separated by countries and oceans,
but our mindset is one and the same.
The concept of change, we fear;
the idea of an altered lifestyle haunts us,
but the awareness that our home is binding our thoughts
remains as our threshold away from the darkness.
You board the plane, begin to set sail, put on your best shoes and run
away from the chaos, breaking the chains, stating your name to be free.
Your heart is racing as the grasp of new land is just miles within your reach
the only words your mind can make up in that moment are “¡Libre soy alfin!”
The moment is just minutes away now, you can almost feel la tierra
El momento is almost here and you just want to chant “¡LIBERTAD!”
But you can’t. You’re not there yet, only growing more eager.
You’re impatient now; what happened to the claridad?
What happened to that clarity in your mind when you were so sure of what you wanted?
It has been replaced by the fear of not being enough.
It has been replaced by the fear of getting sent back to that confinement you once called home.
Now you realize this new life will be tough.
You step foot en la tierra libre,
the anxiety gets to your bones.
Thoughts race through your mind
there’s disbelief that this is your new home.
The sensation of wandering on clouds,
sleepwalking your life away is overwhelming;
your eyes now resemble that oceanic pathway
whilst los abrazos de abuela you are yearning
The concept of change we fear;
the idea of an altered lifestyle haunts us,
and the awareness that our family is still stitched at the lips
has become our allure back into the darkness.
But independence is our cry,
pride is our name.
Precincts may separate us,
yet our mindset remains one and the same:
¡Que viva la libertad!
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
The shortest distance between two points of travel.
The fastest method for achieving a result.
Quickest answer for a resolution.
Marrying equals.
All terminology meaning essentially the same thing; synthesis. That is what the two-party system is meant to be doing. It is the point of checks and balances. A check is a stopgap. A balance is a measure.
No one wants to ban personal firearms. No one wants mentally-ill people to own them. No one advocates violence by school teachers to assuage future potential violence. No reasonable person wants children to grow up in a police state school system. No American believes that State and Federal government can agree on what should be done in all states.
We will not be arming teachers. Nor will we be banning guns. There will never be armed guards at public schools. States and the Federal government disagree on so many levels there will never be consensus on change when it comes to this issue. So, change the issue in a way that offers a stopgap as a measure.
The President of The United States issues a proclamation that all land directly adjacent to the front of all public schools will be bought by the federal government at today's market price. That price will be fixed provided the states do two things. Use state eminent domain laws(every state already has them) to file a claim on said properties and assess the value thereof for the federal government.
Secondly, establish police precincts on said property.
Ask yourself;
"How many children would die if the local police were directly across the street from the school at the time of the shooting?"
And,
"Would Conservatives or Liberals be against this proposal?"
Also,
We should all remember that these shooters plan their attacks and would have to plan around the police being there immediately after they begin one.
Problem solved...
...and no one touched a gun(right) to do it.
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 3:04 AM UTC
We are within the precincts
Of the allotted time
How we may want to spend
As time takes away a little
Every day we move
Towards the end of time
From Time to time
We are stretched
And then weaned away
Towards another journey
Different destination
It’s all about time
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 7:39 AM UTC
1767
Sweet hours have perished here;
This is a mighty room;
Within its precincts hopes have played,—
Now shadows in the tomb.
4.9k
Staring at you from the corner of my eye
There are hundreds seated here
Still my vision strays across the line
These feelings can't be right
It's like the moon falling in love with the sun
though they are a team, they can never be one
Love can't be my might
These feelings can't be right
Why are you so scared to look me in the eye?
I hate it when she looks at you with expectancy in her eyes
I feel like destroying the worlds for you
These feelings can't be right
I know that I'm alone in this street
Every part of myself I have left behind
Because I know that mystery will always love darkness
Though sunshine will be right by her side
My wishes just seem so "Unright"
I face the truth again -
These feelings can't be right
Now-a-days I stay away from you
When you don't look at me, that is when I look at you
When you don't hear me, I have said a thousand times
' I love you '
These feelings can't be right
Every morning when I open my eyes
And Sunshine strikes this porcelain skin from the skies
A carnage of hope is all I visualize
I roll down my sleeves to cover the scars
My reflection whispers to me
'The mirror never lies'
These feelings aren't right
I wish I'd be able to stand in front of you
And express what I exactly feel about you
But I cannot set forth in that venture
" The way is suspicious, the result uncertain, perhaps destructive."
