"queries" poems
You ask me a query,
You ask, "Where Are You, Honey?"
I have an answer for you,
I say, "I'm inside your heart, honey."
You let it extend, your doubt,
You implore, "But why is it so hazy?"
I fire a ******* in response,
I say, "It's hazy because you're lazy!"
You smile but get perplexed by now,
You ask, "Will you stay if moving on I fail to?"
I am mature and couth,
I say, "I find no reason good enough to not to."
You wonder to yourself,
You ask, "Where from I got you?"
I remind you that I came back,
I say, *"I consider it my responsibility to imbue your life with the brightness,
The light lacking in your life,
And to provide you with warmth,
So that you are free from your shivers,
And so that you can be my wife,
I want to fill that void in your day,
Maybe I was sent back only for you,
On your mother's recommendation,
And so wise was her receptivity,
I know that I am a man of my words,
Surely I will make it large for us,
And you are such a hardworking lady,
Our children will have it healthy,
And they will surely have it wealthy,
The wealth won't just be material,
But they will be taught fine civility."*
You now ask me your final query,
You ask, "Who will be their tutor?"
I smile and simply end this discussion,
I say, "Obviously, me and you."
Even you are satisfied by now,
You smile & say, "I love you, honey."
I hear what I have been longing to,
I say with a broad smile, "I love you too, honey."
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 11:11 PM UTC
When will I realize that I wasn't the main character of a movie
That I can never be a part of people's memories
When will I realize I'm not a supporting character of a tv series
That I'm only important when people have queries
When will I realize I'm not a scenery nor a sound effect
When will I realize that I'm only a credit scene
The unattractive, full of words, boring, credit scene
The scene people will never pay any attention to
The scene where words are so small, you don't hear me crying
The scene where people say, "thank you for making this show"
But never really remember the names
When will I learn to love myself as a credit
When will I learn to accept that a credit is just as important
Even though I'm boring, unattractive and unwanted
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
Do you know how hard it is to watch the person you love, love someone else?
Do you even see the pain in my eyes when I look at you?
I am so close, I can touch you, I can feel you
but I can never have you.
There were queries left unanswered.
Excruciating pains that my heart felt when I am with you
and you're thinking of her.
You kiss me like I was her.
You made me her replacement but until the end,
I can never be her.
You can never love me.
I can never feel your love.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 10:04 AM UTC
Those sparkling eyes, that charming smile
That countenance full of love
You cast a spell on everyone,
Innocence, you are a child!
Your naughty pranks, your witty lies,
Your cries and your giggles
I have no answer to your endless queries
Innocence, you are a child!
You know no caste, you know no creed
You know no envy and pride
You put to shame, men at war
Innocence, you are a child!
I watch you sleep, undisturbed
A picture of serenity!
With a smile on your face and a tear in your eye
Innocence, you are a child!
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 5:09 AM UTC
He struggles and ponders,
reads and re-reads,
My markers fail before his eyes,
his naivety takes over,
A fruit? he queries,
I burst out in laughter,
Can be, I agree, but I await for more,
he peruses and my ribs tickled,
amused and curious, I stayed,
at his innocence that shined.
A Mango! he exclaims!
No! I equally enthused
'A woman, a fruit,
delicious and mystical,
for a man who craves'.
'Oh' the meek sigh, a tiny sound,
concurred or dissent, I know not,
In a flash came a verbal rebuff,
back to his annoying self.
He annoys and appeases,
A friend I have known for years,
Mine forever, I know for sure,
no matter what he says.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 5:50 AM UTC
Strange question indeed,
So I asked one and all;
Explain to me:
“What's a plumber's ball?”
Family and friends
Heeded my call,
But none could confine,
Refine or define it,
Yet Paul was sure
He could design it.
Still, none could satisfy
My caterwaul:
“What the hell is a plumber's ball?”
Does it sweat the pipe
Or wiggle the snake:
Can it clamp the ******
For Heaven's sake?
Could it snap on the cock-hole cover?
All these queries
Made me wonder.
Has it something to do
With hardness leakage,
Or ******** the ball-cock
To stop a seepage?
Has it anything to do
With a saddle valve dripping,
Electric eels,
Or two pipes mating?
And, I heard of male and female fittings,
And should I worry
If I'm standing or sitting?
If you're discharging the head
Or elongating the pipe,
Does the plumber's ball
Help it snug tight?
Is it in my tank,
Or in my bowl,
Beneath the floor
Near the drainage hole?
