"revels" poems
After years of aimless wanderings
Leaving behind the cities of midnight revels
And the fevered journey in metro rails,
I am back at the land of my people.
Wherever I went,
Under which ever roof I slept,
I had carried my land,
As a jewel in a casket
And ensured it rested safe
Ever under my pillow
As I moved with aliens
Unable to merge with their cultural mores,
I saw my land glimmer in darkness
Like a dew drop on a moon blanched leaf
When I sweated in the blistering sands
A patch of green landscape, like an oasis
Wafted me in a cool embrace
Then dreams poured in like star light
And I wandered in the meadows of my youthful love
My heart struggling to forget old longings
And memories lashing upon me like tidal waves
Pursued by that inalienable shadow
Suddenly being born in flesh and blood
I hastened to the streets of my youth
With hopes galore and plans vivid
But alas! There is none to recognize me
Oh! I am a stranger here
An unwelcome stranger among total strangers
Now I wonder which is truly my land?
The one left behind or the one just landed in?
Oscillating between these two worlds,
My fractured identity looms large
With worms of memories wriggling in my flesh
And a myth suddenly dying in my brain
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 10:37 AM UTC
The diamonds shone like broken glass
Upon the midnight street
And all atop the walls were wet
Their white eyes glint & sleek
Then from afar a gnome appeared
An angel flashed on furry feet
The boulevard became a river
While waiting crowds began to quiver
I was in a motel watching
Whiskey in my hand
Her breath was soft, the wind was warm
Someone in a room was born
~~~
Accomplishments:
To make works in the face
of the void
To gain form, identity
To rise from the herd-crowd
Public favor
Public fervor
even the bitter Poet-Madman is
a clown
Treading the boards
~~~
Cold electric music
Damage me
Rend my mind
w/your dark slumber
Cold temple of steel
Cold minds alive
on the strangled shore
Veterans of foreign wars
We are the soldiers of
Rock & Roll Wars
~~~
Whether to be a
great cagey perfumed
beast
dying under the
sweet patronage
of Kings
& exist like luxuriant
flowers beneath the
emblems of their
Strange empire
or by mere insouciant
faith
slap them, call their cards
spit on fate & cast hell
to flames in usury
by dying, nobly
we could exist like
innocent trolls
propogate our revels
& give the finger to the
gods in our private
bedrooms
let’s rather, maybe,
perhaps,
get ******* out in
the open, & by
swelling, jubilantly
Magnificently, end them.
12k
When he left my mother told me something.
She said it's okay and this will pass
He's nothing compared to you
But as I laid there
On my bedroom floor
In the room where he claimed me
Where little girl dreams were shattered
I didn't believe her
Instead I screamed about how I hated life
How he left me like dust on my fingertips
Like the ash of my burned down home
Two weeks later and I'm a shell
Of who I was
Of who I am
Of who I'll ever be
My ribs poked out like piano keys
Just waiting to be played
And my collar bones
Oh they were waiting like glasses
Glasses expecting hard liquor
That I of course drowned myself in
The day her name left his lips
I was done for
I wanted to become nothing but earth and essence.
But my best friend cradled me
She promised I would find love again
That this hurt, no matter how bad it is,
Will only be temporary
I didn't believe her
So I rebelled against them all
It was only me
4 months later and I'm sitting in the car
My best friend sits beside me
I'm genuinely laughing
And she looks proud
Then she tells me how he's talking about me.
From my big black boots
My infatuation with peaches
To how I harbor guitar pics on every inch of my body.
I relapse into him immediately
I wanted him so bad
6 and a half months later and he tells my best friend
That he hates me
My name swims out of his mouth on a raft of profanities.
But it didn't hurt as much as I thought
I think I grew
Little by little I became the new girl
The one that writes again and breathes the air a little deeper than the others.
6 and half months plus 3 days
I caress my fingers over my body
The shower beats down on me
"I want to be your friend" I whisper to myself.