And if you ever know about this side of me
The only thing that will come out of you will be
" These feelings can't be right "
Beyond the precincts of his eyes
Everything seems to be delusional
his eyes have the power my foes could **** for
- to rip my soul apart every minute
Every second of my life
And I'm reminded again-
These feelings can't be right
But now that I've realized
These feelings can't be right
I am sure
That today is the first day of the rest of my life ...
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 1:47 AM UTC
March in the streets
But I urge you beware
They’ll still butcher the sheep
With the arms that they bear
Private properteers part with
No slave cropper’s share
So this Northern aggression's
Like Freeman’s red scare
All the colors of wind
Through the head-shavers’ hair
The Guevara adventures
These pigs wouldn’t D.A.R.E.
The Arabian knights
In the grand wizard’s lair
The denaturalized dreamer’s
Recurring nightmare
Of the Stalingrad ghost
Still witch-hunting like Blair
The projects to the precincts’
New modern welfare
The post-trauma disorderly’s
Empty screen stare
The savages they thought
Were waaaaayyyy over there
The debt clock ticky tock
In the heart of Times Square
The 1st world problem-children
Who commonwealth care
Because some barely EAT
And we’ve so much to spare
But these cowherds still like their calves
Medium rare
And the bulls try to sell you
Their laissez-faire snare
Till your trapped in a minimum cage’s
Last prayer
And the only escape
Is upgraded software
Like automaton autobahn’s
In disrepair
In this fascist facade’s
Fragrant breath of fresh air
Just as toxic as stocks
Of the mock billionaire
So I shock ‘em like Tesla’s
Bolt-action Voltaire
And I leave it to you
To go **** it out there
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 6:27 AM UTC
Your troubles shrink not, though I feel them less
Here, far away, than when I tarried near;
I even smile old smiles—with listlessness—
Yet smiles they are, not ghastly mockeries mere.
A thought too strange to house within my brain
Haunting its outer precincts I discern:
—That I will not show zeal again to learn
Your griefs, and, sharing them, renew my pain….
It goes, like murky bird or buccaneer
That shapes its lawless figure on the main,
And each new impulse tends to make outflee
The unseemly instinct that had lodgment here;
Yet, comrade old, can bitterer knowledge be
Than that, though banned, such instinct was in me!
2.5k
(From a Persian Carpet)
Ash and strewments, the first moth-wings, pale
Ardour of brief evenings, on the fecund wind;
Or all a wing, less than wind,
Breath of low herbs upfloats, petal or wing,
Haunting the musk precincts of burial.
For the season of newer riches moves triumphing,
Of the evanescence of deaths. These potpourris
Earth-tinctured, jet insect-bead, cinder of bloom—
How weigh while a great summer knows increase,
Ceaselessly risen, what there entombs?—
Of candour fallen from the slight stems of Mays,
Corrupt of the rim a blue shades, pensively:
So a fatigue of wishes will young eyes.
And brightened, unpurged eyes of revery, now
Not to glance to fabulous groves again!
For now deep presence is, and binds its close,
And closes down the wreathed alleys escape of sighs.
And now rich time is weaving, hidden tree,
The fable of orient threads from bough to bough.
Old rinded wood, whose lissomeness within
Has reached from nothing to its covering
These many corymbs’ flourish!—And the green
Shells which wait amber, breathing, wrought
Towards the still trance of summer’s centering,
Motives by ravished humble fingers set,
Each in a noon of its own infinite.
And here is leant the branch and its repose
of the deep leaf to the pilgrim plume. Repose,
Inflections brilliant and mute of the voyager, light!
