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False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
Thesunking Apr 2018
What do most people do,
In their beautiful houses?
What do most people do
after building their beautiful nests?

If you are expecting a single answer, it's not the best.
Although most people lay down
on their bed the whole day.
Many sit on the couch with their girlfriend,friend or family-
Probably watching Tele.

I know people who love kissing
their soul mates by the chimney,
While there are men
by their window,
Waiting for a ****** at mid night 3

There are people who feed on frozen
Pizzas the whole day,
While there is someone counting every Rupee that would together
make a dinner.

Someone and his wife is having ***.
There is someone playing with his kid,
At the park across the gate.

You don't know
About people at mid 80's
Waiting for death.
Like kids do for rewards,
While there is someone afraid of dying
As he lies on his death bed.

There are people crying-
    Someone lost lost his mother,
    Someone lost her pet,
    Someone got bullied
While someone choked Someone to death.

An old man wanting to live.
A teen by his bed drafting a
Clean suicide.

A kid trying to strum basic chords.
A teen just snapped her guitar into two.

A girl happy as she is applying her makeup.
A girl and her ugly relationship  with the mirror.

But do you know-
They all leave their houses
Many do,
Some really don't.

And then at the end of the day,
some came back.
Some did.
And many did not.

Celebration or defeat
Cold by the lake
Or by the bed,

Not many people are happy,
And I don't know why
I cannot see them.
Bottled words for wrecked sailors
Philipp K J Feb 14
Sparkling sweat beads dripping
Down his shining head and wetting
His shirt that's sticking to his fast ticking heart.
The stranger was a strange encounter
For the tea vendor at the counter  near 
 the Indian railway station.
He looked out if there were any rain
There wasn't any and couldn't restrain
"What makes thou to perspire so much?'
The man stood slowly gasping and ordered a tea
And bumped on the banana bunch
While turning to sit on a bench.

The vendor at the counter
repeated same question:
what made thou perspire so?

" O the mad rush
from station.
To retrieve the cash
bag"
He paused and said,
"my wife left at ***
End of filling the car
With rag tags
and bob tails".

She and her mother
Had  to catch the train
in time
And to be seated in fine
The only  scheduled train
half past seventeen.
I dropped them though
very relaxed.
As it were conceived
Twenty minutes ahead.
Was it not ideal with an aged
One to move unbothered?
"Then tell me why art thou sweating?"
Take the tea and be seated.
The curious vendor
came out of counter
Placed the tea on the bench
near him and sat beside
To listen to the stranger.

I waved good bye to my wife
then she asked for the cash bag
and sensed she left it at home.
No time to think
I jumped into car and shot off
Zooming in terrific zigzag
Through a flood of swelling traffic
Ten minutes remaining
My  car stopped with a crushing break
At home. I jumped and  grabbed the bag
from the side of the garage
Where she left it.
Put my hands to the shoulder tags
Perched on my two wheeler thanks
To God. I gushed out like a wind
dealing and wheeling
steering like youngsters
Rushed to the station yard
Dashed the scooter forward
Caught an auto rickshaw
The Surprised driver pull started
I  commanded to drop me
At the station entrance
Just three hundred feet distance
And threw a hundred rupee pittance
The train was hooting to commence
I did not see the couch number
Running  I asked a runner by
For B2, "to B or not to B you C"
First board the tail
and move forward inside the isle.
Without waiting for detail
I ran gasping like a runner
And in the other corner
Aghast my wife speechless
At my ghostly shape and beastly pants
Caught the costly bag from my  hands
And saw me dart the moving exit
Some one voiced me to sit
A while and rest.
The train left in disgust.
"Alas! You relax. At last
You are a winner! Right? Take tea"
The man curious though patted
And told to encourage him.

"No! Not. I am a loser!
A snake bite
Following a lightning strike!
I was gasping and sitting
On a chair on the platform
A man in black suite stood
before me, a snake with open hood
over me who ran like lightning Bolt.
"Show your entry pass",
his voice bold and told
"Or pay a fine hundred fold
The cost of a platform ticket"
I paid the bitter fine.
Is it not a snake bite behind  
A lightning strike?
Wiping out the sweat beads
with a piece of cloth he stretched his hand
For a cigarette!
The vendor helped the man to light it too
and watched his face glow up
Behind a whirling puff
Of smoke and a hot sip from tea cup.
I wandered through the streets of my past,
Each building telling a story of my childhood.
The shop there, with maximum customers,
I remember going there,
Standing for hours, not able to out voice others,
Just to buy a petty thing!

Beyond it was a shop,
To say it a 'shop' would be too much in its praise.
Just a raised cemented platform.
A man there, sold cold drinks, different flavors.
Don't remember if it still exists.

But there is a clear picture of the man who sat on road,
Beneath the shop.
He sold ice, and I was his regular customer,
Until we bought a fridge.
Oh! How much I used to admire looking at the ice block unloading from the mini truck.

Moving further, there is a shop,
With usual hustle bustle.
I could see the owner as young as I saw him eleven years before.
There is my father, sitting at the corner eating the gujiya, while talking to him.
My father looks at me and smiles.
I move in the shop,
He hands me a ten rupee note.

It was getting dark and I had to leave,
I walked towards my old house,
Thinking that I would go back with my brothers and sisters.
No fascination was left for the house that treasured so many memories.

My brothers and sisters were leaving for home.
I stopped them, asking to take me along.
They refused, saying, 'There is no place for another.'
I saw them receding into the dark.

I decided to walk back home.
The road was peculiarly solitary.
The weather was cold and it had started to snow.
I trudged on, but cold had numbed my senses.
Feeling dizzy, I lost my balance.
But someone caught me.
Wrapping me in his warm arms.
He held immense radiance,
Like the omnipresent.

As I passed away thinking that there wasn't any tomorrow,
I heard him say,'I will always be there for you.'
We have to walk alone on the path of achieving our aim. But there is someone constantly with us.

— The End —