"regale" poems
#*Let the evil within be annihilated
And grey be restored
Rejuvenated to vibrancy of colours of love
Dispersion of love and light
Through the prismatic heart
Every soul be washed anew
In colours of the rainbow in mirthful hues
Forgive and forget, past hurt
And in the beauty of love, regale
Let’s celebrate
Holi
The festival of colours, harbinger of spring*#
Mar 20, 2019
Mar 20, 2019 at 4:58 PM UTC
**† † †
A quorum of biblical scholars
turned their doubts into thousands of dollars.
Armed with Document Q
they revealed nothing new
but the dirt neath’ the white of their collars.
A proud “health & wealth” Oklahoman
was renowned as a gospel-tent showman.
While the scriptures he twisted,
their tithing assisted
his rise from poor hick to rich Roman.
A sexually diverse professor
(assured he was not a transgressor)
spoke only of openness
glossing sin’s brokenness;
rainbows and tolerance—yes sir.
A Mormon, who lost his own ephod
Realized he was running quite slipshod
and invoked Joseph Smith.
(Yes, it may be a myth—
but it’s not like misplacing your I-pod…)
A Christian whose faith was prophetic
held to views that were truly pathetic.
This crazed Pentecostal,
not quite an apostle,
had taken an End-Times emetic.
A sober and staid Presbyterian
was distrustful of thoughts millenarian.
After smoking some bud,
he awoke with a thud;
in his sleep he’d become Rastafarian.
A preacher who fleeced his disciples
overdrew his own balance of scruples.
He was finally captured
(defrocked and un-raptured)
and rent by his destitute pupils.
A sister who waxed Pentecostal,
mistook herself for an apostle.
Speaking pure glossolalia
she sure could regale ya’
with prophecy; crazy—but docile.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
ken not the
vive la différence!
entre les deux,
these two bed and head chambers,
for all poets are seducers,
regardless of *** race, creed or color
when first we employ our working, yeoman vocabulary,
we plain start,
to relate but not to regale,
the whom we are,
hoping our moments unique,
will breach the boundaries
of our collective commonality connectivity,
and find human receptivity
thus, the seduction of self commences
though every possible combination of words has somewhere been inscribed and committed, we ****** ourselves
(the seduction of poetry)
with potions of notions that we are and always be our
first, and now soon forever,
yours as well
of course, we are, it's true,
our very own first admirer & lover,
having conquered the hillock of self,
see the universe expanding and the
****** need to conceive
and prowess to please
beyond the beyond with
the poetry of seduction
do not want your body, heart or soul,
commitment, allegiance, vows,
sacred or profane,
all such in vain
crave your everything,
not even a legal nine-tenths satisfactory
dare not call me arrogant or presumptive,
gaze upon the mirror that cannot lie,
rereading thy words assemblage,
and deny to lie to yourself
want you, you want me,
my adoration,
we want to be in
a poem together,
lovers at the molecular level
where words dissected into letters, then again,
into guttural sounds where a simple outcry is an elegy,
a love poem, a wound, a denouement, a preface, a tear,
a welling, a heaving, a sigh, an exhalation, all,
an entrance to where the need for words
is long since past
the sin and crown of seduction completed,
unanimously
now breathe out
and then,
breathe in
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
That ship has sailed
I'm not on it
Our glorious romance
Now a sad sonnet
Our ship has sailed
We are not in it
We tried, but I won't say we failed
Forever I know I will regale
Myself with the thoughts of time so well-spent
Lost in each other wherever we went
The wind in the willows whispers your name
Whenever I walk down Memory Lane
I see our reflection in the lovers who hold
Their hands tight together
It's soul to soul
That was us, what we used to be
But our ship has sailed to its destiny
The sea of romance, the ocean of sighs
It was good while it lasted
We both realize
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 10:05 AM UTC
Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold,
But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm:
Besides I can tell where I am use’d well,
Such usage in heaven will never do well.
But if at the Church they would give us some Ale.
