"preconceive" poems
Glorifying amidst the snowy mountains bestowing
rivers with a splendid shine searching a land
to shower its warmth in a dense grassland,
sun rises with the dawn
like the spring blooming life in the lawn.
Cold on the cemetery lay like the corpse,
the flower in concealed corner of the lawn.
Life rejuvenates it to exhibit its charisma.
With its exquisite grace,
life fills the daffodils
blooming merrily in the meadows
with the exotic flush of odor enchanting thee .
Life of seven ages leaps and exits slyly like a stranger.
Neither the witty nor the wisest nor do the philosophers
can bamboozle the fate, neither can they preconceive
the lot ,the fate has in store in each slot
hence live the life with fullest enthusiasm and zeal,
the chariots of life bridging
the expedition between birth and rebirth.
Struggle the chill like a gladiator
stand undeterred by the worldly woes.
Life is symbolization of bluebells,lavenders
hedychiums planted on a deserted road,
blend of happiness and agony .
Surrendering to agony is pure escapism.
Each has to surrender on the altar of death
a day or later ,
but till life why not worship the life
like an idol enshrined in the temple
so when thee are asked of
satisfaction in the heavens high
thou may not quote "alas it could have been a day later"
rather thou may be the most enlightened
devotee to stay in the state of bliss and utmost salvation.
Men say life is mortal
But life is eternal you see,
the life is like a divine cascade of holy waters,
one drop dies ,other rejuvenates to life.
Till the nature lives, shall live
the men and generations yet to come.
Life is pouring like the nectar from the heaven's brink,
quite insane it would be to not drink the summary of life.
BY CHANDAN SHARMA
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 12:09 PM UTC
Love is more
than a ballet—
beyond gestures,
steps and poses;
more than a passing
summer breeze
soon forgotten;
a twirling pirouette
in an ever changing
season's fleeting dream
To really SEE,
— turn a blind eye
to the incantations
of what we're looking at
— lose sight of all
we preconceive —
FEEL the music
dance inside the note,
swimming deeply
inside the rivers
of its soul —
listen searchingly
to the fomenting breeze
as it fans the
smoldering flame
in your heart
Love is —
an erupted moment;
an enveloping
burst of flames
enkindling
an uncontainable wildfire
an unfolding chrysalis,
butterfly kisses wafting
in the halo around the moon
a thundering heartbeat
a fiery burning
ring enrobes —
an enchanted sunset
vanishing into an
evanescent afterglow
The downward spiral
of a burning ember
erupting in a rising moon;
climbing the rungs
of the twilight horizon
Words may sing a sad song
of love and misery;
some say: “love is forever”..,
a hesitant reminder —
your pretty words
and sweet lies
still linger where
sleeping memories lie:
you never really saw
my world straightaway
peering out through
the corner of your eyes
Looking heart to heart
through the glass reflection
within the window
of a poet’s pages,
when nobody else
in sight seems to care,
gazing right past you
like you're not even there;
only posing words
amongst the untamed
waves of emotional depth
Lying to myself
won't ever make
the truth go away
when you hear
whispered words
grow silent —
Love is more than a ballet ...
but I don't know a thing about "forever"
Jesse Stillwater ... October 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
I'm wearing dead man's underwear
I ask what's wrong with that
Something you see they no longer need
Where they now are at
From Jockey's whitey tighties
To boxers by the score
Don't much matter to me
What this dead man wore
With the right amount of detergent
The proper amount of bleach
Like I said four lines back
Don't matter much to me
Now please don't rush to judgement
Or my life preconceive
We all have our different ways
Of carrying on their memories
Me...I just do it in dead man's briefs
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
What genius evening keeps secret and moribund...
His foot falls echo the chill of November deep
Tapping, clapping, wrapping
His man heavy fragility in wool
How distant and suddenly wide is the night.
What shrewd skills fear casts--a mask,
That evening keeps him wary, attentive as wax,
For Shadows shed no comfort for this lamb,
His rhythm once lord of the dance.
Pulsing toes as eyes flash to every creak, whispers;
The Depth of sightlessness made paranoid
by twisted twilight shapes, shifting, nerves frozen with haste…
His weakness, not knowing, a pallid winter on his face.
Even now the slow climb upon his back
Carried by the slip of a breeze laying waste,
A soundtrack of dead leaves and black.
His foot falls stomping to clash and map
A stroll as reality saves nothing sincere, when fear
Deepens in his bones resolve to panic...
What genius a weapon: dark flights of fancy
And the conditioning of youth to preconceive,
Strange and delicate spaces between the ears
Defeated before finding a sure foot
Before reaching a well lit street
Familiar and familial suburbs of a mind
Diminished by the subterfuge of fear…
His foot falls turn a corner
And the sound of concrete and conflict
Disappear…
SUBTERFUGE
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
Sometimes
I feel as if there is something truly profound about love and hate
Both numbing in their exhaustion and best reserved for a proper patron
Both humbling in the fallout
The generations are numerous in this conviction for folly
Other times I feel its merely chemicals reacting in a hungry skull
Navigating lonesome anatomy into collisions for the sake of a secondary pulse
Still
A shortcut in my quiet moments...
When I discard my bulwark and realize I only thrive in seclusion
Is it lethargy or lunacy when I reject connection?
A tick of panic in my crowded moments...
When shoulders mingle in spaces fully saturated with gizmos and vain distraction
How potent is creation?
F*ck away the time and we may call it heaven
****** into chaos and we weave new homes for hurting
The scenes we preconceive are never as fantastic as the actual trajectory
When we come faceless and wanting
we may find time to ponder a perfect rotation
But once the whirlpool winks we can barely grasp the remnants of imaginary
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 10:51 PM UTC