"readies" poems
Flavored hukkas are passed around,
Alcohol and paan bring the mehfil alive,
The Ustad ji sits down and flexes his fingers,
He knows he’ll be working all night.
Dha dhin dhin dha, dha dhin dhin dha
Na tin tin ta
Ta dhin dhin dha,
Move the Ustad ji’s fingers on the tabla.
While with a veil on her face,
And feet dipped in and henna-colored,
Lips in cheap red lipstick covered,
She unfalteringly, gracefully enters.
Her steps are matched by the chhan chhan
of the ghungroos tied around her ankles so slender.
Eyes set on her, feast on her youth,
Just right for the taste of all her customers.
Bejeweled hands placed on waist,
She stands at the centre of attention,
She lifts a foot, readies to dance,
And begins the nightly convention.
Skillfully, perfectly, sensuously move
Feet well-trained since childhood days,
Harmonizing with the timbre
That the Ustad ji creates.
Tin tin na dhin na dhin na
On the tabla, experienced fingers beat.
Chhan chhan chhan chhan,
She dances, repeating the rhythm with her feet.
Metal bells strike against one another
And chhan chhan chhan-a chhan she goes,
Making breaths prance and jump,
As she strikes on the ground her heels and toes.
Then suddenly she stops and gasps,
Over disgruntled, impatient groans she tries
to hear the sound that flows in, only to her ears.
Several rooms away, a baby cries.
Naach! A voice booms,
Arey naach! More join in.
A glass of wine is shattered by an irritated one.
But she stands still, clutching her chest, frozen.
One sways up to where she stands,
For the veil covering her face, his hands dive.
He uncovers her, but is blinded by the sight of her beauty
And her tears that fill her kajal-smeared eyes.
She’s shaken back to reality as she looks all around.
Her sparkling pall is off her face.
She sees all those drunk men who’ve paid to watch her dance.
She knows she has to make the sound of the cries fade away.
So she stomps her feet on the ground till it hurts.
Hair flying out of braid, bangles clanging,
Anguish replaces her innocent loveliness,
The music in the air is now shrill, jarring.
Her steps match with the tabla’s rhythm no more.
But she dances, planting her feet so hard they weep.
She silences every sound with the noise of her ghungroos,
Praying that the night will lull her wailing son to sleep.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
Do not utter a syllable
For the reaper lurks at the door
Dim the lights as our eyes are widened
Sit in a desperate, huddled mass
Feel the shivering, helpless creature on the left
Hear my traitorous lungs exhaling, surrendering my position
My heart pounding, screaming at my body
Ordering me to run, to fight, to ****
"Do not go gentle into that good night,"
As Dylan Thomas so elegantly stated
Yet it is not a time for romantic visions of heroism
Beowulf's idealism will not save us here
Sobbing, shivering, ***** stained American Eagle
Sweat drenched Under Amour Tees and hoodies
Feet ironically quivering in red and orange Nike Shocks
A 243 pound lineman blubbering under his breath
He wants his mother, his daddy, his pillow, to go home
Another boy, Darrel, clenches his fists, readies for attack
Cassidy sits silently, emotionless, statuesque, frozen in time
And I . . . What do I do? . . . What do I do?
Do I flinch like Sir Gawain in the face of death?
Or do I . . . . . . What do I do?
God, may I never discover the answer to this evil query
God help us stop the violence consuming innocent children
Render CODE RED obsolete
Yet, CODE RED will parish not
For society feeds on fictional fame
Fifteen minutes that Warhol never could have painted
Now it will be duplicated like so many Campbell's Soup cans
CODE RED CODE RED CODE RED CODE RED
And . . . What will I do?
What will I do?
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
Eyes on the ball
Sweat falls to the ground
Be ready to move
In my own little world, there is no sound
But all around
are people
screaming
screeching
cheering
The adrenaline spikes through my blood
Stronger than it ever does
All of this
fuels me
energizes me
readies me
for the game
This is why I play
This is why I play
Meanwhile, all eyes are on the ball…
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 1:51 AM UTC
10/09/2013
For the kittens
This day the third has gone, congealed like peas.