And here the nests, and freshet throats resume
Notes over and over found, names
For the silvery ascensions of joy. Nothing is here
But moss and its bells now of the root’s night;
But the beetle’s bower, and arc from grass to grass
For the flight in gauze. Now its fresh lair,
Grass-deep, nestles the cool eft to stir
Vague newborn limbs, and the bud’s dark winding has
Access of day. Now on the subtle noon
Time’s image, at pause with being, labours free
Of all its charge, for each in coverts laid,
Of clement kind; and everlastingly,
In some elision of bright moments is known,
Changed wide as Eden, the branch whose silence sways
Dazzle of the murmurous leaves to continual tone;
Its separations, sighing to own again
Being of the ignorant wish; and sways to sight,
Waked from it nighted, the marvelous foundlings of light;
Risen and weaving from the ceaseless root
A divine ease whispers toward fruitfulness,
While all a summer’s conscience tempts the fruit.
2.6k
*A lone tree, in all its glory stands
in the courtyard of my heart;
evergreen all these years,
proud of its songs heard as green waves
nourished by the sun in my sky.
Without that tree, I can't be
a comely girl once came
there for an ecstatic dance, then
sat below its shade with a smile
all through a day and night
then in the courtyard of my heart
she became a constant presence.
The wind's tunes sung paeans to her,
the verdant courtyard
was filled with sun and songs;
the tree's first spring it was.
A long season of flowering followed,
pink and white blossoms
with heavenly scent was abundant
all through the year on the tree's crown.
Like a moving cloud, honeybees
swarmed around singing songs of love,
joy of communion fallowed by the pain of parting,
the season of fragrant blooms soon came to an end
and with that she too left,
telling me that I'll be her true love always
whatever happens to us,
In that tree, the witness of our love
she tied an invisible ribbon that bound us too tough to get loose,
that embraced me whenever wind played with it,
I and she were mere shells
presence of love, alive in the precincts, of the tree
that makes me alive, now and for ever.*
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
The soft touch of poetry
Makes me want more
Words, never the same
Suddenly everything looks bright
The aura of poetry
Surrounds me with happiness
My soul gladdens
With the feel of ink flowing through
Life gets a new meaning
When I look through poetic words
Blank papers sketched
With the labor of love
Soft touch of poetry soothes
The travails of outside world
Life spent in the confines of poetry
Only, not to be contained
In the precincts of this life
Much beyond
You can wander
With poetry as your guide
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
In the far fringe of a woody island
With a winding river
Making circuitous pilgrimage
There is a solitary hut
Visible through the patches of light and shadow
With its precincts lapped by the waves
And the rich alluvial soil
Engendering plants of robust growth
In it live a man and wife
A pair made for each other!
Their likes and longings
Blend and bleed into one another
Though they are at the subsistence level
Who have just one square meal a day
They grow in the joy of a living love
Making life a celebration in a rare way
Their humble hut, ever blessed by
Seasonal yield from fruit trees of tropical kind
Added by plants’ flowery delight
A riot of pink, yellow, red and maroon
Where wild trees stand watch over
With creepers in greener leaves
And their foliage, in a merry dance
Latching and intertwining their delicate tendrils
In the air, there is a subdued roar
Made by the swish and swirls of life
But in the silent interstices
Between the rush and blur
There descends a heavenly peace
That sets their souls dancing
Making it a happy home
Sweeter than a mansion of gold!
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 9:48 AM UTC
O fear that rests within my heart,
entropy that proceeds within the dark.
Your feeling is that of one wrought with terror
towering over emotion and actions,
until I am all but consumed
& bound by it.
Of this feeling you impart, I’ve come to know & love, for when I fear, I know my heart still beats, and my will still searing.
For you, O fear, only present yourself over the precincts of lands unconquered & lines not crossed.
So when I look into yours eyes,
I’m in love.
Not from a masochistic tendency
Nor from an empathy to stay comfortable,
But, because I know what’s left to live for,
when I feel your neurotic
presence.
The pleasures yet tasted,
the view yet seen, the accolades
yet achieved, and the people I’m
yet to meet.
But of all the things that I love about you, O fear, is I know you’re
the catalyst to my peace,
the lynchpin to my serenity.
For I will never understand peace, if I haven’t gotten to know you first.
And I shall never be at peace, until I’ve gone through the subjugation of your will first.
O fear, my lover, show your face one more time, life is repetitive, and you bring me hope.
