"pullers" poems
So aged he is, but still so zealous for his job.
It feels like he has only known his rickshaw.
The ancient bard in him tells Punjabi poems.
He belies his wrinkles as he pedals his ride.
Just putting to shame his fellow rickshaw pullers.
None remembers or even cares to know his name.
He just pedals and remembers his deceased wife.
He told me a Punjabi tale of partition...
*"We were really happy when it happened,
I was 16 and married to my beautiful wife,
But then he pressed for a separate Pakistan,
Just so much wicked was this demand of his,
Punjab was alight due to some people's doing,
We were to cross river Ravi en route to Amritsar,
In Lahore my childhood home was burnt to ashes,
My beautiful wife was still so young at that time,
She was ***** on the banks of river Ravi & killed,
In no cloth was she draped as they burnt her body,
After pouring whiskey all over her lifeless body."*
His voice broke and a stream of tears escaped,
Down his eyes they flowed like the river Ravi,
*"In front of my two eyes the men had ***** her,
Her mistake? Looking at them once & smiling,
Sin as great to be punished by such brutal drab?
What God, Ishwar or Allah did they follow?
I have known all & none advocates ****
To which parents could they born?
Must be the devil & the witch."*
By now his nose was red and his sobs audible.
He said, *"She was not just ***** she was also killed,"*
The ancient rickshaw puller gasped for breath as he said,
"Would the high heavens thank them for killing my wife,
She was a Hindu and an idolater with my mangalsootra,
Why they spared my life I have no idea but just remorse,
Will their Allah or God spare them on Doomsday?"
==============
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 6:15 AM UTC
You have your hammer down, foot stamping Passion Poets,
the ones who feel something and like a waterfall
similes fall out of their pen and land
they are LOUD and they are dynamic,
their metaphors are laser beams out of eyes,
they are the Crowd Raisers.
And you have your hearts open, eyes closed Emotion Poets,
the ones who love something like a fountain,
spilling over adjectives their words are
red, they are heated
yellow, they are revelling in that shade of
blue that poets hate to love,
they are the Heart String Pullers.
And then you have...
me.
I'm an imperfect, writer's block, In Between Poet.
my similes are more like a puddle than a waterfall,
all the same parts but nowhere near the power,
I am LOUD in all the wrong places
my metaphors are dead battery laser pointers, I am
not a Crowd Raiser.
My fountain spills over adverbs quickly dying
out my words are sort of... gray, they are
not Heart String Pullers.
But
We are all Poets
we are like similes
we are comparing our words to something bigger,
we are metaphors we find a way to put love into words,
put hate into words,
jealousy into words.
we are adverbs quickly coming to life in all its splendor
we are
All the Same.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
I hate how they never warn little girls
to beware the pretty boys
with eyes like gleaming jewels.
The boys with soft smiles
and music in their laugh.
They never warn
of boys with pretty faces
and blackened hearts.
The boys that leave little girls
crying in the dark.
The ones with words like honey,
sickly sweet.
The princes with big money,
who we dream of sweeping us off our feet.
They never speak
of boys with danger in their eyes.
But beauty true blue.
Little girls are never told
of boys of silver and boys of gold.
The little kings,
with angel wings.
The little beast neither soft nor sweet.
The beauty bombshells,
the golden adonis’s.
They never speak of boys
who run like the winds
under their feet.
The boys who shine
like the stars in the sky.
The boys with the world in their grubby mitts.
The boys with lips like cotton candy,
and sins warm and rich.
The ones who have our
stomachs doing flips.
The ones who seem to have it all
shoulders back, standing tall.
They never caution of
little boys with clever minds
and nimble fingers.
Of boys with Shakespeare's sonnets in their hair
and love songs in their whispers.
But little girl,
I am telling you now.
Beware the pigtail pullers,
fear the little Romeos.
Heed the heartbreakers
Shun smooth talkers.
Little girl,
don’t give in.
Little girl,
fear their sins.
Little girl,
run away.
Little girl,
don’t stay to play.
Little girl,
don’t stop and stare.
Little girl,
don’t twirl your hair.
Little girl,
please, listen to me!
Little girl,
loath the charming pretty boys.
For they are like roses
and like roses
they have thorns.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 7:51 PM UTC
Her alias was Sunrise
The affable Sky
Brags her entity
In the high latitude
Her voice was heard.
There exists Energy
He puts up the plug
With the invisible outlet
Of the naked Sky
His charged particles
Brought collision
Brought wonder
To the full-sized Universe.