And a pleasant fire, our souls to regale:
We’d sing and we’d pray all the live-long day:
Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.
Then the Parson might preach & drink & sing.
And we’d be as happy as birds in the spring:
And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church
Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch
And God like a father rejoicing to see.
His children as pleasant and happy as he:
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel
But kiss him & give him both drink and apparel.
3k
Her greatest fear was
going color blind,
invoking domino effect,
she embraced rainbow colors-
whenever a chance she found.
Now, she walks at the front
as if she is the official bearer of colors
in our frenzied blueberry hunt,
up in the high ranges of Western Ghat's
tropical rain forests.
Our nostrils are special,
"colors we see, make us madly sing"
chants rend the air when-
fragrance of ***** blooms wafted in the air.
"Just like the smell when python opens mouth"
said a voice, to the uninitiated,
"Quit white, paint everything coal black,
or is it the other way round?"
"This place is magical can't make a choice"
"Look! I found a serious irregular lake down there"
"I didn't realize I was walking in rounds, around a closed mall"
"White light is a cheat, pixie laid us is in the village green"
"Y'll fall down"
"Green was what i asked for
got thick,red, gooey mud"
"Why panic?"
"Hey meet Mr.Yellow smile,
kiss him a pretty, magenta
***** thought, good night"
"I've a deep blue psyche,
in nightmares I see ***** whales"
"Wounded bleeding heart,
she was nursed back to health
it beats me,
she limped back to her old green monster"
"Hear that distant drums?
brick red monster of the woods
mating with a black cat"
"A ritual of the tribes?
is it meant as a crude joke?"
Sitting under a tree shade,
I hear for the first time in my life,
a white ant's dark wintry song,
lilting, it spoke about the life
as the queen ant's *** slave.
**"Hey love this ***** magical feat,
anything is possible,
how reality takes a beat"
**** it, three times over,
on the bank of the river, then in water.."**
"Blue grass, blue grass
sing all the way up to the mountain pass,
where ***** plants grow thick like ***** thoughts,
a nightingale in funky dress
singing ***** songs and regale all"
"That lush lass, her hair tied with a red bandana
is a smart *** **** her"
Someone screams in delight,
evening spreads a magical light,
more laughter, catcalls,
the sassy chick just LOL
Pass..pass
A big headstrong hornbill, surveying the scene,
gives a mating call
the hillside reverberates with its sound.
(C) K.Balachandran
[email protected]
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 7:19 AM UTC
Mouse’s are a famous breed,
From lines of kings they come.
They have a mousey song, and a mousey creed;
They love mousey cheese, and mousey ***
Mouse’s love spirits, wine, beer, and ale;
They love to chew on cheesy things.
And when they’re drunk, they will regale,
Spouting stories of mousy kings.
In mousey castle, in mousey town,
Lived a mighty mousey king.
And his mousy eyes, looked up and down,
On every big, and little thing.
But his mighty mousy features,
Were struck by mousy mope.
For all his fellow creatures,
Were bereft of *** and hope.
“No *** No rum!” They cried,
To the king as he passed by.
They wept, and sobbed, and sighed;
“Oh my, oh my, oh my”.
In the kingdom of the mouse,
There can be no greater woe,
Than to find no *** in house;
It lays the mouse’s low.
“No *** can be got”!
Stated the advisor to the king.
“We’ve all got up, and drunk the lot;
'Tis a sad and sorry thing”.
All the mousy heads,
Hung low in grim defeat.
They played with mousy threads,
With mousy hands, and mousy feet.
But the king of mouse’s rose
Standing tall upon his mitts.
Wriggled in his mousy hose,
And strained his mousy wits.
“Who can build new ***
Asked the mighty mousey king.
But all the mouse’s were dumb,
On this mighty mousey thing.
Then from out the bleachers;
Stumbled little Georgey mouse.
A smirk bestruck his features,
He was happy; he was ******
With mousy hands he gript
A bottle tall and fine
And from its neck he sipped;
A liquor; so divine.