He was nothing but a thunderstorm
But I am more than he
I am the sun
The moon
The stars
I am the heavens
I am the thing everyone revels in
And I made it through hell and back
And now I can finally say goodbye
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 11:15 AM UTC
Wings a flitter
Iridescent feathers a glitter
Hovering briefly at a flower top
Usually not long enough to truly stop
This precious one of avian design
I see delicately perched upon a twisted vine
The sun glinting off the ruby throat
Making it easy for on this one to dote
Although this perch may be brief
It does bear out my belief
That the light of her essence
Has me blessed in her presence
Medicine, absent of strife
Filled with the nectar of life
Life that bears the scars of complexity
Yet revels in the miracle of synchronicity
Placed on my path with divine intention
I would be remiss to discount this intervention
And yet fail to mention...
A renewal of mon couer and the magic of living
For this is the medicine that hummingbird is giving
And for me it is so easy to see
She is Nenookaasi
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
“Angelica arguta”,
He shows her his wildflowers
“Angelica Susannah”, he says.
And prodded further by her
His heart.
Lingers briefly with the night;
Her affection has power,
But not enough
To keep him
From marching off to fight.
Tristan, son of One Stab,
Brings wildness from the mountains.
Lovely woman from the East,
Fascinated by her,
His passion.
Revels in her bridal bower,
And stops her
Loving any other.
Alfred, eldest son of his father,
Full of rectitude and romance.
Angelica abandoned,
Adrift between the mountains
Becalmed far from the sea.
He takes advantage,
Snatches her soul with riches,
But never captures
Her longing heart.
Years pass and one son gone,
The other lost and mad.
Year of the red grass and
Happiness found
Is felt too soon.
Tristan loves young Isabel,
But Angelica is his doom.
Yet only he survives
The waves that lash her shore,
“Like water in the ice,
She breaks them.”
And in the Spring,
Is gone once more.
Angelica Susannah is buried
Above the box canyon in the meadow
Among the many dead.
Near Samuel’s heart,
The executed Isabel,
And others who follow soon.
Until only Tristan remains,
Left to hunt his nemesis,
The bear inside him.
And dream of one wife lost,
And a lover left behind:
Angelica Susannah
Beside whom he should lie.
He is slain by the bear in Sixty-three,
After forty years of solitude.
And laid to rest in the plot
Between two women he loved,
Isabel, his ingenuous wife
And Susannah, his tragic love.
Do their spirits meet at last
And wander the golden fields,
Or ride out to bathe in the hot springs,
Under the moon of the falling leaves?
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 10:37 AM UTC
'Are you pleasing those Lions?'
She thinks to herself under Nelson's Column.
'I am no hero of the Nile, nor of Trafalgar. I am an empty vessel.'
City of Angels, yet full of devils. Will she find the exit from Oblivion, in those molten, vermillion revels?
'And will you climb that stairway to heaven? Is it true that what glitters is gold?'
That golden dust, which lies on her beside table, sedative for her sorrows.
'Oh he was a foul coxcomb. England expects every heart will follow its duty!'
She is followed, by those feral eyes;
Those on the underground, those in the streets
And those who she will wish
her eyes will never meet.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 6:59 PM UTC
Life is scary. You know?
Not the kind of scary you get from horror movies or a haunted house.
Not the kind of scary like when you think you forgot your keys locked in the car.
Not the kind of scary like when you think one of your friends finally decided to leave this world for good.
Not the kind of scary that is sharp needle point followed by the release of realization.
No.
Life is not that kind of scary.
It's the kind of scary that follows you closely.
It's the kind of scary that shakes you awake at night just to let you stare back at its void.
It's the kind of scary that sits on your shoulder and taunts you for every waking second that it can take you when it pleases.
It's the kind of scary that pulls your blood from your arteries.
It's the kind of scary that revels in the sight of your tears.
