"rumblings" poems
To **** or not to **** that’s the ******* question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the bowels to suffer
The twists and turns of outrageous rumblings
Or to take action against a bellyful of gas,
And by farting pump one out? To strain, to bloat
No more; and by a mighty outburst we’ll end
The gut’s ache, and the thousand natural stenches
That the **** is heir to, 'tis a resolution
Right devoutly to be wish'd. To **** to ****
But perchance to **** there's the ******* problem;
For in that mighty **** of doom what turds may come,
When we have let the little beauty out from mortal tail,
Must give us pause; there's the danger
That makes calamity of the farter’s life;
For who would bear the sneers and mocks of men,
The neighbour’s shock, the lover’s curling lip,
The pangs of horrid stench, the ******* o’erflowing,
The leaking **** orifice, and the drips,
Impatient strainings that the tragic farter makes,
When he himself might sweet easance make
With a careful prodding finger? Who would a ******** wear,
Grunting and sweating with noisome convulsions,
But that the dread of solids after air-release,
The undiscover'd oozings, from whose delivery
No toilet visitor recovers, puzzles the will,
And makes us bear the bellyache we have
Than fly to others we know not of?
Thus indigestion does make cowards of us all;
And then the native heave of constipation
Is sicklied o'er with the pale fear of defecation;
And enterprises of both ******* and crapping
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of exciting toilet action.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
Can daybreak ever
bring darkness home?
The dried kohl is witness:
*Aeons old, such a story
has been left behind,
unsaid, unsaid;*
Does spring ever bring notice
of the coming fall?
*Oh the rains sometimes
bring rumblings
of miffed skies -
Shoots that drop off stalks,
have not all
fallen for nothing,*
Was the little window of dreams
illusory?
Laying my head down,
stealing my sleep?
Aeons old, is such a story
that has been left behind,
unsaid, unsaid;
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 4:27 PM UTC
the
thin
poem
has
a
few
solid
rules:
one
or
two
or
three
words
at the most
to
a
line
and
keep
the
subject
simple
don't
muddy
the
reader's
brain
with
poems
about
suicide
or
adolescence
or
the
loss
of
beauty
or
innocence
or
some
crazy
time
someone
had
at
a
drive-in
movie
a
hundred
years
ago
on
a
hot
sticky
night
with
a
godzilla-like
monster
filling
the
screen
while
they
were
sprawled
out
on
the
backseat
of
an
old
chevy
(and
why
is
it
always
an
old
chevy?)
thin
poems
should
not
explore
*******
or
the
rumblings
of
gastrointestinal
distress
or
************
or
descriptions
of
the
napes
of
necks
or
the
sizes
of
*******
or
the
way
certain
people
use
their
bodies
in
moments
of
intense
passion
thin
poems
should
center
on
lofty
themes
romantic
ideals
and
maybe
sometimes
even
ponder
the
existence
of
god
you
could
also
write
a
pretty
good
thin
poem
about
a
spider
skimming
along
a
gossamer
thread
but
i
think
that
one's
probably
already
been
done
to
death
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
It was my best friend who asked me
what I'd choose to be in my next incarnation.
Honestly, she caught me completely off guard,
intellectually dumbfounded by a prospect
I'd never considered, nor felt I deserved.
That night I wracked my brain searching for
a suitable chakra from which to derive an answer.
I know she believes everything is renewed,
so, deferring to her convictions,
I chose a jaguar, as suitable for my solitary way.
She's always had a knack for surprising my existence,
deflecting the metaphysical, steering for spiritual shores.
I recognize this power she exudes, though she dismisses me.
The jaguar I'm evolving divinely subsumes her virtues,
is cognizant of the heroine from Mumbai ashrams.