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC
Then Vii said,
"She filled that voidness when Vii was empty"...
Vii had a broken purple heart,
After Vii met her,
Vii melted...
She moulded Vii...
Thus my emotions have a lot of different precincts
Mar 26, 2020
Mar 26, 2020 at 6:51 PM UTC
High tides on a hideout
Scuffling high and low
Sought shelter off sea
At a downward cradle resort
In high land island assort
Cuddled in grip n grasp
To enjoy the balm and calm
Back waters beckoned me
To the wedlock o’ bed lock
Of islands’ land n liquid
I peddled my winding way
The beat about the boat afloat
Swayed away fair and far
The wiling willing precincts
Untidy tide untied my ties
Sea saw swing sang a song
Amidst tunes of windy wand
As though to unwind my mind
***** of breeze doused me to brim
Frills and spills lulled into thrill
Oh! What a symphony of scenery
The treat lasted from dawn to dusk
Waves waved off my retreat not to risk
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 10:35 AM UTC
I hooked my eyes on you,
Sun-boy from the dark precincts,
Fighting the stream of tunes
With your dashing accent.
But the sun doesn’t pick:
It casts and we all take you in
Equally, always with the same tricks,
The same for all the doting grins.
Another sun-child fooled me once
(A teaspoonful of sunlight, spilt and done)
And you do it again, as if by chance,
Just being yourself in a strange land of sun.
I had to panic, scream –
Fled for the nearest storm,
Got caught in the thunder streams
lost, hopeless, unborn –
But your smile unwavering
Ever shining, casting shadows as it
dances, shadows that remind me, again,
That the sun has no favourite.
I have the wax glued, the feathers done
Waiting to take off into the land of sun,
Seeing the settling dust
– sunset is upon us.
You’ll soon wander back
To the shadows you were born in
While I’ll be alone, dark,
In the land of sun
Sunless.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC
Naughty shadows, like wayward clouds
they cast a spell……
With full of yearnings and ambitions
For some
It is the survival!
The precincts and the back lanes
the villas and the alleys
filled with aesthetic thespians
the white, the black, and the brown
and they all look alike in the nightfall
in that beautiful night
factories chimney out the agony
the dying day leaves with sad shades
the Maiden Evening robed in gold
embarks in boundless shadows
who overhauls these pleasure workers
there are unwritten stories in their eyelids
there are untold sagas behind their eyebrows
here and there is a song
striving to colour these shadows
but it is the curves that matter
Late in the night
Silence nurses the wounds
Only to shape the distorted figure
Next day
It’s a new shadow of an old body
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 4:38 AM UTC
Fertile precincts of toxic air, colourless
And unstable create, inexistent boundaries
Of oxygen ***** by electrical discharges
Ultraviolet caress. An atom more turns
The unscented scent into a pungent odour,
Pale blue molecules high temperatures detonate
While low ones, solidify in violet black coagula,
Generous enough to retain, for humanity
And wildlife and all beneath, a gaseous form
Up high to shield, the delicate planet hosting
Sparkles of consciousness from its star’s deadly
Compromising radiations, absorbing them to grant
A frail, balance through its presence in stratosphere
We know, as our fragile sheltering ozone layer,
Descending just a little lower to become once more,
Breathable life bearing oxygen penetrating
Our lungs inundating a system, flowing through
Veins where the pale blue molecules spring only,
Every now and then in white blood cells, fighting
Illful intruders ensuring, survival of amazing wonders.
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 1:59 AM UTC
He is held captive you needn’t farther search
In temple’s precincts within the walls of church
God is a prisoner in religion’s domain
They flock there to worship him men and women.
As I see them I get this impression
They’ve struck a deal forged a relation
One that is need based apparently mutual
God provides care in exchange of ritual.
At the cost of sounding atheist I must say I notice
Churches and temples are organized like office
Hierarchies are set in these god’s abodes
Complete with rules regulations and codes.
In each of these god-houses is a god’s messenger
He is the supreme priest faith’s treasurer
He leads your prayer cleanses your soul
Becomes god’s face assumes the divine’s role.