“I shound it through zzat wall”,
Announced little Georgey mouse
“Theresh enough for one and all;
Enough to build a housh”.
He sipped the liquor fair,
And shouted, “What a corker”!
He flashed the bottle in the air;
Black label Johnny Walker.
And all the mousey squeaks,
Wrung cheer from misery.
And the cheers went on for weeks;
“Whiskey! Whiskey! Whiskey!
Jun 8, 2010
Jun 8, 2010 at 8:19 PM UTC
My Grandmother had a sage saying,
she would regale us with, many times.
With various nouns for exchanging.
But, the meaning rang clear like a chime.
"Pretty is as pretty does".
If, as a diva, on of us girls was heard.
She would hit us with that saying because,
she knew actions spoke louder than words.
Being of a religious nature,
she deplored and showed her discontent,
of those that would shout out their own praise,
then would go about doing ill intent.
"Christian is as Christian does".
Grandma did guide us down that path.
She drummed into me that saying because,
she knew actions speak louder than words.
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 7:42 PM UTC
The rain splutters at me in foreign tongue
As my mind hurdles under a mushroom
Shelter from the pelting lashes
Of nostalgic memory
Such vulnerable home from woes
Like a rodent hole in flooding summer
They tell me I am a finicky rat
That will not survive outside Sakubva
Ratatat-tatatatat-tart!
Oh but how true!
Each day I walk out in the morning
Come evening I pick every footprint I left
Back home
Prompted by need to use my footprints
Once more
Take care!
The radio blares
Save save save save
The television frowns
Wise up
Recycle is the trick in these hard times
Discarded beliefs, discarded memories, discarded tastes
Can be recycled
Recycled dreams, recycled husband, recycled wife...
I scrap my bottom in amazement
After all there is always a grain of virtue left
In what we discard -
O how I love the scent
God has made it that way
That each time you ****
Before you go
You save a nostalgic glance at your ****
Suppressing a sense of loss
For a part of you left behind
Like kites tied to strings we are
We regale in our false splendour
At time's mercy
The fruits of mental ************
Deflowered by new ****** worlds
Of lewd dreams in striking G-Strings
Gyrating ***** of fantastic insanity
That lure us
Into the heavy -bosomed clouds
Pregnant with cultural retribution
For the anarchy coursing our veins
Like the burning pain on my back
Each evening when I bend double
To pick up and bag my footprints
I left in the morning
This is not madness
When I tell you to let your beak
Of tolerance peck and peck
On your ****
What difference is there
Between **** in your belly and
**** steaming betwixt your legs?
What difference is home
When you are young and when old?
Riding on the back of butterfly dreams
When I am a newborn macho
In the bullring of entrepreneurship
Or O such cosmopolitan hunk
In the realm of fashion and modelling...
Sounds like sheltering under a mushroom
That springs and dazzles but a day
Hope I will hurtle back
Hope sweet home, home sweet home
I am a finical rat
That won't live away from home.
-dougwa-
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:21 AM UTC
I wonder what goes through her head
She's like a book I've never read
The cover both enchanting and confusing me
I comment how her hair looks cute
And peel another piece of fruit
Turns out orange will rhyme with something
With pith under my finger nails
You interrupt, rebuff, regale
You said you know that I'm waiting for you
It seems the radio concurs
The DJ spins 'Venus in Furs'
As you amuse yourself to cure me
While that's less quote, more paraphrase
And now it's weeks instead of days
But you still get to stay equivocal
I'm feeling far too old to care
'Bout books and covers, pith and hair
So I'll just take it out on poetry
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC
Sweat drenched bodies tangled snake
like, lips entwined like pair of swans.
One palm grasping the waist
Other holding the mound on chest
Like some ruthless dictator holding humanity.
Traverse on my body’s conduits, beloved!
Regale, relish, feast in its twists and turns,
And with your lips map the boundary
of your kingdom lying conquered in your bed.