The solar wind
The Earth
Both were crowd-pullers
Every one knelt down
As they see
The Roman Goddess of Dawn
Her melodramatic entrance
Her chameleon-like aptitude
The neon lights
Without Christmas *****
Made her zone broaden.
I am the Seeker
A Dreamer
In this winter breeze
I lied down
With the techy remote
Unearthing
The Goddess of Fantasy.
(12/5/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
In a room full of pundits and pud-pullers
I just wanna be the poet.
There’s not a ********* thing
that’s wrong with that either.
No, I won’t be that guy reading “Pride and Prejudice”
just so I can get a handle on the *******
zombie movie that’s coming out.
Give me a Mickey Spillane novel
and a slice of pizza.
Give me a Bukowski poem
and a pork chop.
That’s the problem here,
nobody seems to want to recognize their
base nature.
Nobody wants to admit that they still like *****
and ******** a nice ***
and an amazing pair of blue eyes.
Everyone wants to point out what everyone else
is doing wrong while
hiding behind hashtags and keyboards
like chickenshits.
I’ve had enough of it,
and I’ve narrowed my field of
vision, while widening my perspective
You see, I plan to be the best version
of me that I can be
today
then I’ll do it again tomorrow.
If I knock somebody’s drink in
their lap at some point
in between,
I won’t lose a second’s sleep over it.
I’ll just try to do better on the next pass.
***
-JBClaywell
©2016 P&ZPublications
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
I'm perpetually indifferent to my own distinctive decisions.
What sets me apart from the pack is my lack of care for derision.
The world is on fire, what an elegant effigy.
So I say 'just let em burn if they wanna f--- with me.'
No time for leg pullers or those who rattle cages
Only time for those who chose to write their own history pages.
The stages I have crossed to play these different characters
Have been destructive in the way they allow me to break barriers
Harriers couldn't cruise over me and spot my directives
Because too many unanswered questions have me playing detective.
It's suggested that in darkness the good's inherently evil
but at least without the light you don't see the ugliness of people.
and I don't mean their faces with no cover up or blush
I mean they don't stop to help someone in need cause of their rush
lushes have become the focal point of social structures
so the male population has pants with flies about to rupture.
So much is fare of the flesh that now it's a flesh fair
and it is encouraged to have no respect and just stare
and we're determined to mix up some smoke in clear air
and we're demanding new jeans that are made with rips and tears.
and I'm aware of crazes and fads I'm not mad
as in I'm not crazy but this craziness makes me sad
I'm at a cross like plaid but this is more like forked roads
I am locked in online without any exit nodes,
I am inside the safe but no one else knows the codes,
so I am me by design 'cause I don't know any more modes.
Listen here --> https://soundcloud.com/m_c_vegh/me-by-design
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
Momma took a lot
of stuff to get where
I'm at.
Momma took a lot of hits
and lived with a broken
back.
Momma still works like
a dog,
Momma walked through
rain, and fought through
fog,
But trust me when I say
still to this very day,
even though I stand
as a broken man,
been knocked down
more times than
Mike Tyson.
I'm not bulletproof
or ten feet tall,
but best believe,
I'm as strong
as a brick wall.
I stomp around
with pounding feet
and Momma can always
count on me.
Til the day I die,
with every waking
breath I try.
Pushers and pullers
need to beware,
when ever Momma needs me,
I'll be there.
Oct 3, 2009
Oct 3, 2009 at 6:14 AM UTC
Leave me my rituals
The flesh is an ocean.
The truths are all doorways
As lust is emotion.
The tie-knots are leakers
As passive in search.
My motives are pullers
Leaving me hung in the lurch.
Test me on turnstiles.
Work me on pleads.
I drift only daily.
I want only needs.
Keep safe Your distance.
And I'll keep all my words.
You laid me for power.
And left me for cursed.
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 10:14 PM UTC
Constantly with the old trick,
Look up--see the ceiling is really the floor!
Comfortable with the
Rug Pullers Rag
Enough so that
The feet ask the eyes
To check walls and ceilings for nails
Able to lose or gain any floor
Staying as loose,
As the ceilings, floors and walls may fall.
Feet that leave or land
On any surface.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 5:16 AM UTC
Relentlessly I stab
Counting the wounds on a tab
The red smudges my book
Indicating the lives I took.
Her glassy eyes gazing at stars
Once dreaming of Mars
Now lifeless; preoccupied
With the next big journey of her life.
My own hold nothing.