The followers don’t question their faith inhibited
Asking and probing questions are strictly prohibited
I feel places of worship are too stern and rigid
Where in the hands of his caretakers god goes frigid!
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
He’s number Fourteen in your program,
“Mr. Cub” to long suffering fans.
Ernie Banks was a soft spoken guy
who launched many ***** in the stands.
A true hero who led by example;
the face of the franchise, in fact.
He never did play in the Series
and there is some sadness in that.
Yet today is a great day for baseball
in the heavenly precincts above.
I’m sure, just like you,
That they’re bound to play two
Once Ernie has tossed down his glove
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
she's a *****
with a stinging bite
the unction she pours down
is searing of tongue
in a few weeks
she'll call in these precincts
her vengeful temperature
shall assail us
we'll not be spared
of her ruthless heat
as she torments us
with her meaty
bleat
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
High tides on a hideout
Scuffling high and low
Sought shelter off sea
At a downward cradle resort
In high land island assort
Cuddled in grip n grasp
To enjoy the balm and calm
Back waters beckoned me
To the wedlock o’ bed lock
Of islands’ land n liquid
I peddled my winding way
The beat about the boat afloat
Swayed away fair and far
The wiling willing precincts
Untidy tide untied my ties
Sea saw swing sang a song
Amidst tunes of windy wand
As though to unwind my mind
***** of breeze doused me to brim
Frills and spills lulled into thrill
Oh! What a symphony of scenery
The treat lasted from dawn to dusk
Waves waved off my retreat not to risk
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
High tides on a hideout
Scuffling high and low
Sought shelter off sea
At a downward cradle resort
In high land island assort
Cuddled in grip n grasp
To enjoy the balm and calm
Back waters beckoned me
To the wedlock o’ bed lock
Of islands’ land n liquid
I peddled my winding way
The beat about the boat afloat
Swayed away fair and far
The wiling willing precincts
Untidy tide untied my ties
Sea saw swing sang a song
Amidst tunes of windy wand
As though to unwind my mind
***** of breeze doused me to brim
Frills and spills lulled into thrill
Oh! What a symphony of scenery
The treat lasted from dawn to dusk
Waves waved off my retreat not to risk
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
She's a troubador, singing for love,
Like a town cryer you will surely find her,
Down in the precincts, sat at the ice rinks,
Sculpting and showing off her soul's fire,
She's a troubador, singing for love,
Like a preacher, she's a beseecher,
Down in the precincts, sat at the ice rinks,
Sculpting and showing off, her skills as a teacher.
You can tell her from her song,
A divine ditty,
It sings true and pretty,
That lifts itself above the throng,
Singing to the children,
As the adults go blithely by,
Like they do when they hear a bird in the sky,
The adults are absent minded,
Spiritually blinded,
Playing games,
But the children are kindred,
They see her flames,
And dance in its fire,
To the adults' shame,
They dance along to her lyres,
Who among us can say they came?
To witness her fitness, suffice to inspire,
Love and eternal desires.
She's a troubador, singing for love,
Like a town cryer you will surely find her,
Down in the precincts, sat at the ice rinks,
Sculpting and showing off her soul's fire,
She's a troubador, singing for love,
Like a preacher, she's a beseecher,
Down in the precincts, sat at the ice rinks,
Sculpting and showing off, her skills as a teacher.
She's writing alone,
Typing madly in to her iPhone,
Catching snippets of her mind's moan,
With inspiration at the fingertips she foams,
Half-assedly rolling smokes,
******* hard when she's taking tokes,
Finding ways to crack jokes,
Taking aim, cussing blokes
Taking wide and long strokes
That *** a whole in one,
She's not serious she's real fun,
A sizzling, smoking gun,
Who runs with the sun,
All at one,
Says it all yet there's so much more,
Can tell she feels it raw,
To love, pity and adore,
She begs the children and implores.
She's a troubador, singing for love,
Like a town cryer you will surely find her,
Down in the precincts, sat at the ice rinks,
Sculpting and showing off her soul's fire,
She's a troubador, singing for love,
Like a preacher, she's a beseecher,
Down in the precincts, sat at the ice rinks,
Sculpting and showing off, her skills as a teacher.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 12:10 AM UTC