It's the kind of scary that lingers, persists, torments, and never, ever leaves.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
NAY! swear no more, thou woman whom I called
Star, Empress, Wife! Were Dian's self to lean
From her white altar and with goddess lip
Swear thee as pure as her pale breast divine,
I could not deem thee purer than I know
Thou art indeed.
Once, when my triumphs rolled
Along old Rome and blood of roses washed
The battle-stains from off my chariot-wheels,
And triumph's thunders round my legions roared,
And kings in kingly ******* golden bound
Shook at my charger's foot, past the hot din
Of Victory-whose heart of golden pride in wound
Most subtly through with fire of subtlest pain-
My soul on prouder pinion rose above
The Roman shouting, to an air more clear
Than that Jove darks with hurtling thunderbolts,
Or stains with Jovian revels-that separate sphere,
Unshared of gods or man, where thy white feet
Caught their sole staining from my ruddy heart,
Blazing beneath them; where, when Rome looked up,
'Twas with the eyes close shaded with the hand,
As at some glory terrible and pure,-
For no man being pure, a terror dwells
Holy and awful in a sinless thing-
And Caesar's wife, the Empress-Matron, sat
Above a doubt-as high above a stain.
Nay! how know I what hell first belched abroad
Tall flames and slanderous vomitings of smoke,
Blown by infernal breathings, till they scaled
Thy throne of whiteness, and the very slaves
Who crouched in Roman kennels wagged the tongue
Against the wife of Caesar: 'Ha! we need not now
And opal-shaded stone wherewith to view
A stainless glory.' In that day my neck
Was bound and yoked with my twin-Caesar's yoke-
Man's master, Sorrow.
I know thee pure-
But Caesar's wife must throne herself so high
Upon the hills that touch their snowy crests
So close on Heaven that no slanderous Hell
Can dash its lava up their swelling sides.
I love thee, woman, know thee pure, but thou
No more art wife of Caesar. Get thee hence!
My heart is hardened as a lonely crag,
Grey granite lifted to a greyer sky,
And where against its solitary crown
Eternal thunders bellow.
3.7k
When Winchester races first took their beginning
It is said the good people forgot their old Saint
Not applying at all for the leave of Saint Swithin
And that William of Wykeham's approval was faint.
The races however were fixed and determined
The company came and the Weather was charming
The Lords and the Ladies were satine'd and ermined
And nobody saw any future alarming. —
But when the old Saint was informed of these doings
He made but one Spring from his Shrine to the Roof
Of the Palace which now lies so sadly in ruins
And then he addressed them all standing aloof.
'Oh! subjects rebellious! Oh Venta depraved
When once we are buried you think we are gone
But behold me immortal! By vice you're enslaved
You have sinned and must suffer, ten farther he said.
These races and revels and dissolute measures
With which you're debasing a neighboring Plain
Let them stand —You shall meet with your curse in your pleasures
Set off for your course, I'll pursue with my rain.
Ye cannot but know my command o'er July
Henceforward I'll triumph in shewing my powers
Shift your race as you will it shall never be dry
The curse upon Venta is July in showers—.
3.4k
he’s addicted to the high
from egotistical joy rides. he revels
in self pride, arrogance apparent in
his stride. but his confident exterior
is built from narcissistic lies. he can’t handle
hearing “no”- rejection leaves him mortified.
this is not the first time
he's come to me cock-eyed.
he asks for my consent, politely i deny.
he refuses to listen, preparing to defy.
my fear becomes palpable-
his desire
fortifies.
“no, no, no!” yet his hands
are on my thighs. “we have to tonight.”
his words cut like a knife.
i don’t understand why
i’m forced to comply. (this is my body,
don’t i get to decide?)
my bones calcify, my heart’s
a ship that’s capsized
i’ve been dehumanized and
yet i'm forced to act alive.
i look in the mirror
and let out a long sigh-
is it his soul or mine
that’s been demonized?
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
The King of the World is on his way now,
he always shows up when the chips are down.
Everyone just loves The King of the World,
he always arrives with his banners unfurled.
The King can be a loud chap,
or The King can be quite a quiet mime,
he even puts his pants on
one royal leg at a time!
The King might eat breakfast,
or The King just might not,
he is everything you are,
yet is is all that you forgot.
He's a musician of sorts,
with a very big band,
his arrival is in herald,
throughout every land
-with brass trumpets a-blare,
and snare-drums rat-a-tat,
he makes everyone aware,
that he's now where you're at!
The King marches his forces
through the cities and fields,
assure of his courses,
lying flat beneath his heel.
He revels at the sight of deterioration,
fills his belly with the joy of nations in extinction.
The King grounds everything down to things he scrapes off his boots,
he topples the governs and poisons the cultural roots.
The King's fixations are splashed with spatters of blood,
turning kingdoms into crumbles of ashes and mud.
He bulldozes the bodies into toxic pits of ****
contaminates by obscenity, wringing his hands at the wit.
Lionized by his minions in the empty empires he wrought,
The King's elite ruling class is dictated with rot.
In the aftermath of the bile
of his genocidal, sweet plight,
The King celebrates with great style,
turning the daylight into night.
With bonfires a-blaze on the wicked, windy wasteland,
The King of the World strikes up his big band,
and once marching again will torch and ravish the land,
dropping massive, beautiful bombs for the sake of the thrill,
melting the people and villages and eroding the hills.
The time for The King
always is nigh,
for he is surrounded by
the conjurations of lies.
Some say he is evil,
(but, he's not the Devil, you see)
-He's The King of the World,
he is you, he is me.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 9:14 AM UTC
Take a fresh Playstation
Add plenty of seasoned frustration
Marvel at the glory of this Machine
Roll a spliff made for Charlie Sheen
Game for 6 hours at room temperature
Squeeze controller until you see hairline fracture
Anger rising to the top
That guy lied to me, the one from the shop
Nothing but coffee flavour in this bag of Revels
Listen to your shoulder devils
Ask Playstation to work the way you want it
Refusal to comply, I miss 8bit
Swing controller like a ball and chain
Look, as its blue eye turns to red in pain
Proceed to dance on Playstation to tenderise
A madman reflected on the screen in disguise
Last salvation is on the warranty sheet
Enjoy, Bon appetit
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 4:11 AM UTC
So stick up ivy and the bays,
And then restore the heathen ways.
Green will remind you of the spring,
Though this great day denies the thing.
And mortifies the earth and all
But your wild revels, and loose hall.
Could you wear flowers, and roses strow
Blushing upon your ******* warm snow,
That very dress your lightness will
Rebuke, and wither at the ill.
The brightness of this day we owe
Not unto music, masque, nor show:
Nor gallant furniture, nor plate;
But to the manger’s mean estate.
His life while here, as well as birth,
Was but a check to pomp and mirth;
And all man’s greatness you may see
Condemned by His humility.
Then leave your open house and noise,
To welcome Him with holy joys,
And the poor shepherd’s watchfulness:
Whom light and hymns from heaven did bless.
What you abound with, cast abroad
To those that want, and ease your load.
Who empties thus, will bring more in;
But riot is both loss and sin.
Dress finely what comes not in sight,
And then you keep your Christmas right.
3k
The Quantum Poetry Theorem
from a long time ago,
a thousand poems a priori.
**Dedicated to you, Albert Einstein and the cast of TBBT, special thanks to the OWS movement.,
But especially to the few, the brave, geeks who write poetry in word and in equations.**
Scruffy, yet ennobled,
my own 99% invade and
occupy all my senses,
in my eyesight encamped
sensing opportunity,
the 99 demand
that each shutter eye snap,
all nominal exhalations,
every quantum minutia perception,
be live streamed,
direct tv to you
Everything I witness,
transformed into an
acoustic guitar rocking vision,
a levitation of poetic expression,
set to a primitive three-chord
rock & roll overture,
and my iPad,
appointed Recording Secretary,
compiles exhalations as ecrivations
a preservation society of the verb,
strings of words emanating non-stop
within my head, from a guitar playing
twenty four seven, ironically,
expressed mathematically
Street strolling,
busy brasserie bar,
a Pinot Noir arrives,
a large pour of
stanzas and a
napkin upon to scribble
mind in ferment but
A Capella smooth cool,
my bossy brain requires
incident reports,
a "write me down, please,"
and
no matter how much I drink,
ain't anti-matter enough to
stop my eyes from seeing
every human interaction
as a poetic, probabilistic,
verbal equation,
quantum expressions of sensory upload
The brain revels and reels from overload,
no mas, no more,
poetry fatigue incurable,
caplets and ointments,
string theory,
can't cure or explain
the compulsion I feel,
and the 1% of me
protests my
overtaxed mental capacity,
and
hear the, see the, masses,
the shouts, the placards,
outside my home,
shut it down, no one cares,
no one wants your transplanted mechanics
in their eardrums
Huzzah, found in my gut,
a Grand Unifying Theory
to coordinate, gauge and harmonize
my internal asymmetries,
yes, a coupling factor required,
but still,
one equation that explains everything!
my fatigued, pointy, index finger
refuses to tap any more,
my Theory of Everything,
and my poetry, forgot, overlooked.
in my library buried,
black holed, forever silence-stored
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
Woe is the man who revels in romance
He must hide his revelling from the world.
Never on a bus or plane or train, have you
Seen a man reading a romance novel, the
Lurid cover compelling the reader to delve
Into the protagonists embarrassment of
Embraces, between the satin sheets.
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC
Shuffled deck; fetch me three of Seventy-Eight cards.
First:
Queen of Swords
"This fine Sword of honest metal
is a more true an Ally
than many of Flesh indeed prove to be."
*Much like Athena,
The Queen of Swords
is symbolic of progress;
always keen on new ideas;
though she is not One to leave herself defenseless,
her faithful Sword stands
always by her side.*
Second of the three,
of the still Seventy-Seven:
Two of Swords
"Distracted by conflict
'twixt Heart and Mind,
I hold two Swords and bide my Time."
*Two of Swords
stands between Moon and Water;
the Shadow and the Subconscious
the darkness and the unknown.
The Two of Swords
is blindfolded
and in her blissful ignorance
maintains her precarious balance,
for now.*
The third of three random cards;
leaving Seventy-Five unturned:
Knight of Swords
"Feast your eyes upon this, my plan;
I wager thou hath, in all thy wretched days,
ne'er so beauteous a thing beheld!"
*The Knight of Swords
is a keen poet and a fine musician;
though perhaps not romantically.
She dabbles for the sake of the intellect,
and seeks that those things be playthings thereof.
She is symbolic of progress through new ideas
and of the eloquence of a well-laid plan.
Being of the House of Swords,
she revels in the stimulation of intellect
and the effective use of wisdom.
She usually yields only to herself
and marches to the beat of her own convictions,
all the while
keeping her eyes
on the prize.*
-
All of these Cards
are of the House of Swords.
There's about a 1 in 166 chance
of getting 3 of the 14 Swords
out of a random deck of 78 cards.
I got the Queen of Swords as my third card last time
and the first card this time;
There's 1 in approximately 676 chance
of getting the same card
in two consecutive sets of three cards
from a random 78 card deck.
(im)Probabilities aside:
The Suit of Swords is generally associated with:
one's ways of thinking, systems, ideas, and communication.
It has much to do with
what we chose to do with our Minds
and it also is symbolic of the power of
the stories we tell ourselves and each other.
The Swords are indeed double-edged in Tarot.
It has to do with the power of information
and with that comes delusion,
and, inexorably,
paradox.
Patterns do exist, however.
Upon these patterns
foundations may be built,
the same is true within myself;
I can choose to use all these Swords
to cut through this cage of Shadow
and set free the Light once more
rather than allowing myself
to myself fall victim to the Swords
through inaction or misuse
though only if I tread lightly
and thoughtfully
and proceed with tact;
that much is clear.
Sword is the sign of Air;
perhaps the message here is simply
"Remember to breathe."
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 5:00 AM UTC
The reason there aren't so many vampyres
around these days is they don't like TV hype
and the intrusions of TV news crews. It transpires
that vampyres prefer late hours and like low light levels
because they're egregarious and don't like to be seen inebrious
in the middle of their heinous, intravenous revels.
Also, unfavorable reviews about transfusions
and the confusion caused by AIDS, at this juncture,
has definitely reduced the appeal of being seduced
by some crazed and gurgling Transylvanian
bloodsucker lusting to puncture the jugular,
or any other available vein again,
especially when you don't know if they've disinfected their fangs
or only licked them after draining their last victim.
After all, vampyres were brought up in castles
when there weren't antiseptics for gargles
and they haven't been taught prophylactic criteria
against such apocalyptic viral bacteria.
And if you've ever seen vampyres with condoms
on their teeth, you'll know what I mean.
It's a scream. Everyone finds them hilarious. It'd be easier
to die laughing than to go down with anemia.
Also, like everyone else, vampyres hate ridicule.
No-one likes being seen as the fool.
And the other reason vampyres are scarce now
is that there are so many genuine muggers, hoods, crims,
druggies, financial leeches, homicidal maniacs,
psychopathic liars and genocidal tendencies to conjure up real fears
out there, that there's not much room left for quaint old-fashioned vampyres, poor dears.
But do you know something? Even though they were naughty,
I miss their occasional **** I know it was gory,
but those kisses, oh boy. We got into the femoral artery inside the thigh. It was ***** But when AIDs came along,
that was it. Definitely bye-bye. Nobody wanted to die.
These are the facts.
So these vampyres were starving and they reverted to bats.
Did a midnight flit,
and that's the end of my story.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
She spits fire
Stands strong
Feet planted:
No mercy
Unyielding
She is belladonna
She is the femme fatale
She is unattainable
And she revels it that.
Solitude lends itself to sweet dreams and optimism
Without the threat of slowing down
Without the weight of children's bodies
Without the teeth and claws of responsibility
Sinking soul-shudderingly deep
Into her body
Or so she tells herself
When faced with her
Swarms of unhappy thoughts
Gnat-like they flutter
Around her head
But she will not let them in
Because that is vulnerability
That is admitting weakness
That is being human
And she will never admit her hamartia
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
There is music at dawn in the song of the koyel
The tweeting, the chirping, the warbling,the cry
The medleys that float in the morning air
As birds sing a welcome to a rising sky
There is music in the span of feathered wings
The steady drone of the humming of a bee
As the sun revels on his throne at noon
While a brisk wind whisks leaves on willow trees
There is music in the silver drops of rain
A gentle drizzle or a thunder squall
Music in the flow of rivers and streams
And the sparkling cascade of a waterfall
There is music on slopes of lofty mountains
In echoes that reverberate of a water spring
In the soft rustling of a valley of flowers
Of blue irises and pink hyacinths
There is music in seas and oceans blue
Waves overreaching to meet the shore
Rippling in sounds of frothy ecstasy
Whispers of pearls and ocean floors
There is music at dusk when the day rests
The throaty croaks in a nocturnal sheer
As moths flutter drawn to light
'Tis music of life that I hear
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 9:50 AM UTC
The animal inside me wears a sweater when it snows.
He lives in Logan's house with his new wife,
and is afraid of the neighbor's electric fence.
The animal inside me eats only cold food from a can
that Logen scrapes into a metal bowl,
and plays with scuffed, rubber toys.
The animal inside me hates the toys and the Alpo,
though he gulps it down and makes a show of play,
ever eager to please.
The animal inside me sings of the Ones who ran wild.
He has a fine collection of bones buried in the back yard,
and revels in rolling in fresh deer ****
Sometimes, when no one is there to see,
the animal inside me chews the new wife's leather shoes,
although this is mainly a thing of the past.