I'd like to tell you I hear rumblings in the sky,
that there's a certain path beneath my feet,
but my destiny eludes all outward signs,
striving for that inner love that has no name.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
I. “I will always love you. I need you.”
A small seed is planted
In ground that has long been barren
Any flower or tree or life that has tried to grow
Has been cut down by her own callous blade
Against olive warm flesh
Or surpassed by the loud rumblings and grumblings
Incessantly begging the girl to eat
But now,
A ceasefire
The girl is loved
She is cautious, at first
Perplexed by the boy’s affection
But he sweetly holds her hand
Looks at her with eyes of wistfulness
As if she was an intricate work of art
A thing of beauty
And she decides
To
Let
The
Seed
Grow
II. “I’m not sure how I feel anymore.”
The girl had grown into a lemon tree
Made from light and love and vitamin D
But he took away her light
He forgot to hold her hand
He looked at her with eyes of apathy
As if she had become a colorless, bland
Thing of normality
And she decides
To
Let
The
Boy
Go
III. “I’m sorry. I still need you. I want to make it work.”
The girl thought she had grown on her own
But she wilted without her sun
She cut herself down out of pity
Because all her lemons had turned sour
She was no longer beautiful
But now,
The boy returns
Sad to see that her tree is gone,
He asks to plant a seed again
But the girl is trying to plant a new seed
Her own seed to create
Her own light
Love
Beauty
So that the tree will belong to her
But she misses the boy
She struggles to find a seed to plant
Too distracted by rumblings and grumblings
Because she keeps forgetting to eat
She looks at the boy with the seed
And she decides
She
Does
Not
Know
*“One day she left without a word. She took away the sun.
And in the dark she left behind, I knew what she had done.
She'd left me for another, it's a common tale but true.
A sadder man but wiser now I sing these words to you:
Lemon tree very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat.”
(Peter, Paul & Mary – “Lemon Tree”)*
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 8:43 AM UTC
This is to all those misfits
To the Romeo car-washing in Inglewood inlets
To the Hippy selling crystals on the Venice boardwalk
The Magician swallowing 8-balls at the Huntington Beach peer
The Rapper selling CDs in the Ranch Market parking lot
The **** tatting in a makeshift garage
The Poet slinging chapbooks at cafes and rec centers…
Not androids pontificating from lecterns
But grimy roots burrowing deep
Seismic rumblings toppling down
Insured ivory towers
Smashing pilled-paradigms beneath Docs
Hustling and slinging
In the forbidden outshacks of civilization
In tents, over barbed-wire, beside shards
Desperate and burning
For neither Truth or Beauty
But for LIFE
They do not tap wrists
No, they thump chests
To feel it beat
To feel it rage
For fugitive fugues
For new eternities
They embrace
********** romance
Graveyard necromance
The holy hunger for change
Defying commercials and charts
Shivering and howling on streets
Waging guerrilla war
Liberating cubicled-hearts
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 8:20 PM UTC
The wind is violent,
Knocking, flapping and rustling,
Slapping, tumultuous
Rolling like waves
I am swept
Savoring the mad sea-breeze
Savoring life
Rolling the sweetness on my tongue
Palm fronds slap delicious
A storm is brewing
Ocean spray spits smartly
Birds give way
Mother Nature is respected here
Nothing is contained
To the Queen we all bow and give way
Glance furtively under slit lids
Perhaps her wake, her eye will pass us by
With no more than a slap or tweaked cheek
Her notice, her scornful gaze
Can turn our hearts to waste
Our lives to dust
Our ocean mother laughs at the weak
Barricade of glass
Her tinkling laughter can shatter dreams
But oh, her majesty
What glorious banners she weaves
To trail her horizon is fool’s folly
Her train may wreck,
Her abuses bruise us
But to behold her wake, her glory
Her tresses, her face
Risking defeat and death is
A small price to pay
Surfing the wind, surfing the sun
After all nothing remains the same-
And my life is but a mere passing dust speck
In the mote of her eye
Keep me here fair queen
Bowed by your feet
Please don’t rub me out-just yet
All sadness departs when I hear your music
In the rustling flapping of leaves
The ocean roars and thunder booms
Your symphony oh sweet dear
Your symphony this day
So priceless to pay
Melon rolls sweetly on my tongue
Drops of honey linger-a **** tang
Like a mermaid lying beached upon the sand
Gathering in the ancient hush of the sea
These rumblings of the planet
Sea spray bathing my face
Foam like the spurts of ***
From a loved one
Lovers embrace
The rhyme and song is ancient
I feel a soft hush rumbling lullaby
Sea song siren cry
The rhythm and lull
The beat like ***
An ******** crescendo
Again and again-my heart beats in rhythm to hers
The goddess of the sea
Surfing the sun, surfing the wind
Rays like waves splash my face.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
Once upon a time, I had the zeal of a thief with a mission, I knew what I wanted, I strived to get it, and failure did little to deter me. My heart pounded blood with fire, it acted with a vengeance filling me up with a strong desire, a hope, a future that all will be well, with time.