Murky, clouded and grey
I dream of nothing but cutting
The cords of hope
The ribbon of destiny
The fountain of life, as they call it.
Well, mine already dangles above the pit.
A single snap and the artwork so painfully knit
Tumbles down, glides far
But never fails to crash the tar.
My parents watch.
Moaning, "It's all our fault."
I'm sorry, my sugars
But don't blame the pullers.
My peers gather round.
Their eyes still judging
Their heads still calculating
The times I cried and begged
In the wild games when I was tagged.
My widow, does nothing.
She looks on with pure loathing.
I never did make her life any better
So why did she have to choose the latter?
Finally, I admire myself internally
Restlessly, shamelessly, wearily and calmly.
The beauty of it all touches me
Filling me with delightful remorse
Peaceful insanity and muted roars.
If this is what it takes for a flame to explode
Then send me the code
To living in silent mode.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
Harry sensed that all the lever pullers
were in action
he thought that the job
gave them so much satisfaction
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
Cook our intelligence
Look at the belligerent
Hate filled hornet nest
Continent of ****** pest
Fumigation of the U S
litigation red tape
when a sticky red fate
gets caught on tape
Oppression communicate
When killers walk out gratis
CIA, FBI, NBC, All of them be
Lying to me, cause the tv told me
this was the nation of the free
**** that we are a nation of slaves
Haven't evolved since yesterdays
Declaration freedom from tyrants
Then drove the natives to tears
Never equal when they see ants
Regicide of a king who had a dream
Martyr the leaders to slow the steam
Now the nation burns its mainstream
ACAB, SRA, BLM, All of them be
Talking to me, cause life told me
That freedom it ain't really free
Data stream use instant transmission
Every one, one team with one mission
Can silence a king how about a nation
All chasing the dream of compassion
Fighting mace and tears with passion
While our president hides in his residence
Plotting with pence on building a fence
And Biden forgets he was the antecedent
Passed in 1997 military gear to the precinct
Two party election, its insanity or compliance
That trump boy works with Geppetto
Puppet and toy to masters he echos
Funny money, president to get dough
String pullers they really made a show
Now the polls they swinging so low
But Biden's another flunky
Dancin to the biddin of ******
Oligarch kings of the country
Sayin dance you ****** donkey
**** the country till it walks funny
Scared of the protest they cant contest
Plants in the crowd to **** interest
Cant fold wont be fooled by insects
Declare a war on our country's best
Commit war crimes in blue vests
I don't know where our future will go
But if we keep movin and never slow
Where we're goin is better than now
Yesterdays wounds will heal I know
This nightmare could end tomorrow
Maybe this was never the land of the free
But it could be if we wanted it to be
If we plant the seed nurture it and see
Keep it safe from greed's insanity
Nurture it with bodies of the bourgeois
Jun 28, 2020
Jun 28, 2020 at 8:38 PM UTC
.
A year old storage written optimal
Expressed gratitude reflect optical
Formal extensions remained original
Developed to produce the instrumental
A record tender date functionality
Insanity holes to cleanse reality
Envious entries are a good ally
knocked actions were a rally
Handbill desire a drag is a release
Deep in my forest the pulse at ease
The centre complimented the list of big deals
You squeeze it breaks the cover ream
You flip the odds outcome you lean
A battle portrays a chance we deem
Behind names covered with uncaptured scenes
Thought birth life time is a read
It happened to be 10 minute clip
Flat and round a compulsive skip
Then it went pause, a mute visit
Pulled is the face dual denials
A manly ignorance the tune with arrivals
Good gestures initiates an approach to gold
A verified platinum boxed thinking is sold
Barcode erased its value is old
Pricetags hanging the cost is bold
Sincere request tuning crowd pullers
Fans remained stationery movers
A scratch is a deep cut laser
Petty formulas binary is a dancer
A skip stops I need a CD changer
Perfect pitch opportunities are a major
Locating is loading an unloading radar
It never alerts an approach to danger
Circle the intro the rest for later
The centre of death initiates middle first
The last line concludes the middle third
180° middle separated
A mourn and a sin liberated
Comparison fathered demos emancipated
Bow down to the theory of the pirated
Clay cemented mistaken for friendship
Heavy a rotation is a power gift
I heard a smell of a burning Tar
An owl clapping from a distance afar
The voice of slavery grants an alter
Events less compatible to time yet late was an arrival
Condolences to efforts
The event was a puking method.
