"prepares" poems
I climbed slowly,
slowly on the mount of aspirations,
On succint savoury dreams,
As i see the success peaking from thousand miles above.
I grip the cold stone
tighter, harder,
My passion,
my hardwork,
As i swiftly float
from the ground.
Snowy
zephyrs
of laze and evil,
Reign against me,
trying to break my hold.
Yet the fire of my
determination,
Still burns
within.
My thick woolen
coat hugs me tight,
My faith, my values,
Protecting me from
the blizzards of
jealousy, vile,
As i wind
my way
upwards.
A glance
backwards,
And the horrid past knocks
on the veins of my sullen heart,
Yet this soul will give up
no more.
The weary body,
driven by heraculous force,
through the steep slopes of time,
Against enormous storms and stints,
With an armour of patience,
Finds itself on dome of
success.
Ah!
fleeting
moments
of unscathed bliss,
Enamour for success,
And it's sweet sweet honey.
That slowly melts in my heart,
On top of the mountain,
Where everything is
freezing.
From
the top,
the hardwork,
the giant path looks small,
As the heart prepares to climb,
Another mountain.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 2:09 PM UTC
In India pongal is the best festival
It is not a mere ritual
We celebrate it in January
It is very very customary
It lasts for three days
Bhogi,sankranti and kanuma are the days.
On the first day we have a holy bath
Thinking that it sets us on the right path
Early in the morning we sit around the bhogi fire
Thinking it is the demon Ravana’s pyre
We put on a new and attractive attire
Dreaming life is a joyful boat shire
Children make wreaths of cowdung
Throw them into the fire like a gold ring
The villages are full of colourful bullocks
We sing folk songs taking neem sticks
The bride groom leaves for the mother-in-law’s house
The bride waits for him wearing a new saree and a blouse
Father-in-law gives the groom a costly gift
Mother-in-law makes a sumptuous feast
Younger sister-in-law teases the groom
The bride and the groom confine to the room
Mother prepares delicious dishes and pickles
Father goes to the farm worshipping the sickles
On the last day we go to the temple fair
I hope I made the happy pongal very clear
Yours sincerely,
JVL NARASIMHA RAO
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 7:32 PM UTC
the icarus you know
the icarus you knew
the icarus who has fallen
the one who is an icarus anew
has loved a star that is brighter than usual
but a star that shines just like every other star
nothing new
but a star can blind you when it gets too close
when YOU get too close
but icarus didnt mind
because you wouldnt know how blind you are
until the light's suddenly off
The star had fallen
Much like icarus himself
But he has fallen gracefully and at will
Unlike icarus who was ripped of his wings and had fallen ill
But together they stayed
And together they grew
Icarus and his star had started anew
But what icarus didn't know
Or rather, what he decided to ignore
Was that the sun was a star
And a star has to prioritize light over love
It happened once when his sun chose to shine, still
Even though it knew that it would melt off icarus's wings
And it happened again with his star
As his star starts to lose his light
"I have to go home and see to it that my light doesn't go off"
The star said as he prepares himself
"You're leaving me" icarus said
Blinded by his needs and his selfishness
"It's not like that my love. I would never want to lose you but I cannot lose myself for you" the star had said through his tears
He saw icarus was not hearing him
Was not understnding him
So he did what he swore not to do
He broke his own heart and left only with half of a whole
That was the last that icarus heard of his star
Now he wears his heart in his sleeves and his stars heart around his neck
And now the icarus you know
the icarus you knew
the icarus who has fallen
the one who is an icarus anew
has loved a star that is brighter than usual
And loves him still, but on a brighter point of view
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 12:34 AM UTC
Each day with so much ceremony
begins, with birds, with bells,
with whistles from a factory;
such white-gold skies our eyes
first open on, such brilliant walls
that for a moment we wonder
"Where is the music coming from, the energy?
The day was meant for what ineffable creature
we must have missed?" Oh promptly he
appears and takes his earthly nature
instantly, instantly falls
victim of long intrigue,
assuming memory and mortal
mortal fatigue.
More slowly falling into sight
and showering into stippled faces,
darkening, condensing all his light;
in spite of all the dreaming
squandered upon him with that look,
suffers our uses and abuses,
sinks through the drift of bodies,
sinks through the drift of vlasses
to evening to the beggar in the park
who, weary, without lamp or book
prepares stupendous studies:
the fiery event
of every day in endless
endless assent.