Time goes by quickly enough. With 24 years on my back, I am still in the same place as I was ten years ago but with less vigor. A state of hopelessness has made a nest in my crib, time seems to drag and I wait for my next big dream to come crumbling down once again.
The God I worshipped before has changed too, I have a new one, one who is more loving and has more enemies, the only problem is, the enemy is winning this fight of souls. I am down the drain of waste, slowly filling my belly with dirt and too distracted with the failure in front of me to spit out the filth from my lips.
I wake each day with a fresh brain, waiting to be filled up but soon afterwards, its filled with past failures, past pains, the past, the past, the past! Now, I know what you are thinking, move on, let the past be the past. I know all about moving on, I moved on from my ex, it took me more than a year but I am glad I let the ******* go (not that he is that bad!) but how can I move on from this? Every day is a reminder of the past, thing is, I don’t have to live in my past to be influenced by it, many times, the past is indeed my present.
The past has a bag of failures packed up to the brim, my present too is always marked with failure after failure. How can I make you understand the state of hopelessness that is eating at me? No, I am no saint, I am no good at many a thing, I wish I was also as good in getting over this, only problem is that it feels like a thousand galaxies have been set on my shoulders for me to carry.
This is what hopelessness means, I have a past that is too strong for me, a present that is dim each day and a future that is so bleak that looking at it only makes me sink deeper.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 7:16 AM UTC
What tempest rules the earth
around her girth clasps her axe
Thunderous lightening in twisted gales
forlorns amazon anger with her gods
Her voice screams for victory sought
in rumblings of the earth below
Touch not her heart of many stones
unless you dare to feel her wrath
upon your bones and wrench you
and ****** into the further pit of hell,
where dismal screams are heard
from bitter depths below
And snake like chains grind the cold
stonehenge ground pulled by bleeding ankles to the bone
Seek not merciful guidence from her wrath
or shelter from her axe or kindness from cold
black eyes but quiver from her icy demon touch
Succubus her nature be, she draws the air from you and me and yet a tempest all in one
Be hastened away by her tempest shrill
and collar you for good
Be alert not to roam too far
from your neighborhood
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
and the parson
on the village green
greets the people
and blesses them
with peaceful images
of an all encompassing
eternity
and the parson
senses in the shadows
ominous and deadly ...rumblings
masters of slavery
and lusted hatefilled afternoons
invading
his time and space
but he keeps on smiling
on the village green
for the souls of his people
must feel "the peace"
but then the WAR
comes to the village green
and the parson, in horror
sees the building flames
destroy the village
and the people
and the sense of
eternal peace
and the parson himself
and his faith
and now it has happened
to the village green
and the WAR itself
what did it mean?
NOTHING!
NOTHING BUT DESTRUCTION
to each and every thing
(and the parson
on the village green
greets the people
and blesses them
with peaceful images
of an all encompassing
eternity)
AMID THE WAR SONGS
AND THE FLAMES
Jul 24, 2010
Jul 24, 2010 at 1:23 PM UTC
Wind,the agent of change,
you at first was far off and distant,
A constant drone of bees, not much!
they paid no heed to those rumblings,
Your power was counted
insignificant,they kept the curtain drawn,
Down, intact, trying to
keep you out of the house of darkness.they kept.
But the suppressed put
their ears close to the ground, listened,
Aware of your intent, they
patiently waited, watching your unhurried advance.
Giving talkative leaves ample chance
to speak their heart, first, tickling trees, caressing clouds,
You changed the speed,
rustling sound soon became persistent.
Shouting slogans, hand raised,
all the plants and trees expressed their anguish,
Insisted, a change, justice for mother nature,
stoppage of torture of , animals, birds and bees.
Wind, you act as an unswerving friend,
creating awareness , is your intent.
and fight the rot , naked profit motive, relentlessly,
by now every one knows the injustice,
festering fiercely in the core.
You drive the clouds and spin them about,
rain by and by gains strength
It pours now in torrents, all untruth
comes out in the open, face the ire,
the true power of the protests, eye of the storm.
Wind, you boom, give a clarion call to clean,
revenge all the injustices, perpetrated til now.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
Herein, laying dormant,
veils of reposed
secrecy 'neath
foamy seascapes'
frenetic passages,
languishing below
sunken treasures'
false facades of
reticently rolling
shrouded bluffs,
shaded of darkly impetuous
hued blood in
unceremoniously
bound convolutions,
a million ancient
undisclosed shadows hidden,
notwithstanding combative
rumblings of death's
unwelcome sycophancy,
depths of centuries'
old unparalleled stories,
whence hush-hush
undulatory influx
of defiant upsurges
and turbulence reside,
that of which only the
winds of indiscretion,
clandestine spirits
& gods could surmise
...as privileged moons watch over amaranthine skeletons
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 6:57 AM UTC
Where I go to escape.
When I begin to feel my body broken to the core and my mind shattered into pieces, this paper serves as my bandage and the words serve as my scars.
Words are my escape. I could write till the world ends. I write poetry when the mood strikes and the words just flow and I, unable to control the way my fingers move loosely stuck in a beautiful trance. Whenever I feel I need to get the feelings out, my writings and rumblings are how I escape reality. The words are the little sparkling stars that people think I would not have the courage to express.
My pink journal, filled with words and phrases help me to escape the violence that is life and it becomes a sanctuary where life's troubles and woes slowly drift away. Where I go to escape begins in my bedroom.
In my "haven" there are no rules , I simply say what I want, whenever I feel. My canvas becomes my paper and each word a small fragment contributing to the final image. It has the potential to create beautiful things out of scrap pieces I call my emotions. My ideas pour out on me with the intensity of water flowing through a newly broken dam.
The place where no rhyming, metaphors, or similes are needed. Just thinking, breathing, living and most importantly, the words.
My escape becomes a lens as It is a way to see the world from a slightly different perspective. My escape is part of an expression . When my family and friends turn their backs on me, poetry says: " take a pen and paper and write how you feel." Poetry is my therapist.
Poetry, for me, is all my thoughts. My heart belongs to poetry. It is my confidante, my best friend and the one thing I can turn to when everyone is sick of me. I tell poetry everything; and poetry tells me nothing. I am dependent on poetry.
My escape on pen and paper, emotions poured onto a page because poetry says: " what you feel is what you write, it helps to let it out." It is a perfect outlet for those who don't scream or like shout but rather engage in their silent cries.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
The roller coasters never used to the scare me
it was always the lines which I feared
waiting and waiting and waiting
allowing my mind the space to run wild
with images of crushed, collapsed, metal
the loops and the speed never scared me
the rickety clank of the old tracks
or the hydraulic rumblings of the new
these things never scared me
it was my own mind which scared me
the certainty with which I knew
that I was never going to wait in another line
ever again
that after this,
all would be like before I was born
the hazy dark silence
of an unconscious mind
But the roller coasters?
I always used to enjoy the roller coasters
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
Persecution is stalking me.
A blank future, its only child.
Rumblings of woe, it's all I see,
A world which is nothing but mild.
Nonetheless, I cherish this picture
Of doom and looming menace.
I deem it a heaven-sent treasure,
A cure for my insecurity crevice.
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 11:50 AM UTC
Rumblings
Tummbling
Pain
Insane
Pendulum
Swings
Graves
Enslaved
Lust
Prevention
Corruption
Autonomy
Interdiction
Craves
Plenty
Flickering
Selection
Benighted
Intention
Equivalence
Quivering
Slithering
Impingement
Claws
Causes
Crippled
Laws
Unbalanced
Inoperable
Unrequited
Injustice
Rain
Moon
Falling
Low
Control
Space
Lovers
Standing
Under
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 7:58 AM UTC
Laid waste the beauty of ancient sites
Where wisdom laments its ancient demise.
The human spirit had once taken flight
Out of dark mists and out of disguise.
Paradise found just beyond their reach.
Friendship feigned as in unwitting Troy.
Pygmalion's ideal crumbled within the breech.
Pure knowledge strangled by treacherous ploy.
Yet wisdom still beckons beneath this frost.
Rumblings felt faintly in purer souls.
Vowed in blood to regain paradise lost.
Worlds sacrificed for one small foothold.
Beauty from ashes of ancient sites.
In spirit in heart once again taking flight.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 11:38 AM UTC
Sometimes I wish I was a taxi driver because I don't believe there is more honest person on earth.
They hear the apologies of intoxicated teenagers on their way home from club, that they used to fake ID's to get into.
They hear quarrels between frisky lovers who drank too much on their dinner date and can't wait to shed their clothing.
They hear the rumblings of elderly folk complaining about gas prices and the brand name stores that put the local businesses under.
but sometimes, they hear the confessions of lonely travelers who were wandering the streets at 3 in the morning, contemplating how they would like to take their life, until they saw a taxi cab driving so fast and realized it was their sign to go home.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
Show me your hidden face,
Quiet shivers erupting from behind masks,
Desirous of you to fill the open space,
And to question whether to demand or to ask.
Quiet shivers erupting from behind masks,
Tenacious rumblings of an unknown kind.
To question whether to demand or to ask
Would be a dangerous dance with the conscious mind.
Tenacious rumblings of an unknown kind,
Tables fleeing and chairs sent asunder.
Would it be a dangerous dance with the conscious mind
To let the labyrinth open and the curious wonder?
Tables fleeing and chairs sent asunder,
The costumes strewn on lilting lamps.
Let the labyrinth open and the curious wonder,
Get rid of the bed monsters and tummy cramps.
The costumes strew on lilting lamps,
Show me your hidden face.
Get rid of the bed monsters and tummy cramps.
I'm desirous, you. Fill the open space.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
Arcane rumblings bellow out from the infrastructure.
The secrets swell out from the wealthy infidels. Their water has broken.
The top-hat henchmen gather their whiskers.
Stuttering shock and leaking their whispers,
vulcan-loud.
The wise old casualties know all of what’s to come,
so they pack their sacks with their old guns
to fortify their army of one.
The news skips the billions of ignorant families
condemning daughters and sons to an army of none.
The first bullets abandon their barrels,
the kick-off to pain, from poise.
Eager to byte flesh, fur, faith,
eager to make some godawful noise.
The following blasts are a metallic symphony
Quickly looming, swooning,
booming into cacophony
in shrill-major.
Blood spatters pavement, under marching feet,
is dragged, looped about the streets in a homicide calligraphy,
paralyzing the squinting mercenaries.
Out come the canons,
dancing on their wheels,
silencing the gunfire,
spinning on their heels,
dissenting the sonata with rifle-explosion accompaniment.
Warrior sighs greet the late auxiliary:
armadas sing in baritone
while civilians scream soprano.
Children cry in alto.
Blood flows in legato.
Today some of us will die
so that the rest will open their eyes
to an oversky, cloud-bloated with lies.
While down below we blaze away our requiem.
And by the hand of this same melody we die.
Here lies humanity,
fashioning,
always,
a bellicose smile.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 10:55 AM UTC
the Internet sets
higher aspirations
a teaching guide,
on how to
go beyond and deep into
the fast lane's curved and wide,
stretching
the straight and narrow
longer than lasting,
lasting no longer than
memory feelings
blurred overlapping burnt edged video recordings
pores pour oil and noise,
differentiating little between
beginning ending continuous
in the mind, from the walls,
Santana Rob sings "Smooth,"
but it is
the guitar wailing controlled penetrations.
a national anthem
of driven perpetual needy fomenting
outspoken physical truths
you don't care how you
got there,
where you are,
anybody's name,
high octane high performance
*** today,
is not for
the shy and the retiring, sissies,
we all got the necessary expertise,
with violin accompanist of pharma teaching aids
recalling first time tumblings,
exhaling
deep down throated rumblings,
rushing
fumbling ********* an ****** innocence
rushes of surprise and discovery,
success of feeling successful,
the shame of miscommunications
think I'm gonna watch me
a romantic comedy,
write her a love poem,
come up from behind,
caress her *******
kidding kissing her ear lobes,
then entering her entry point,
her neck
even when she is
armed
but forgiving,
busy chopping dinner's vegetables,
make them make them
give up the hidden
soft atonal squealing
like a
piccolo on steroids,
high pitch teasing,
pinched by air ****** intaking
I'll play the bass,
hitting those low notes,
********* my own strings,
deep ooh's and aah's
diode emitting,
the drug employed
is unadulterated
wanton but wanted
desire
this won't be the poem of the day,
no mind,
it already is was and
will be...
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 7:27 AM UTC
These words don't belong to you
or me
They come from down deep
From the low guttural rumblings
Of our sleeping planet
They come on the wind
as it flies into your ears and eyes
forcing you to take that deep breath: inspire
They come, gently, from the trees
whispering the song of the season
as you stroll beneath their branches
They come from the heart
as it pumps blood through us tenuously, with a rhythmic beat
They come from the stardust
of a thousand dreamy worlds
drifting slowly through the universe
and out the tips of our pens
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC
Home airs have become quieter,
Things are back to normal...
Here in this house, which isn't my home,
The soundless afternoon winds bring a touch of melancholy,
Holiday season is finished, the hours pass by so slowly.
In the living room, my eyes strayed upwards,
Towards a Christmas wreath left hanging on the wall...
A sunbeam was shining weakly over it...but,
It rested on the wreath long...long enough, it dazzled me with a reality
That changed the preponderant gloomy atmosphere...
The wreath will be kept, for next year...
It is sad to think, another season over
Another year over....and
December is still eleven months away,
But.... the reason for the season could linger on, if we choose to.
It is said, charity begins at home, but it doesn't have to end there...
We quickly stretch our hands for our family, close friends in need,
They are our loved ones, it feels good...feels like Christmas!
But the old, the blind, the disabled people, are strangers, waiting...
What if we gave them even just a bit of ourselves....even just for a while?
Some warmth, or smiles...a hand to find their way,
The Christmas feeling would be alive! Stronger!
For the street children, the orphans in a hospice, it means Christmas,
To be fed, kept warm with clothing and shelter, any time, day, or month.
They... we...would feel a heavenly kind of peace surround us...
It would mean everything for the prisoners, the juvenile delinquents
If we could spend an aftenoon with them,
Listen to their rumblings, litanies of their pain, their losses,
Hear their past moments of glory...of how it is
To be neglected... deserted by their own loved ones...
It is Christmas day, to see them lifted from their agonizing silence, beaming...
To see a child's lost front teeth, as ***** gives a smile of happiness
While holding a bag of goodies and gifts of toys,
Would melt the ice...the stone-cold airs dwelling within...
Maybe, even the lukewarm souls could change...
It is Christmas for them...... for, these short-lived holiday moments,
Mean the world to them...
Yes.....
Charity begins at home, but it does not end there...
If only we could stretch our hands...bearing in mind---
A kind deed done to our fellow human beings,
Is as good as done to God.
The sun shines bright on that Christmas wreath on the wall,
Any time, any day of the year....
Even if it's not there at all...
"Whatever you have done to the least of my brethren, you have done unto me..." (Matthew 25:40)
Sally
Copyright 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
Sudden was the descent of poetry on me
I tottered under its weight
My body heated up like the sun
A frying egg yolk on the pan
My blood started burning…. burning
A strange madness crept across my senses
Intoxicated as by an excess dose of ale
Or drunk with the vintage wine
Or by some mystical disengagement
I started levitating
Wings sprouted up suddenly on my sides
I reeled round and round
Flew up and up
Meteors flashed past
Stars blinked
Larger celestial bodies stood still
Strange sounds fleeted past my ears
My heart palpitated,
Like the rumblings of thunder
My eyes glowed like fire *****
A shout I heard afar
Over the heavens’ mysterious rim
Muffled though, I could decipher it;
“Welcome to the clan of poets”!
Around me, I saw multitudes of poets
Young and old, their faces blazing
Like a thousand lanterns lit
In that blinding brilliance
My filmy wings burnt outright!
Like Icarus, from the heights
I flopped down to the chasm below
In the scattered heap of flesh and bones
A faint stir …..
…………………..
The feeble flutter of a poetic heart
Before it was finally stilled!!
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 8:54 AM UTC