With your mighty sword ravage
The territory of yours so long sealed,
Enter in it and let the din and moans to
not melt your heart. Be relentless
and unmerciful—press, pinch, bite,
Spike, goad, tease— make me beg then
Hurl like hurricane swirling in longing
and hunger, subdue only after taking me.
A night in your arms I want, beloved!
Gratify the five senses, bless me the bliss
of life this night. And with your
Measuring tape measure me inch by inch
Touch me those little places I haven’t
touched before, kiss me recklessly
And when you think its time enough
Then rain the seed of your love like farmer
Over my fecund body of field,
So that in time a flower of this
Night spring and wave and smile
in gentle breeze.
Only, a night in your arms I want, beloved!
A night in your arms is all I want!
May 8, 2020
May 8, 2020 at 5:51 AM UTC
She tells me,
"You're very self aware,
You know what, why and how you do things,
Yet you continue to do them."
I explain to her that I never learned how to ask for help
So I only ever knew how to look to myself for the answer
Which has led me to become pretty creative with metaphors
As well as entertaining internal monologues,
Like when I explained to her that my parents look at me
And see a knot of misfortune
Without looking at all the threads that I'm comprised of
Which led them to this conclusion of me.
She asked me if I ever thought of harming other people
To which I noted that I tend to play fruit-ninja
With peoples faces
In my head.
Though I'd never actually do anything,
Just as I'm able to keep a professional demeanor
Giving no hints to
The constant stream of expletives in my head.
She asks me why I don't feel like I have friends,
Which leads me to disclose
That I can't tell if I work too much
To spend time with friends
Or if I do it to distract from the lack of.
I laugh when I regale her
With how I recently bought a yoyo
Because it is relaxing
And makes me feel like a cool kid
That would be part of the gang in Hey Arnold,
Stating that it's been helping me with my panic attacks
By focusing on making my yoyo
Go around the world,
Pretending it was me,
Circumventing my lack of coping mechanisms.
Iliana looks at me, with her mouth slightly turned down
Attempting to keep a straight face
Though her brows still knit together in slight confusion
As she asks me how I'm able to say all of this with a smile on my face,
"Well," I state, "I don't have time to be depressed."
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 12:31 AM UTC
The scene was casual for its inhabitants but an unholy terror for his eyes
A carnival of violence and debauchery, ages 18 and up if you please!
Walk on in ladies and gentleman
You’re just in time to watch the show!
This circus is rated F for **** you
And now its time for the new act.
Watch as the young thing we call
Serotonin Sam battles her demons
Armed only with her blustery attitude
And a .44 mm Magnum
Terrified, he stared on as she lifted the gun and pressed it to her temple
Her face was placid, serenely calm through one exhale and an explosion
When the smoke cleared the carnival disappeared
Replacing his fantasy of wild music and colors
With the faded pastel reality shrouded in darkness
She wasn’t gone quickly, she just became less
With each self-destructive move
She lost another piece of herself
And now instead of a vibrant girl
He listened as a ghost began to speak
“Can’t you feel me,” she whispered?
I came here to breathe words of derision in your ear
Take stock of where we are and react
Just like the sweet little boy you are
Give me your innocence, not much but it’ll do
I need it to lighten my heart and empty my brain
I’ve never had the will to do so much penance
I’m doing my best impression of oppression
And fertilizing the weeds that strangle you
I’ll need to drain you dry of wholesomeness
Come on babe, escape with me
“This isn’t you!” He screamed while the carnival colors and sounds return
Everywhere he looked he saw a different fun-house mirror version of himself
He turned and ran as fast as he could
Tripping on bags of peanuts, discarded prizes,
and popping a lost bag containing a lonely goldfish
He keeps running until a curtain smacks him in the face
And the scene is the same.
But he’s the one out there now.
How long can he regale the crowd?