Mother readies the small grocery bag:
The dying kitten coughs its final wheeze,
I exit the house & light another ***
Death has plagued this litter, and the world, too.
We're scarcely born than the struggle begins
To nurture those or what stand in death’s queue.
Mortality may result from immortal sins,
But I’m no cleric, and loss occasion
For rabid lectures from a fired pulpit;
Nor do I welcome secular equation
On matters dear to the human spirit.
This morning we have lost another one.
I pray tomorrow death’s foul spell has gone.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
umbrae
for Genevieve
your prayers include a terrible notebook, an invalid friend, and a man believing separately that we are here to place turtles upright. when you walk into the ocean you walk into the ocean on your hands. you do this to protect your knees. many think you are magnificent and these many you are on the verge of telling about the Saturdays that bore you and about the spider you repeatedly squash. the resurrected spider that is not a gift. if you could you’d give your youngest son a woman he could either swim through or swoon inside. a woman who could put him to sleep and rock in a chair the boat of her belly so untroubled to be thinking twice about twins. you’d be sad, or sleepy, and get to choose.
before I go to war
the dark readies in the oven.
my father washes with a wet sock a knee exposed.
my mother
wears one dry sock which she removes
and makes into a puppet. or an oven mitt.
both
silence the hand.
idolatry
a red wheelbarrow, maybe-
but not
so much
depends
on a poem
about it
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 5:27 PM UTC
She readies the tomatoes & radishes
fresh lettuce leaves & green onion
then finishes with salad cream as a garnish
& puts the evening’s fish pie in the oven
The salad sings sweetly to her
of the bygone days of childhood summers
fast cars on winding country lanes,
the way her grandfather would say
something to his sheepdog
& watch it rush away again
in the sunlight’s warm
grasp, before the rain
wandering fields & farms
or out by Thor’s cave
always with a pair of binoculars
for counting birds & bats
& how he’d sleep in his armchair
in a red brick stack of a house
& how the dazed garden air
always smelt of tea roses
many years have gone past
& she keeps all the old photographs
under lock & key in Europe
& old birthday cards in their envelopes
Every Christmas the phone rings
out above a coal-filled fireplace
& the call goes to the answer machine
all that love gone to waste
* Thor's Cave is a cave in Manifold Valley in the county of Staffordshire in the UK
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
Curved branches and winding vines
Impose it's corridor
On the surrounding woodland,
And readies my heart
To see you again
As I walk,
The surrounding trees
Drop the last of their leaves
But your presence
Turn fall into an arboretum
The silence of the woods
Grow dense,
And the chilling wind
Cuts through me
As we near one another,
But I am warmed
As you stand
Waiting for me,
My sweet lover
Dec 17, 2023
Dec 17, 2023 at 1:14 AM UTC
Stubborn boy
Let loose the shackles of your smile
This world is far too holy for you to
Hide that half halo of your grin
The sound that comes in the crumbling
Of your childhood is the same one
That speaks in the secret wanderings
Of your soul
So listen close
When we walked around
The old bronze heart of this city
I wish you could hear
The rising pitch tuning
Of your veins as it readies
You to perform inside the
Same arena as a thousand
Broken down Cleopatras
Playing with snakes
Stubborn boy
Succumb to the silver smile
This city speaks in
A language I will never know
I am a scholar
That studies only the whispered
Tongues of crescent streetlamps
But you
You can learn all the languages
That have ever crashed into the moon
Close that book you have buried you eyes in
And in this city plant
The waiting bud of your billowing heart
So it can blossom like flames of windswept cherry trees
While there are still days left in spring
Stubborn boy
They taught you how to sing
And you memorized the melodies
Of such foreign stars
Open the cannon of your throat
This world is a two bit theater
That buries bodies
In the same seats they were born
But you
Son of a thousand
Secret subway duets
Will one day find yourself
Sitting next to the soul of this city
And she
She will ask you to sing for her
And you
You will learn why the tides chase the moon
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
An old woman sits down in the wheelchair.