Is the plumber's ball
In the back of the truck
(Jeff laughed and said
One could rub it for luck).
I asked Michel
If he could tell,
He sensed it was something
He could smell.
I sought out Ray,
Perhaps he'd know,
But he was on call
To restrain a back-flow.
I couldn't ask Gary
For his wisdom and sense,
He was wigglin' the snake
To unclog a wet vent.
Henry, Rick, Scotty and Brian,
Gave shameless answers
I couldn't rely on.
It's not a crapper, tail piece
Or Johnnie-bolt,
Or catch basin, reamer,
O-ring or pipe dope.
So I searched the Net
With a fool's wonder,
And read of ball-checks,
Gas ***** and plungers.
I know it's too late
To ask Rolly or Ross,
For both of them knew,
And that's our loss.
And Ernie's gone golfing
So I can't ask the Boss.
With final resolve
I fell to my knees,
To pray St. Ferrer
With grace intercede.
His silence left me
In a state of depression;
Had Ferrer washed his hands
Of the plumbing profession?
So nothing could settle
My wherewithal,
I still didn't know,
What's a plumber's ball?
Suddenly, it hit me,
He's never wrong,
The Dalai Lama of dip-tubes,
I'll ask John.
Where others did falter,
John's a rock:
He knows the difference
Between a gas and ball ****
With a knowing smile
He embraced our Hall:
Here, good friend, is your Plumbers' Ball.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
Somedays I think of how I will wait until the skin drops from my bones
To tell myself that I am beautiful
She will be there at 5 foot 2 the smallest skyscraper ever
Gleaming shades of tan and amber
Defending the shape of her thighs and the queries of guys.
Disallowing herself to be patronized
I won't need you anymore
I will love myself, in fair or morose health
For when your hands shall leave my *******
I won't even feel the ghost of your caress
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
Google is the gift for
An inquisitive student,
Who is in search to
be knowledgeably potent.
Although it makes
One so dependent,
It bestows erudition
That is too consistent.
Google serves us with mail,
That saves our time to sail.
It’s services like the maps
Leaves a stranded person to bridge the gaps.
Gaps? Yes, it bridges the gaps
With all its possible apps,
The interests of the public
And concepts of the prolific.
When Google well handed
Our queries have added,
Whose possible solutions have multiplied,
For which the efforts been phenomenally divided.
With the transforming technologies
In this world of transience
Google has procured
Its own state of omnipresence.
Thus, Google has become the tool
With which the user can rule.
It endows as a surfing equipment
Hence, Google is the gift for a Student.
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 7, 2020 at 1:40 AM UTC
Nudge a numb cockroach and he'll love you for life
just ***** little lemonheads
can't actually survive a nuclear explosion
but can cause catastrophic evolutionary queries
like "Why do the good die young?"
Can you believe
that long ago only the bad died elderly
and were witches with elixirs
potions and spells to make God blush and his **** turn to mush
so powerful
they made people go crazy with
judgement and micromanaging
but I'm the real witch
right-o I ride broomsticks and eat toads for snacks
my back is a lump of coal from the Devil's morning hookah
smoke billows from my ears
cockroaches my best friends
we cut off our heads and run into fridges
my pelvis is frigid except
for those **** roaches.
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 6:43 PM UTC
There's that sunset
Where you'd
Look
upon
The horizon
and watch the sky
pull a symphony of colors
Where the atmosphere and clouds
simply refract light;
creating an array of complex hues
the sky became emphatic
to show off it's beauty
That was today
There's that sunset
Where you'd
Look
Upon
The horizon
And see the clouds move
slowly and yet hastily
And despite the Coriolis,
the clouds form shapes
And represent
such figures to you
whether human, animal, or object
It reminds you of
memories, places, people
That was today
There's that sunset
Where you'd
Look
Upon
The horizon
And just look at the grandeur of it
Where you cannot tell where
The sky ends and the earth begins
no trace of the sun nor the moon
Like the earth felt God's redamancy
and God felt the Earth's
and our worlds finally became one
That was today
There's that sunset
Where you'd
Look
Upon
The horizon
And the moment you lay your eyes Upon it
all the questions, all the queries
finally become answered to
like quantum theory and "beauty"
ultimately became understood
like you now have an answer
to your most enigmatic problem
That was today
I looked upon that sunset
I have an answer
I finally have an answer
I now have an answer
That was today
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
Oh Honored,
and Everything shall be done
so still as the rising sun
an enmity of good and evil
a creole out place for all ages
and lo his nights are sacrosanct than days
yet thee remained Avant
than ever more so could change
thus, change forge to my heart
like rebels facing an empyrean, a tragic dream
As their ethereal mind queries;
Could Silence be heard?
Could Uproar be held?
Could Tranquility be forever still?
Could A Wayward be in place evermore?
A life so query,
a mind so wild as spirit so free
for youth is ****** to be astray
and still continues to find its way
Yet in its Maker thee will know...
what lies beyond the depths of shallow springs
what message can be read in papers of blank
and what eyes can see when the world is blind
Am I affront to pry?
when I query for once was mine....
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 12:27 PM UTC
With Goal in the mind
you focus your card,
Forgetting days nights
and working so hard,
What ever has come in
the target your way,
You have always strived
to keep it at bay.
Resources are albeit
but skimpy and low.
You Seldom get worry
and never you bow.
While eating and moving
or going for walk,
You put your attention
on measures you talk.
Virtues that you own
not common in mass,
Seldom are found and
tough to surpass.
Perhaps is the reason
why I have regard,
Your focus certainly
deserves this reward.
But often I doubt
your fire your zeal,
Queries comes to mind
this what I feel.
Is it your passion that
makes you work hard?
Or Else is pushing you
jumping the yard?
Since I have also seen
a victim a prey,
In forest jumps hard
when lion on way.
Just see if guilt,Fear ,
doubt and remorse?
are not controlling
your action of course?
Ajay Amitabh Suman
All Rights Reserved
Dec 11, 2021
Dec 11, 2021 at 9:46 PM UTC
Manipulating information
To craftily plot your lore
Is necessary if you want
To continue an information war.
Specific example: Deny Russian
Collusion and interference in
U.S. elections, and do not stop
Seeking info that you can spin.
After months of denying Russian
Cyber attacks and election meddling,
Then admit the possibility
Through a little backpedaling.
Say that well…maybe they meddled,
But hastily add: so did others.
Say you'd still end all queries
And probes if you had your druthers.
It's vital, of course, that you keep
Bashing the press. Be sure to accuse
Investigative journalists
Of making up tons of fake news.
Finally, say the Russians will
Interfere in the U.S., and that's
How in elections this November
They plan to help the DEMOCRATS!
Why? Because you're so hard
(Wink!) on Russia. You'll be winning.
Your fawning fans will eat it up,
And you will have all heads spinning.
Your friends on your favorite TV station
Will help you criticize and demean
Those who don't agree with you.
Praise to your propaganda machine!
Who cares what the world thinks?
You've got your fans; you've got your base.
There's no match for a stable genius
Who says to the world, "In your face!"
-by Bob B (7-25-18)
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
Call me to the mountains once more,
Oh sweet, murmuring gusts,
And remind me who I am.
Sweep up my laughing toes to the tops
Of these proud outcrops
Then give my breath to the dome
When after looking out, I see my city,
But not my home.
Bring forth the rich perfumes
of startling everything-ness from the valleys,
And after I have drunk the proud skirts
of these verdurous hills,
Let your sweet touch guide me up,
and pin my head to my scoping bed.
Then hush, let me be as I espy
My gentle, distant, giant lovers,
Dependably rising from the East,
with supernal gossiping
for my cognizance alone.
Let me imbibe their wisdom
until all my queries and qualms
slip from my eyes,
dissolving into secrets
and thanks beyond measure.
One last request, my swift-flowing friend,
Wipe these wet lessons from my face
And carry their essence to the edge
To Karman,
And meet the angel who waits without air
To carry my cosmic missives there
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 5:54 AM UTC
blood
blood patter and splash
leads us concrete toward
tracing back til the scene
i’ve flashing thoughts of the brutality
the violence that must of cussed
between persons
in fear fray and inebriation
down the steps
my four year old child and I go
the greasing bleed in bronze putters
growing and leadening
on stone labours
glowing citrus the refrigeration
of the underpass
‘flips the bird' at the summer blaze
grey dead coral bricks of urination
seasoned in deep beading now cold
the broke up weapon
candy slates of brittle teeth
glass / bottle / beer /brown
the neck its' hilt
and the main mud of the bleeding
the flies are the thing
that bothers my ‘little nipper’
usually a flapper of queries on repetition
no other queries are raised
just eager for the vibration
of train carriages gatling over our heads
i stopper any words i may have on the matter
he holds my hand with his hot hand
we progress under a port arms
procession of caged floodlights
and walled in by fresh graffiti
fingers dripping retching for the guttering
Dec 22, 2023
Dec 22, 2023 at 3:05 PM UTC
Walking in the sand
Seems so bland
leaving footprints where we stand
It doesnt matter what we say
it will all get washed away
but its our DNA
Its in memories
In the stories
that hides our queries
The little one
that will run
when we are done
The footprints in the sand
of a little boys hand
who will go up to be a man
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 11:32 AM UTC
Dark and desperate caves fill our destiny,
Continuously moulded by the hands of white horses.
We shall pledge our allegiance here,
And I will finally become one with your forces.
Ships and ships of cargo pass through,
Carrying only our thoughts and queries,
Stopping only for the wise and free spirits,
And starting their journey whence the worries.
Can I meet the blue spirit that lives here?
If to ask for something so simple, so special.
Lagoons lie outside and ****** us with golden sands,
But temptation cannot withhold how we feel.
Will you...
Will you?
Only if to find my weakness,
Only if to be beaten,
And a tie commences which penetrates us.
Like children opening eyes to the new world,
We dance inside and emotions are spilled.
We cry so softly, echoes of joy are heard.
Stepping from these dark and desperate caves,
The moon congratulates our arrival to Earth.
Pacing every step with golden statues surrounding us,
But not millions are as valued as what you're worth.
The sun cannot replace you,
The moon cannot compare.
Without you I can't do,
All I need is you to be near.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 7:41 AM UTC
Tiptoe timidly,
oh my tongue.
Speak not the words
That toe on your tip.
Swallow the surplus,
you swift little thing,
And mind that these slivers
Are given to slip.
Forget your fidgeting,
Fingers of mine.
Flee from the keystrokes
You’re fighting to flip.
Quiet your queries,
Your qualms, and questions.
Kith care not for clinging,
Nor for your quips.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:23 AM UTC
The ranch-bound bovines, in dehydration,
yet wary of Kool-aid, declined to drink.
They grazed in wonder, cowed rumination:
where does “beef” come from? A herd tends to think
of pasturage, water, and basic needs.
Ranch-hands assured them all was in order;
privileged guests enjoy the finest feeds.
Cows, content on this side of the border
try Buddhism, yoga – or simply gaze…
though things in the distance loomed ominous
(those lots at the edge of the well-hoofed ways)
– and a stench wafted into their consciousness.
Yet calves frolicked on while the bulls mounted heifers –
dreamed vegan dreams as they nibbled grasses
some earned doctorates, others went clubbing;
all loosed sustainable methane gases.
Soothing their calves with fables and stories
where cows are the measure of pastured life
they deflected the gist of the young ones’ queries,
affirming that Truth means avoidance of strife.
“It’s best to just graze. Don’t ask questions dear.
We’re on this planet without any clue.
We evolved. From just what is a little unclear –
but Cow Science has proved that it’s true.”
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
I walk with ambitious expectations
My head filled with slow frustration
Air around me is radiation
clouding in my lungs
My heart beats like
a steady train
Slow but heavy,
polluting my brain
Everyone around me is evil, or am
I just mad?
Stop looking, stop thinking.
Stop all the foolish
queries.
Doubt and hope and
endless confusion
weighing me down
as I quiver with fear.
I can't, I have to,
I will.
Outside I can breathe,
on my own,
when the bats and
the flies no longer surround
me.
Fresh air so
smooth and clean,
Inside there it's
clouded and thick.
Now I am a bird,
though my wings
will not lift.
The rain starts
to pour but I
cannot shift.
I try and I try but
my bones are too
weak, hollow,
compressed
and my eyesight's
turned bleak.
I realize suddenly,
in all my fear,
that behind me
was my future,
all I hold dear.
Water is rising,
my lungs start
to fill.
I'm no longer
a bird,
but a flower.
No power.
No will.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
busy verbalizing my merchandise
a display of teeth reefed behind my smile
because merchandise is what i am after
and The Revels watch over me
and laughter drains down through sewer grates
i am watched over
my potential client walks away
but returns again with queries
on this hot day
a smell like burnt hair raises from the gutters
and these are the streets that radiate
on this hot day
an honest clash and not some some touchy bout
and here we are
the costly coil of pushing business together ;
a lively thrive
thrifty **** you"s and a dressing down
circling the other and striking their buttons
interlaced within is a genuine pressing
toward each other goals
this partnership
swiftly made
has an extreme edge and chaotic balance
the both of us must master or abandon our productivity
shall we be served by this union
or sever fighting ?
unfit
it swerves and suffers a pity
let's keep this one brief
we manage business
handshakes
and scowl away with our wares
each of us feeling equally scammed
(we've made useful enemies at best)
i break out laughing all the same-how
and howl because i feel
that feeling that this could go on forever
and business has roots in all my moods
i crouch at the curb
the curb is abrasive
i sit
i look at the dry heat radiating off the tarmac
the slight greasy lime taste of the air passing
the roof of my mouth
the electric wires running hum into the buildings
the storm drains at the edges of the roads
where laughter siphons down to the magma of Hades
it is waning off now
and i feel vague
i stand and i scan for more players
i spot a vivid orange one
one that i may barter their aura of vigour
traded for my sketchy wares
Mar 12, 2022
Mar 12, 2022 at 9:55 AM UTC
the bluebird had queries and questions
and thought he should ask the moon,
but the moon was dark that night.
its hood was pulled tight.
the bluebird sighed, and so did the sun.
the sea greeted him with a waving hand.
“bluebird, bluebird up there!
the moon does not speak easy.
having its skin broken too many times.”
the bluebird whistled a sad tune.
“whatever shall i do, when i need the moon?
he will not speak, and i am too weak
to fly to him up there.”
the sea crashed against the rocky shore,
and its response was, “you need not wings,
bluebird, when the moon will come to you.
for when your light falls the moon will rise,
in the darkness it lights the skies.”
the bluebird huffed once again.
“i am not the sun, silly sea.
you mistake my feathers for blue skies,
i am not the stars in the night.”
but the bluebird could not see,
how bright he was to be.
and as he flew away,
the moon began to say,
“your wings are bigger than they seem.
bluebird, do not fret.
our time is to come together yet.
so the bluebird whistled a tune
as his wings expanded and grew,
and lifted him high into the sky,
and to the moon he drew nigh.
he landed among the stars.
bluebird, you will indeed go far.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 11:38 AM UTC
every belief should begin as a seed of disbelief
buried in the soil of doubt
nourished by the incessant rain of queries
that strengthen
and cause the flower to bloom or the fruit to ripen
*ॐ असतो मा सद्गमय ।
तमसो मा ज्योतिर्गमय ।
मृत्योर्मा अमृतं गमय ।
ॐ शान्तिः शान्तिः शान्तिः ॥*
every positive starts off as an embryo of negativity
only the knowledge of the gloom
enhances the wisdom of luminosity
conjoined twins
joined at the hip
cynicism is the parent of change for the better
provided of course
the labour pain is allowed to occur!
*Om, Lead us from Untruth to Truth,
from Darkness to Light,
from Death to Immortality
Om Peace, Peace, Peace.*
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
28.10.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 12:28 PM UTC
weeding ‘n planting,
(ten rows of garlic, waiting to bite caressing hands)
<•>
unsurprisingly to me
garlic native to northeastern Iran,
so says the arbiter-know-it-all, Senor Wikipedia
did you know that,
amongst us,
a young woman whose back
is bent,
bent over,
weeding and weeping, while picking,
retrieving the fruit of the plain earths plane
spending days
retrieving spring-planted bulbs in the sun,
a mysterious poet residing among us
conjuring up poems and, **** even
plants questions
with granted permission
asks a strangers gasping queries
so simple she renders his
body from soul, makes him
disclose his crazy ill-at-ease
showing
his own
general roots,
slumbering deep in reddish brown soul’s earth
one whose only great escape
through the written poem
when his back is straight,
straight against the wall
backed up,
and ripe for the picking
in reparation
the favor will be returned
three inquiries will be fedex’d
if I ever learn her address
for now, in the throes of soil resting within,
my need knowings just nurturing
until the calendar declares time!
harvesting is now
when we ready shake hands
when you say
“here is the garlic tended,
and here are our hands,
bitten and caressed”
till such time I get
the answers from
the farmer herself,
I can patient wait
further research needs
original sources,
till such time,
make up tales
that will hold in abeyance
my half contented garlic dreams
for was it not written centuries ago:
Even After All this time The Sun never says to the Earth, "You owe me." Look What happens With a love like that, It lights the whole sky.
Ḥāfeẓ-e Shīrāzī
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 11:05 AM UTC