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
*The unexpected snow, disruptive,
in ways more burdensome,
than mere fender benders and
swapping travelogue commutation miseries
ah, the tv reporters regale
with snow tales, human fails,
but where do you hear
of the children
burnt once by fire
then again, now,
again!
burnt by snow.
here, hear, listen here
technology moves forward,
grafting new shells of skin
on burnt children,
but tonite you're cozy thinking
of your valentine's heart,
not of the little ones,
whose hearts are unprotected,
by what we take so for granted
beneath our protective gloves and coats, scarfs and boots,
our prophylactic human skin,
theirs, fire ravaged,
now re-hazardous,
by southern snows burning
these children hurt,
unexpectedly,
cannot play in the snow that came so
unexpectedly,
lest it burn them worse*
"in the children's burn unit, postponed all surgeries except 'emergency'. Two days of outpatient clinic patients forced to reschedule,. That then, postpones their surgeries, second step grafting, etc. Our vents ran smoothly I heard via the generators, unlike last outage. We had to ambulance each individual patient.
I dread going in tomorrow but small comfort,
it will be warmer than my cold home."
Life first, poetry second
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
Dear Friend, it has been long, how do you do?
The season's turn, are lonely for you gone
No doubt you have some tales of Love, of fun
But distance turns my heart from red to blue
Lady, belle, beau babe, you are a light
Of majesty towards which I must fly
For you are dancing in a freer sky
Than that which cloaks me in the darkling night
The devil haunt and topple my sky which
Brilliant, bright with dreams, by tortures crushed
But when with you the memory of him hushed
For you bring Love, for you superior witch
For you I beget sweet and tender psalms
Would regale thee hours long with drams
Let's see the world from Tokyo to Amsterdam
Be forever happy, forever young
At Heart, never such a passion sung
By saints or angels from illustrious tongue
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 1:54 PM UTC
Two and sixty days ago —
Two months, or so I'm told —
I wandered, wistful, without cause,
Through a memory of old.
A hall of walls I wandered, tall,
As tall as tales I could weave,
But none as tall as this regale,
A story that you won't believe.
I walked near endless hours,
My only friends the cobblestones,
Ringing in my steps the sin
That only time atones,
When upon that pallid plaster
I did spy a shocking sight:
Upon that place's rocky face,
The wall had turned to light.
"Curious," I cooed and questioned,
Calm as I could never be,
"Perhaps it might be that this light
Is rightly mine, I see?"
And as I pondered that hall I wandered,
A chilling change I never chose arose:
That light so rife with delight and fright
Began to open, and I froze,
For that particular portcullis I pondered
Put me in a vice.
I nary noticed that walls in focus
Had changed into a hall of lights.
Transfixed, the light engulfed me so,
As slow as my bewildered head
Could comprehend the candid land
I planned my final stand in dead.
I whizzed through spaces, unknown places,
In stasis from the faceless force
When finally I fell, the frenzied light
Still tight from an unseemly source.
All at once, those two months
Became a fraction of a wink;
The frost was lost as I was tossed
Among the lights of what I think.
And where else would I find myself
But in this courtyard we call love?
My journey never left my head,
Nor bed's unconscious dreamland hub.
Two and sixty days ago,
I heard these words so true,
And in the dark they were my light:
You told me "I love you."
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 2:06 PM UTC
A wild rider through the prairies of life, extending to far horizons,
in my veins the true spirit of intergalactic nomads, stardust,
from many past lives brims; it sets the tone of my enduring quest.
My indefatigable steed, and me are one in our thoughts and heart.
Through her changing hues and moods, nature speaks to me, inspires
drenched in moon beams, to the uplands we would traverse,
then come the slopes descending to deep pits and dark hollows,
my prairie homestead, tucked away in that valley distant,to me
is a dream mysterious; dense solitude keeps it for me as a secret.
A miraculous herb, I found by chance, among the flora rich,
keeps thirst and hunger at bay, and the quest continues unhindered,
low hanging fat, white, clouds change the display in varied forms,
to regale us as we cross the badlands, that try to bog us down in vein.
Love caressed me at times,like gentle wind,once a whirlwind
made me lose bearing,with a thorn made a slash across my heart,
love is a sweet pain, but losing a beloved, a crusted ugly scar,
but the traveler is in a trance, still led by the pole star's lonely light,
The bows and arrows I destroyed after long introspection,
herds of bison as I pass would notice,see me empty handed,
stand still as if in a guard of honor, to watch me pass with a smile
Still night, embellished by starlight, sung lullabies to us weary souls.
my steed and I go diving deep,hungrily in to the pool of sleep
**Sleep, wakefulness, day and night; all encased within a dream.
I, my steed and the lives the prairie embraces, and the galaxy are one.**
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
If you've been here before you know the tone
That I took four years ago when I began posting poems
It's a tone and topic I'd thought I'd finally grown past
I am dishearted and disappointed when I once again ask:
Why am I alive?
I see no purpose, no joy, no fun in life.
What am I doing here?
Why didn't I end it long before this year?
I am tired. I am impossibly tired and I will be tired impossibly longer
I am done. I want it to end. I am ready to end. I have grown no stronger.
I am still as weak as the child with a knife and far too much strife to stay
I am little more than I was, with the addition of love that wears on me every day.
Why am I alive?
I am no longer despondent when I ponder this.
Why do I exist?
I can't be bothered to breathe with this emptiness.
This will be my last poem for some time, I can't bear to read through my own thoughts.
This will be my existence for more time, I can't make happiness from what is not.
Thank you for reading and commenting and being the sweet people of a poetry site.
I will be here, in a day or a year, to regale you with more of my thoughts of life.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:48 AM UTC
1160
He is alive, this morning—
He is alive—and awake—
Birds are resuming for Him—
Blossoms—dress for His Sake.
Bees—to their Loaves of Honey
Add an Amber Crumb
Him—to regale—Me—Only—
Motion, and am dumb.
1.3k
He sits alone and in silence
Atop the silver birch
High above the forest floor
Watching with attentive eyes
As moonlight flirts playfully,
Shadow dancing among the many
Silver branches
At the heart of the forest,
The brook chatters endlessly
Of adventures through mountains
So high their peaks are lost in
****** clouds, of underground
Rivers raging unseen beneath
Valleys filled with first
Spring lilies
The weary critters gather
To lap at cool waters,
Ignoring the incessant babble
As they keep a wary eye
On lurking shadows
High above, his sharp eyes
Glimpse outlines in the darkness,
Hidden shapes imitating bush
And fern, almost motionless
Yet moving
He utters a single sound,
A whisper barely audible
Above the ceaseless chatter
Of the brook
The hunters arrive and
Sniff the air, traces of
Prey still lingering,
But the trail grows cold
The brook continues to regale
The night air with tales
Seemingly unaware
They are no longer listening
Seemingly unaware
They never were
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 3:05 AM UTC
June is the soft smile of your best friend as you regale them with your tall tales about how the weekend went, and their sweet giggle as you eat cheap lollies from a shady ice cream van.
June is a spinning ferris wheel at dusk, overlooking a royal blue bay scattered with olive green tents, and your little cab on the wheel that you get into over and over again.
June is the crisp notes that you spend on thin, wispy clothes in high-street stores, and the novelty sunglasses you try on in an opticians and end up buying because they're cool.
June is the flavours of a spice-infused curry, and a large spoonful of rice afterwards to soothe the burn. It is the tall cup of fizzy cherryade that tastes like it did when you were 7, but a bit different.
June is rainbow-spotting with your friends, and being yourself, and maybe for once not feeling so alone in a world that's usually so cold.
June is flying the flag of the weirdos, and jumping up and down to rock music, and flinging open your windows dramatically in time to the soundtrack of a musical. It is 80s music so loud that you can already see the noise complaint, but the complaint never comes.
June is a month of discovery and talking about nothing for hours on end. June is about hope, and a dawn for something different. June is about having a dream, and having the power to make it come true, because no matter who you are, you deserve for your dream to come true.
June is your time, but only if you let it be so. Will you stand? I will be beside you. I love you, and I'm glad you exist.
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 8:44 PM UTC
Anticipation spans the season
Gone so fast with just a trace
You leave no rhyme nor reason
Off you fly with cold malice.
Even the driest patch of grass
Restores its former chloroplasts
Bright green trees begin to fade
Your legacy is leaving.
Splash, the constant drumming
Sets the tempo and transition
Swap the pastels for pantones
Go indoors and reposition.
Not one to miss a queue
This rain was built to last
The whipping winds harmonise
Like blowing over hollow glass.
The interval is all but over
The show yet to be recast
Fly in the white cliffs above
The Dover shore blends at last.
The tapping of rain becomes a thud
As the treetop leaves lose their colour
Gales whip up - down empty streets
The people crowd indoors in horror.
Fearsome is the cold and wet
Now that joy and happiness has passed
Regale stories of the Summer
And hope that winter retreats as fast.
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
Ominous voices spoke within the haze of smoke,
in the rambunctious spirit of adolescence
one would hardly listen to those rants.
I remember two things, I was a white horse
raring to go to the very end, of the track, where a mountain rose,
its peak hidden in the cloudy whiteness, beyond that lies the cave of secrets;
the second certain thing, in that dream was my age, just 18, highly precarious,
none can now say this white horse, would turn dark at the end of the race.
(not, even if one becomes 18, all over again,would be sure)
The girl, wearing a flame red streaming cape, riding on my back
said: "What a night we had"! Yes she did amaze me all through the night,
and look now, I am happily under her spell, she has the magic word
to make me excel, if by chance failed, I'll be her ****
They'll turn me in to a mare by their spell, and sell in the village fair,
They'll regale themselves with this sweet imagination: if he wins he is our horse for ever,
or else, the money he fetches, would take us forward for a while,
The horse in his delirious fit thinks:" My love, we'll have many more nights
like we had, just you wait".
The crowd gets impatient,
they just want the race, see the girl on the horse, pass glamorously before their eyes
see someone's win, or some one soon should bite the dust.
**Be ready in your blood thirsty self, to witness oh! heartless crowd,
here, I am treading the blade of the sharp sword, dripping blood from my heart.**
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 1:57 AM UTC
The taxi is silent the driver's stopped trying
A crossing appears with no pedestrians crossing
Houses line the street with a warm yellow lighting
The night drizzle lightens, the pavements start frosting.
Shouldn't winter nights be spent comfortably
Rapped in familiarity?
Turn into the car park, the barrier is rising
Wretched is the destination, cold and disheartening
One day you'll return and your mindset will brighten
For now we will visit under the cold grey lighting.
Should I dare to peak inside?
The driver shrugs. I daren't decide.
The automatic doors squeak ominously open
No round of applause, no standing ovations
A pin could be heard, the canteen is broken
Seldom celebrated, there are few worse locations.
Should I lower my temperament
Become stoic and sensible?
The escalator moans while taking us further
The corridors smell stale, they echo a murmur
A slip-away comment in a labyrinth of tension
Hospital blue reflects in the eyes of the visitors.
Could I muster the strength to go inside?
I'm here, I've done it, all sadness must hide.
The nurse hands over the apron, i feel inhuman,
You lie propped on a cushion, restlessly muttering.
'It's a bad dream, it's okay' I'm nervously stuttering.
My stomach churns at the pain you're experiencing.
Should i dare to show my tears?
I needn't alarm onlookers and familiars.
Your bed-light flickers, the room dissapears
In the darkness we're calm, inhibitions are cleared
Such split-second clarity has calmed me for years.
I smile fearlessly pulling your hand gently nearer.
Should I dare to leave your side?
I'd blame myself, it would shatter my pride.
So here we sit for hours on end, semiconscious
Semi-talking, the volta on which all cruxces depend
Your dream-like graciousness cleanses and encompasses;
Myself and others, regale tales of your accomplishments.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 9:06 AM UTC