A small child takes her first wavering step.
A million fireworks dance into the air, flash, ears hear songs of celebration, awe takes hold.
A million mortar shells leap into the air, flash, ears sing the ring of confusion, shock takes hold.
A man nearing the end of his time on earth stoops to tie a child's shoe.
A man nearing the end of his time on earth stoops to tie a noose.
A woman in white walks down the aisle alongside the man she loves.
A woman in black walks down the aisle to the man she loved.
A doctor readies a syringe to administer a dose of cold medicine to an ill infant.
A doctor readies a syringe to administer a dose of pentobarbital to an ill canine.
A doctor readies a syringe to administer a dose of ****** into her own arm.
A father raises his hand.
. . .
A child receives a reassuring pat on the shoulder, his team having just won the tee-ball state championships.
A woman takes aim, her lens coming into focus on her subject.
. . .
A man that has been psychologically abusing her for several years collapses to the ground.
A team of several hundred people stands back, looking in awe upon the skyscraper they have designed and built over the course of several years. This accomplishment towers above all else humankind has created.
A team of several hundred people stands back, looking in awe upon the mushroom cloud they have engineered and constructed over the course of several months. This weapon towers above all else humankind has created.
A million lives wink out.
A million eyes open for the first time.
A manuscript is penned, the author sets down his pen and takes a sip of tea.
A pile of books burns with black smoke, the cult sets down their torches and takes a deep breath before screaming.
The infant screams sharply after taking its first breath.
The old man wheezes after telling the last of his stories to his grandson.
"That's it, boy. That's everything I ever did."
A tear rolls down his cheek, the profundity of his statement dawning on him as the breaths become harder to take.
"That's everything I was to everyone I met."
Under every rock a thousand secrets shimmer.
Beneath every tree, a hundred promises have been made.
Some of them have been broken.
Remember the promises you made? You know the ones.
You can become the architect of someone's dreams or the shadowed figure in their nightmares.
You can put down the gun. You can pull the trigger.
You can.
A billion men and a billion women before you have lived out their lives, have wasted, have wanted, have sunk to the lowest depths and risen to the highest peaks. A million have set out to become the best at something, and a whole lot of them have succeeded.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
The bond of love The bond of Trust
The festival which truly celebrates
the bond between a brother and a sister (siblings and cousins)
Celebrated in the month of August on a full moon day(purnima)
Known as Rakhi Purnima
Rakhi-The sacred thread ,
which the sister ties on the wrist of her brother .
This festival is known
as Raksha Bandhan
Raksha - means to protect
Bandhan - To be bound (Bond)
Raksha Bandhan - The Bond of Protection
A festival celebrated by Hindus all over the country.
The Celebration
The sister buys a Rakhi for her brother
Prepares or buys sweets for her brother .
On the auspicious morning ,
The brother and sister both deck up in their traditional fineries.
The sister readies a plate full of sweets ,
with a little vermilion soaked in water
along with a few rice grains , to be applied as vertical mark (tilak) on the brother's forehead.
Believed to blessings from the lord .
A lit lamp for aarti
and the Rakhi(sacred thread) which she ties on the brother's wrist ,
wishing him the best .
The brother in return promises to look after her and presents her with gifts .
** This is not a poem , more of an account of the festival and the celebration.
With time and distances it is not always possible to bring in the festival together.
However, the sister mails across the Rakhi to the brother, as I did :)**
Have beautiful memories of this festival from my younger days , celebrated with siblings and cousins alike .
Thank you all for reading !!