Empty shadows lifts functions
The smell made me float
Exhaling the memory
Matters of the adventure
Until I remembered, I'm an Old Soul.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 3:29 PM UTC
Oh what a day and night I've had
With twists and turns galore
My blisters burn,
And sure, I'm sore,
From walking where the shore...
Had been before.
The water level's rising
And all the advertising says
It's controlled and this was planned
...For the shore to take the land?
No more walks on the sand
"No Swimming" signs now pollute the scene
And the swell, it looks a brownish green
The old blue's a hundred yards out!
...Why, if I had any clout...
I'd tell the string-pullers to straighten up
And keep the waters from filling this cup
Eroding away the lakefront lawns
From folks that dine on perch and prawns
And dandelion greens and wine
And now they'll have no funds to dine
Way on high the adjusters sit
Deciding where to close the gap
Don't give me that conservation ****
And this tax season you'll get the crap
Kicked out of you
It's sad but true
Someone was chided
And it was decided
And now there's nothing that you can do
But bite your nails and be part of the stew
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 5:54 PM UTC
Dear Readers, thses are my few old memories of Calcutta from my early childhood days, after having reached the milestone on the road side reading 77. Hope you like it ! Best wishes, - Raj, New Delhi.
REMINISCENCE OF A SENIOR SEPTUAGENARIAN
I was born in the early forties during those black and
white days,
When those big old valve radios and gramophones
records played.
The British flag was flying over Calcutta, the city of
my birth.
That first old capital of British India with its horse
and buggy, crowded buses, and tram cars.
The main streets got washed with water hoses from
high pressured hydrants every morning,
And the lamplighter with his ladder lighted the
street gas lights every evening.
Radiograms were a status symbol, and transistor
radios had come decades later.
With rickshaws pulled manually by poor old
rickshaw pullers!
Juke Box played popular songs (during our school
days in the fifties) in ice cream parlors.
Whoever even thought of a TV or a mobile phone,
during those happy hours!
For the Bongs the theatres of north Calcutta was a
classical source of entertainment.
Eye ball contact was meaningful with a hug and a
hand shake, - life remained fully extroverted.
Unlike our present highly advanced Corona days!
No wonder I love that great old South Indian serial
titled the ‘Malgudi Days’!
Like our old songs, those golden days shall forever
remain cherished and nostalgic;
And as a part of a senior citizen’s waking dream!
Now please smile, take a selfie with your I-phone,
and go to sleep!
-Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 3:19 AM UTC
My life, my labour, my lineage;
My time - a favour, a privilege.
My very existence, up for sale;
Watch, as democracy gets impaled.
Sold off, bought by the highest bidder;
Out in the cold, caught in a blizzard.
Meanwhile, loyalties are on sale,
Lives are sabotaged, set up to fail.
Born, reared and raised inhaling dust,
Told to vote, to do so’s a must.
Led to the edge by the undead,
Fueled by secrets best left unsaid.
Sworn in, cheered on, values betrayed,
Victors portrayed, losers dismayed,
Our disillusionment displayed;
We’re in deep **** be ready to wade.
There’s no lust, no zest for life;
There’s no trust, when there is strife.
I see strife aplenty enough;
I see many are acting tough.
Hardened hearts that have come apart,
Forced to live like this, playing a part.
Sold! The entire, impoverished lot;
Sold to the men of the black hand,
The string-pullers, crafting the whole plot.
The world is being auctioned off,
And you are the merchandise,
You are fuel for the enterprise.
You might not believe what I’ve just conceived;
Mark me as read, a fake ‘message received’.
You might look away, maybe take a day off;
I won’t, I can’t, I mustn’t.
There’s no time for going soft.
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 5:02 AM UTC
wiping the outside off my face with a soapy tissue,
I wash my hair,
get dressed
and head to dinner.
coffee and the smell of cigarettes
from an European couple at the next table,
I am letting myself have alone time.
not writing much about anything,
only occasional "i'm here"s
and "i'm there"s
in my notebook.
waiting for the cab at an empty-ish street
of returning bicyclists and slow cart-pullers,
I felt the ocean crashing against the insides of me.
just me here,
and red car-lights
reflecting in my eyes.
returning to nothing in particular.
taking off my shoes,
my bracelet,
my shirt;
i'm wiping the outside
off my face.
with my feet up on a glass table
in nothing
but a necklace I know I will struggle to unclasp,
i'm looking at the streetlights in the city from this big hotelroom window; thinking
of asking for another chocolate-coffee for one.
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 5:17 PM UTC