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The keeper of illumination
Aye, the keeper of the light
Safety first, his fascination
Dusk to evening through the night.
Aye, the keeper of the light,
Every season, every day
Dusk to evening, through the night
He tends the beacon, shows the way.
Every season, every day
Climbs thirteen flights of thirteen stairs
He tends the beacon, shows the way
The Fresnel lantern he prepares.
Climbs thirteen flights of thirteen stairs
Skyward, toward the landing high
The Fresnel lantern he prepares
Lighthouse beacon must not die.
Skyward, toward the landing high
Strike the match, produce the spark
Lighthouse beacon must not die.
Guides ships safely through the dark.
Strike the match, produce the spark
Safety first, his fascination
Guides ships safely through the dark
The keeper of illumination.
Phil Lindsey 6/25/15
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
315
He fumbles at your Soul
As Players at the Keys
Before they drop full Music on—
He stuns you by degrees—
Prepares your brittle Nature
For the Ethereal Blow
By fainter Hammers—further heard—
Then nearer—Then so slow
Your Breath has time to straighten—
Your Brain—to bubble Cool—
Deals—One—imperial—Thunderbolt—
That scalps your naked Soul—
When Winds take Forests in the Paws—
The Universe—is still—
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She's planting out her window box
Young shoots are showing through
She thinks about the Springtime
And the garden she once knew
There were primroses and daffodils
Sweet violets white and blue
She thinks about her husband
And when their love was new
Buds and blooms open up
They scent and colour Summer long
She thinks about those happy days
When they were young and strong
Sunset's falling sooner now
Petals drop, the show is done
She gathers up her Winter shawl
Prepares for what’s to come
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 5:26 AM UTC
Evening light is gentle, slow
Caressing leaves, metal roofs, soil
Plants, flowers, pavements and gates
Clouds are the mothers - they shield us
Lest the sun shines too much.
Take a breath and look around;
The sweet and tranquil garden will take it away.
All colour blend in synchronised harmony;
Blues and browns, pinks and whites
Crossing into and over each other like
oil paints,
Warm, welcoming, beautiful.
It is soothing - the sound of nothing
That disrupts; razes; hates
Disturbs; curbs quiet insight;
One's imagination is the lone
source of maximum sound
That vibrates through the garden.
My grandfather, my grandmother's brother,
Smiles as though the sun shines through his teeth
Dresses in a pale blue shirt
Black shorts
Both well-worn
Ready to play
some basketball.
Oh, the joy, the fun
The refreshment arising from this game in a courtyard
In grandfather's garden
Among young trees, leaves and other green growth.
There stands a home by hand made
Basketball stand,
A concrete base with metal support hands
Floppy strings of hoop
To shoot the ball into.
The garden has been bathed, it is fresh
It is refreshed.
Grandfather demonstrates, I listen and follow,
To throw the ball into the hoop
With precision and care; throw some force
Into the air.
The ball dances around the circle
then drops to the concrete floor.
We take turns
As I throw and grandfather returns
9/10 of the time my aim's bad
but the ball grandfather throws, I actually catch!
(Or it will tumble on wet soil)
Exciting, the thumping
of rubber ball against ground;
Keen eyes and agile hands and feet
To catch the stray ball;
With swift movements the ball flies!
From sideways, afar and near,
Into the hoop successfully, finally.
Back into the house we go,
As the sun leaves for home.
The garden prepares for night;
So do grandfather and I;
Grandfather washes up; I talk to
Grandmother in the garden;
waiting for night, to
fall
fall
fall,
into infinite darkness -
poignant memories
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
Light the Endearing Youth she introduce
Of Trouble Death's Warrant I cannot spell
Meet me this haply; Your Mind I deduce
Transform a Stranger to a Friend so well
I know you Love him. In Degree of Soul
That a Year's Promotion is not enough
The Author advices his Name; In Truth
So merry comfort your Will to adopt
See? Now he prepares for his Loved Event
Inspired by the Contract for his Dad
If I were you, wear those Sprint-Shoes you spent
And chase the Best Moment you ever had.
Once it's done, come set your feet by this stool
And let me rub-in some Herbs to be cool.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:06 AM UTC
i sit at the library computer.
across the room TUTOR JOHN prepares
his lessons for the free CITIZENSHIP CLASSES he conducts
for the punjabis, mexicans hmungs and others seeking
to pass the immigration service citizenship test.
he is a great man.
it is not surprising to say that he likes me and is my friend
as i am his friend
why is that?
in the simplicity the seed forms itself into
viable human forms and human beings
this we all know
yes we do
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 12:54 PM UTC
There's this special seed inside of us
That glitters, shines, and grows
Planted by an equally special person
One that everybody knows.
The one that woke up early this morning
And downed their coffee for the day
While you dig out your favorite shirt
And they keep their nerves at bay.
The person that decorates for new children
Hangs up posters and note cards
Tacks up the yearly alphabet trim
And clears the weeds from the school yard.
Stands and greets equally nervous kids
Hands them name tags and a book
And hopes that their anxiety melts away
To be excited like they should.
The history and math books open
Pages are assigned
They're there to help you through it
To make problems easier to find.
To journey across another dimension
Of equations and butterflies alike
That prepares you for ACTs ahead
And tests that you'll probably dislike.
Well, that's all fine and dandy
All these books and passing grades
But what's more important is the seed inside
That's planted in your brain.
The seed that fuels your drive to learn
Creates a light to help you grow
Makes you crave another book
Acquire everything there is to know.
And I know a certain farmer
That specializes in these seeds
Who wants to make you reach the top
So you'll realize everything you can be.
These farmers go by 'teachers'
The most amazing you can find
Because of them, I try to be my best
So I thank my teachers for their time.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
A small dragonfly,
Prepares to land on my nose;
Karmic conundrum !
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 3:18 PM UTC
Lisbeth stands watching
The artist as he prepares
To sketch. Her elder sisters
Stand in shadows whispering.
Her younger sister plays
With her doll on the floor.
Their father said to do as
The artist instructed and
Don’t misbehave or be rude.
The artist stares hard his
Dark eyes searching their
Every move and expression
And body gesture. The elder
Girls mutter in shadows
Their hands over their mouths
Their blue eyes like shallow
Pools. Ready? The artist
Asks putting charcoal to
Paper his fingers blackening.
Lisbeth says just as we are?
The artist nods. His grim
Features express do not disturb.
The youngest sister plays
Ignoring the artist her eyes set
On the game at hand. The girls
In shadow turn their profiles
Set to mystery their hands on
Their abdomens like guardians
Of virtue. Lisbeth wonders as
She watches the artist’s stiff
Moustache and beard the slow
Movement of his mouth as he
Mouths words and stares hard.
The last artist employed some
Year before younger and less
Brutal in expression and manner
Had drawn them each in private
Rooms and set them down on couch
Or bed and kept their images inside
His head. He was dismissed and the
Drawings destroyed and nothing said.
Lisbeth had thought it just a game
Something done as lover might in
Private corners or lonely spots on
Quiet nights. The artist sketches.
His blackened fingers move and
Made their mark. Their images
Captured. The scene set. One sister
In the shadows yawns the other
Stares in still contempt. Lisbeth
Poses as young girls do. Nothing
To show of interest and nothing
Hid no secret self no other you.
That’s it the artist says we’ll begin
The painting another day maybe
Next week if all is well. The girls
In shadow look away and resume
Their secret games. Lisbeth studies
The artist’s blackened fingers as
He rolls the charcoal sketch and
Puts away. He gazes at her standing
By herself a glimpse of smile and
Glimmer in her eyes like small fires.
He closes the tired lids of eyes
And smoulders down his old desires.
Apr 19, 2012
Apr 19, 2012 at 8:26 AM UTC
I hold onto the hope that someday I will see them. Those lights drug across the sky by a goddess with her water colour brush. Greens and blues and pinks that dance a star's song into being while the sky stretches and wakes up and prepares to host this fit of brilliance. When people down below lift their eyes to the heavens. Irises are filled and reflect a dazzling champagne of pastels which God has created. He wants to say 'I love you' and could think of no better way than this expression. Where snow gives way to reflective ice and the shiny sparkles slide silently through the night. It is the visual of the heart when in love, and it lights up the night like the first beautiful moment of a stage being brought to life. The conductor lifts his hands and a radiant explosion surrounds the audience. Music is not needed and none will ever accurately describe it. Few will see this spectacularity because the auroras only reveal themselves to the minds that wander and the hands that reach towards heaven.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 12:53 AM UTC
1 When life as opening buds is sweet,
2 And golden hopes the fancy greet,
3 And Youth prepares his joys to meet,--
4 Alas! how hard it is to die!
5 When just is seized some valued prize,
6 And duties press, and tender ties
7 Forbid the soul from earth to rise,--
8 How awful then it is to die!
9 When, one by one, those ties are torn,
10 And friend from friend is snatched forlorn,
11 And man is left alone to mourn,--
12 Ah then, how easy 'tis to die!
13 When faith is firm, and conscience clear,
14 And words of peace the spirit cheer,
15 And visioned glories half appear,--
16 'Tis joy, 'tis triumph then to die.
17 When trembling limbs refuse their weight,
18 And films, slow gathering, dim the sight,
19 And clouds obscure the mental light,--
20 'Tis nature's precious boon to die.
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We walk the smoke-thick winter street of sweet 'n' sour aromas
amongst a throng of oriental shaded faces (such gentle souls)
who crowd little pushcarts selling scallion pancakes.
Overhead, red talismanic paper lanterns bob, enticing us
to the tap of percussive chopsticks.
We sit in awe; snack on duck-tongue; roast pigs hang
glistening; fat-fresh, ready to fry.
Waiters wheel trolleys piled high with steaming shrimp noodles
past tables of golden oranges and watermelon seeds.
Our Chinese chef prepares shredded pork in garlic sauce.
He smiles and says:
"More guests means more happiness."
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 6:35 AM UTC
SPRING
Spring is the king of the seasons
Ugadi is the first of the festivals
We wear new clothes
And eat delicious broths
Mother prepares the customary mango pickle
Father worships the sickle
Nature is in her full bloom
There is no room for any gloom
The cuckoo sings early in the morning
The farmer is ready for harvesting
There are new born leaves
And pleasant breezes
Every tree has a flower
There is flowing water in the river
The wind blows very softly
The birds fly very swiftly
The winter was very cold
But the spring is very beautiful to behold
Ugadi brings in new hopes
The farmer depends on yearly crops
May this new year bring in peace!
I am able to write a poetic piece
by JVL NARASIMHA RAO
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 7:38 PM UTC
A twisted form of angel,
he's a demon in the light.
Brilliant array of feathers
'fore the eagle prepares his
strike. Tsunami risen to ruin
from a gentle hazel tide. I
came to love his pretty things
since pretty never lies. But
beauty couldn't hide the
burning sun, he wrought me
dry. Oasis wasn't deep enough
to stifle up my cries. I wrestled
brave with golden chains that
locked me to his side. Securely
bound on his wicked ride, I'm
afraid of pretty things. Yet, I
decline to run when my heart,
it sings: What a pretty thing. What
a pretty gooorgeous thing - to see
a demon while there's light. Ready
to burn though he owns the night.
His vices I thought a pretty thing,
I'd faith, drowned in his soulless
eyes, that his pretty must not lie.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 12:52 AM UTC
Aesthetician stares deeply into the center of a tulip
tears stream as we cry
but the earth doesn’t
ethereal spectors flow about religion
Washington did live in
a racecar, palindrome
*** Wisdom!
Meowth! I haven’t since the 90’s had a soul
estaban caresses his lover
his wife prepares
a pineapple
tapeworms infest
****** inside of a colonic protestant
whipped into shapely curves once withheld
by the likelihood ferrari
Pro-lifers are only just a fad or fling
cloudy like the soft color of pink
union between man and *****
Nicole smith I hope you go to
h
e
l
l
Awesome is he with a fatty
slimeball
foil wrapped burger
SASQUATCH GONE WORLDWIDE
Santeria love making ends with regret! Nay, Disgust!
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
When seasons change, colors get darker
and set mood for life around the sun.
When seasons change, the world prepares
for things unfinished and what is to come.
When seasons change, all are aware
of the cold that will creep beneath our skin.
When seasons change, the ending is near
and we hold summer close as our kin.
When seasons change, the leaves are dead
the trees are dead
no blood in their veins .
We expect this when seasons change.
Where the rivers may cross at the end
of the streams, water that brings life
back to the trees.
Happiness follows the sweet lasting breeze,
and we live in the presence of sorrowful spring.