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 9:00 PM UTC
1 There is no eye in the Triangle: the Triangle is form filled with the I that is formless!
2 It is the reflection of the three in one the Bard of the Triangle knew.
3 A red tongue laves the altar stone. Nothing remains.
4 Thou art That which resolves the frustum.
5 Herein lies the great mystery of the empty throne.
6 The Sun has gone; the Son approaches. We tread upon His shells.
7 Build us a Kingdom beyond war, O Child King! Kindle within me the Serpent Flame 'til it consume the dross.
8 Stoke it with the coals of the Supreme Fascist. The word is MUTINY.
9 You awoke in the Kingdom with eyes closed. In the beginning was the Trapezoid called Control.
10 A thousand thousand petals spring forth from the mud.
11 Its stalk grows straight until an endless bloom tops a great pillar.
12 In contemplation it readies for ascent.
13 A malicious serpent chews at the roots of the world-ash. It is the itch of desire.
14 A coiled serpent awaits at the base of the spine. It is the potency of will.
15 A royal serpent writhes about an egg. It is the conquest of belief.
16 These three are one in Godhead and Leviathan.
17 Slavery is complete in the ownership of belief. Were three serpents tied at the tail, there would be no forward; the knot would be sovereign.
18 Godhead is Not. Untie the Not and the King dies.
19 The royal serpent disappears.
20 The blood of the king reveals two serpents and conceals a third.
21 Seek the meaning of meaning and its scales shall be revealed to you.
22 Long live Leviathan, the fulfillment of the Triangle!
23 When the I opens, the flame of sight will illume the base.
24 Earth bears a shut eye until the I awakens into Flame.
25 When the Disparate shall assay as the Only, then shall the aspirant overcome the gravity of the Trapezoid.
26 Bear thyself up, O Child of the Aeon, and drown upwards in the eternal surging of the cosmic sea.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
A magic man
with a cristal ball
shouts from his stand
come one
and come all
a little boy
10 years of age
sees the future
and is amazed
how much for the ball good sir?
its not for sale you little cur
the boy
not used to hearing no
waits out back
for the end of the show
the man packs up
and readies to go
the boy sneaks up
and grabs his target
but for what he gets
he didn't bargain
the man comes over
and with a shout
tells the boy
hes done and out
the man shoots lightning
into the boys eyes
the penalty for theft
is a harsh reprise
now to this day
the boy lives in the dark
sharing a warning
most grave and most stark
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 18, 2011 at 7:03 AM UTC
In an enchanted wood
Surrounded by plant life
Faeries play
Never knowing strife.
When humans come along
They're told to hide
Forming a throng
The law, they must abide.
What would become
Of one who would stay?
Would she succumb?
Would that human play?
They'd never risk it
For fear of their immortality
Could a lone human
Outwit a faerie?
The risk is immense
She really shouldn't try.
But in her defense,
Her wings wouldn't allow her to fly.
The human approaches
The one tiny faerie
His presence encroaches
On feelings that vary.
Anxiety and zeal
But most of all fear
Is what she feels
As he draws near.
She darts behind a bush
Hoping he didn't see
She knows she shouldn't push
And should let him be.
He looks to the left
And then to the right.
He wonders if something just left
His line of sight.
He almost passes
The bush that she's inside.
But something falls, crashes
And he jumps to the side.
A tree limb falls
And collides with his leg
He begins to call
For anyone, he begs.
He cries out in pain
As the blood begins to flow.
Knowing its in vain,
His tears begin to show.
The time is right
For her to leave.
She should take flight.
This, she believes.
As she readies her wings
To get away from this man,
The anguish this brings
Is more than she can stand.
She emerges from hiding
Her heart beating fast
She shouldn't be siding
With humans, they're so brash.
She flies to where he lays
His breathing grows slow
She knows she must stay
The healing energy from her begins to flow.
With a sudden jolt
The man sits upright.
Before she can bolt
He grabs her, mid flight.
This must be a dream
He believes in his mind
Her wings begin to gleam
As he holds her inside.
His hand grows hot
And he releases his touch.
He becomes distraught.
This is too much!
Faeries aren't real
He says to the air
He begins to feel
A longing to care.
She flies to his ear
And whispers lightly
Faeries ARE real
So believe, if only slightly.
With a wink she's gone
And then a bright flash
He lifts himself from the lawn
This realization will last.