The animal inside me loves to run, which hardly happens anymore.
He is waiting on the doe-eyed collie who lives down the road,
and wishes that Logan would just burn the stupid sweater.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
I stand in front of the mirror; It’s confusing to see,
A thousand faces looking back at me.
A gray haired old man,
A boy of eighteen,
One guy is nice,
The other selfish and mean.
One knows where he’s at.
Another is lost,
He looks for direction
No matter the cost.
One has much confidence. One insecure.
One gives up easily, and one can endure
The trials and hardships
Inherent to life.
One is dull, plain, and boring
Another sharp as a knife.
One is happy and joyful,
One can’t stop the tears,
That fall freely and frequently,
As he ages in years.
One is satisfied with what he’s accomplished to date.
Another looks at the world with envy and hate,
And wonders why others
Are passing him by,
Should he laugh at himself?
Or silently cry?
One believes in a power,
Much greater than self,
Another, a hypocrite,
Puts his faith on a shelf.
One knows lots of people; One a loner by choice.
One never speaks out. One revels in his voice,
Tells his story to all,
Who will listen (pretend?)
While they wait and they hope
That the story will end.
One still has hope,
Another hope-less;
One tracks dirt through the house.
Another cleans up the mess.
One looks at the world, poised to attack,
Another seems not to care; he is calm and laid back,
One wants to know more,
One has seen way too much.
One wants to hold tighter,
One recoils from the touch.
There are too many faces,
None of them clear,
So I turn out the light,
I walk away from the mirror.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
“a decade old is forever new, for
truth is never old.”
Pradip Chattopadhyay
this man, ten years of inspiration, ten years of friendship, here,
on HP,
provides nourishment to my lagging body as it nears eight decades
of Earthly occupation, for
his eyes and heart and his mastery
of the songs of the tongue,
have wrenched me straight,
we, attentive to the tears
he makes me weep, for his insights penetrate my insides,
even now as one, unexpectedly, reflects midst
yet another first poem of the day, my eyelids blink away
the wet,
my brain revels at his pithy, how he corrals,
encapsulates the daily smoke and fire of life,
it truest value,
in words that make one wonder,
what admixture of mineral, chemical, history,
adventures, atmosphere, parentage, spices,
love gives him these super powers to gentle
seize the moment, size our souls, causing my
cheeks to wide smile, while mine eyes sheds
monsoon droplets of feelings so deep, that
my repaired heart oxygenates my very soul,
making me high, my mind reels that a day will
come inevitable
that one of us will be unable to sit by side,
swapping tales of granddaughters, and
other earth meaningful events, to walk his
streets or he, mine, finishing each other’s
couplets.
to think that I awoke with no intention of
composing this paean, but his brief pearl
knocks my head side to side,
and with the
tears, come words,
that age, or an entire
decade,
cannot restrain,
retrained to modesty,
for regarding my friend
Pradip,
my boundaries expand and cannot be
contained, even by my delimited vocabulary,
the paucity of my skill, the insufficiency of
the adjectives acquired over a lifetime, but
do my unequal-to-the-task best efforts,
but without choice, but compulsed, compelled,
one more time, to say,
to my new day,
perhaps my last,
I love this poet~man.
this is one of my truths.
<>
Wed Jan 17 8:31am
City of New York
<>
read the poetry of
https://hellopoetry.com/pradip-chattopadhyay/
<>
Jan 20, 2024
Jan 20, 2024 at 12:27 PM UTC
Listening to peculiar strangers gather in the eavestrough;
Coddling the malleable bloom of rooted trees
An immigrant to prosperity cradled by Mercutio.
-Our revels now are ended. These our actors.
Burnt sand swallows the lighthouse where the savage hang,
melancholy-tea and a pulp-fiction spread
dismal characters, behaving bourgeois
-Gather in the eavestrough
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 1:27 AM UTC