The buds are in millions of heads upon ease,
that still have not brought us life in the leaves
When seasons change, all is expected
and hope is still strong and will is protected.
When seasons change, we do not prevail
and never once think out visions may fail.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
Rose Red's hair is brown as fur
and shines in firelight as she prepares
supper of honey and apples, curds and whey,
for the bear, and leaves it ready
on the hearth-stone.
Rose White's grey eyes
look into the dark forest.
Rose Red's cheeks are burning,
sign of her ardent, joyful
compassionate heart.
Rose White is pale,
turning away when she hears
the bear's paw on the latch.
When he enters, there is
frost on his fur,
he draws near to the fire
giving off sparks.
Rose Red catches the scent of the forest,
of mushrooms, of rosin.
Together Rose Red and Rose White
sing to the bear;
it is a cradle song, a loom song,
a song about marriage, about
a pilgrimage to the mountains
long ago.
Raised on an elbow,
the bear stretched on the hearth
nods and hums; soon he sighs
and puts down his head.
He sleeps; the Roses
bank the fire.
Sunk in the clouds of their feather bed
they prepare to dream.
Rose Red in a cave that smells of honey
dreams she is combing the fur of her cubs
with a golden comb.
Rose White is lying awake.
Rose White shall marry the bear's brother.
Shall he too
when the time is ripe,
step from the bear's hide?
Is that other, her bridegroom,
here in the room?
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Star light.. Star bright,
last star i see...
As the night prepares for sleep,
their concert begins,
one song.. two songs.. three,
in unison their sweet harmony calls forth,
chorus of birds welcoming the new day.
Star light.. Star bright,
last star i see...
Caught up in the beauty,
their melody fills me,
in this hour between times,
Peace.. Hope.. Magic,
i am one with myself.. one with everything,
and i feel you.
Star light Star bright,
last star i see...
Gazing upwards into the wakening sky,
i see you,
last remnant of the night, shining so brightly,
you've waited for me.. once again my friend,
ready to give of yourself,
to give all.. so my dreams can be.
Star light.. Star bright,
last star i see...
With closed eyes,
and open heart,
a soul aflame once more,
a spirit's wish ushers forth,
into the heavens,
into your waiting arms.
Star light.. Star bright,
last star i see...
And, as if your only purpose, was to wait,
all night.. just to receive my wish,
your brightness fades making way for the dawn,
and new beginnings,
and in that instant.. you are gone,
but your promise remains.. i can feel it.
Can you?
Star light Star bright,
last star i see...
I wish i may.. i wish i might...
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 9:49 AM UTC
How fragile the bones of the dying
Eroding like stone that turns to sand
How fragile the eyes
A weak glimpse into surrounding darkness
How fragile the power
Once mighty as a mountain, now a struggling memory
But of all the ailing pieces of those near death
None compares to the withering soul
Breaking and cracking, no longer whole
As one prepares to ride into eternity
And anticipates the moment a breath will come and pass
Never to be duplicated again
The soul all the while fights the battle for life
And, through consuming fragility, is defeated at last
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 8:09 PM UTC
My friend came by the other day.
As a leaf in the wind he has blown
From street to street
Town to town.
A wanderer he may be
but not at heart.
He longs to be attached to a tree
Any tree.
In spring and summer the leaves are green
And
attached.
Summer slowly dries them out as the tree
Prepares for winter.
My friend, the dry brown leaf
Blows in his perpetual autumn.
We all grow in our own time and season:
Winter dormancy
Spring regeneration
Summer fulfillment
Fall preparing for the
Inevitable
season of death.
These seasons of the soul
Are the very essence of our existence.
They teach us
Temper us
Fulfill us.
But there are those who do not see
The purpose of the seasons.
To them winter means only
Cold
Snow
Desolation.
Spring means only
Rain
Mud
Flooding.
Summer means
Beauty to mock
The heart in winter.
I trust in the wisdom of the seasons.
Nature teaches us lessons in her cycles.
Let the l
e
a
f
fall to the ground.
Let it rot into cold
Stark
Winter
Desolation.
Spring will come.
Bleak gray will become bright colours
Of spring.
The beauty will fade again but will
Reappear in winter's own stark beauty
Though it may be cold and gray.
Then spring will come.
Spring will come!!!
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 10:56 PM UTC