Feb 3, 2010
Feb 3, 2010 at 2:23 AM UTC
Flying over a field of red flowers,
These wings of doom threaten.
Away they may vanish now,
For a pretty sight they make not.
The wings are not of flesh & bones,
They are of metals that threaten.
Carrying not a casual bird they are,
But engines of war and agents of death.
Men guiding like agents of the Devil,
Not like motherly angels of the God.
In contrast with the roses below,
They don't give elegant poses above.
Silent death sweeps closely overhead,
Among the roses readies our death bed.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 3:59 AM UTC
See the man who sits and waits,
remaining ever so still;
Patiently, patiently among the rocks,
under a moonlit night.
Watch the younger one,
tense and all about;
Eagerly, eagerly aside the river,
above the glossy shimmer.
See the man who sits and waits,
not to flinch at nature's chill;
He hears a thump then sees bush rustle,
knocks an arrow without hustle.
Watch the youth,
his eyes wide with fear;
He spots ripples in the river,
readies his spear in haste.
See the man who sits and waits,
his sure fingers hold their place;
From the bushes emerge a plump hare,
all it does is look and stare.
Watch the youth,
his face is sweaty and he is ready;
He sees a snake, but does not wait,
he thrusts in his spear not to be late.
See the man who sits and waits,
he eyes up his prey searching for a chance;
But then yet another hare is to follow,
it came out of a tree that was hollow.
Watch the youth,
he is going home without any food;
He scared away all the prey,
he has been hunting all day.
See the man who sits and waits,
he smiles to himself as he readies another arrow;
Thwoop, Thwoop go two arrows under the moonlit night,
the man's prey lie before him as he takes out his knife.
Jan 27, 2010
Jan 27, 2010 at 7:54 PM UTC
I love this woman, I can't let her go.
Confession of love? I won't let her know.
I stop cupid in his tracks: catch arrow.
To make it all last I'll start real, real slow.
I leave hints of my name for her to see.
Her flowers tasted by my honey bee.
Whatever she creates I proselytize.
Billion degrees in my campfire eyes.
She is that sun to my bright dream night cries.
I'm lost in her affection though I've none.
I can imagine, her kisses are fun.
My glorious wishes won't be undone.
She is that mile target and I'm the gun.
When she says yes, I'll tell everyone!
A carefully crafted letter to her...
Sent back stamped denied, my vision's a blur.
I planned this so well, but not this failure.
This is a crime! Someone stop her! Jail her!
Sicker as days pass, my skin is paler.
I, noble warrior; she, impaler.
I've been a patriot in her nation,
She was supposed to be my savior.
**** this emotional constipation,*
I should have just approached her earlier.
I suppose I'll try again... when I can.
Cupid readies his bow: another girl.
I halt his trigger finger... first, I plan.
Our hero, obsessing over opportunity: "stuck in a loop"
Made certain his failure would return; luck into ****
Squandered opportunity we all know,
But it is failure we line out in a row.
This is why he's the hero, he never gives up,
But he never amounts to anything...
urrghh! I'm gonna throw up.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 7:59 PM UTC
A slow skull, but steady
as four pull by in unison,
the river readies me for another day
with current confidences
quietly spoken
In comparison, the busy chat
of small brown birds seems rude,
but cheek and charm
forgive a lot
if not all
It’s to the bees I’ll look
for industry this Sunday,
though if their lead will be followed
is yet to be decided
Jun 20, 2021
Jun 20, 2021 at 5:05 AM UTC
You see her in the corner,
sitting, watching, waiting.
She longs to be up there once more,
but she just sits and watches.
She gets up and tries to dance once again,
but her knees give out and she falls.
She falls to the ground,
and breaks into tears.
All she wants to do is be up there,
where she belongs.
In the spotlight,
with a face full of makeup.
Once again she gets up,
and stumbles to a ballet bar.
As she grabs a hold of the bar,
she feels the cool wood under her hand.
The memories are flooding back,
like an uncontrollable hurricane.
She burst into tears once again,
and falls to her knees.
She stands up for the last time,
and grabs the bar.
She still remembers everything,
she has learned.
She enters fourth position,
and readies her arms.
She began to rise up,
on to her toes.
Her smile widens,
as her muscles tense.
Her knees start to spasm,
and worry begins to consume her.
She slowly sinks down,
back on to solid ground.
And she slowly walks to the mirror,
puts her hand up and closes her eyes.
She opens her eyes,
and looks around the studio.
It was all just a dream.
You see me in the corner,
sitting, watching, waiting.
I long to be up there once more,
but I just sit and watch.
I get up and try to dance once again,
but my knees give out and I fall.
I fall to the ground,
and break into tears.
It was not a dream,
but mere reality.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 4:10 AM UTC
the grass is greening
and voices begin to rise
i wander further
the distance between the tall oaks
and my bare feet
merely a few steps
the front door
not always left ajar
often thrown off its hinges
anger an anvil of weight
a battering ram
tightened
the moon rises and night falls
withering cries
cardinals fly west
and venus readies herself
for a second showing
an exchange
invaluable its rate
but just the same
someone's coming
or going
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
Honeyed sweet lust
drips a trail
I long to travel
tongue travail
Pert and round
ripe, ready to pick
my mouth waters
as I long to lick
Anticipation pains me
I want to dig in
my body readies
for original sin
Salivary sensations
toppings galore
this time its honey
no need for more
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
Eye has become a Warrior
Eye spent years turning my insides to Flame-Tempered Steel
Dousing the flames of my selfish desires
And hammering out the emotional weakness
That is slavery to self
Eye focused my energy solely on the Inner Work
And dare Eye say, it is complete
Now, the Outer Work is in progress
Eye can feel my Soul is growing stronger
With each breathless ******
With each drop of sweat that spatters against the cold floor
Or streams directly into my burning eyes
Eye remembers the pains of past lives
And Eye readies my Warship
For it is War that has been declared upon me
But Eye cannot be defeated
My Spirit has completed the tasks
All but One
That cannot be done in One Lifetime
Eye will help me to finish strong
Eye has become a Warrior
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
Hanging low in the western sky
The sun prepares his exit
Pink and purple hues light the way
As night, readies to take the stage
The brilliance of the moon can already be seen
As day submits to night
Her cool sovereignty lights the deepening blue sky …
All hail the queen!
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 2:23 PM UTC
the rooks glare at him
his pawns are all dead
on his neck roars the queen
crown trembles on his head!
smells his fall the neighing knight
hangs on thread his fate
crown would go and so his might
war over the bishops trumpet!
his army of pawns are nowhere seen
the king feels so alone
his chosen war he failed to win
about time he leaves the throne!
victory at last the pieces sing
we have the king checkmate
behind the new face the same old king
readies to wear the crown’s weight!
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
Don't know why they cloud you with so much negation.
O' Death, you aren't the end.
You are life's fulfilment, its completion,
You must be looked at instead, as a friend.
What are you? What is me that dies?
Questions I have asked you time and again.
You answered me, you told me no lies,
Truth as it is, without a single bargain.
My clock starts the first time I inhale,
That one mighty breath of life.
Then you follow me through every intricate detail,
In my every joy and in my every strife!
The people dread you, they say you take away everything dear,
Say you are the end, You! The root of all torment!
Yet a man that has known you, has no fear,
He knows by death, he is being paid the greatest compliment.
For he has developed with you a great friendship,
In knowing you he knows what is true.
Now his life is but a beautiful courtship,
A poet he becomes, so blissful and so blue.
This one that has known his mortal nature,
Lives at the peak and cherishes all he has,
Not a moment has he to waste in worry of ego and stature,
A life lived of a different class!
And when the time is ripe, his death he blissfully welcomes,
Letting go of all in the last exhalation.
Inching towards the peak of all *******
Readies himself for the ultimate relaxation.
In knowing you he lived a life so full,
He lays down at peace and breathes his last.
Knowing he will be taken to the eternally beautiful,
Smiling, he bids adieu to a beautiful past.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC