"shabbily" poems
I was drunk,
Lying on the Delhi Street,conked,
I was thrown out of a bar nearby,
I can't remember why?
I woke with a start,
I found myself in a cart,
Pulled by a shabbily dressed man
With a tattered turban,
And a ragged **** cloth round his waist.
Was he here to collect waste?
Not to ask I thought best.
I threatened him to stop,
Or I would call the cop.
Immediately he put the cart down,
He thought I was gone!
We had a long talk,
His sorry tale made me baulk,
Made me sober.
He was a corpse collector,
With a six year old daughter.
For a few miserly rupees,
He collected corpses,
From the alleys and streets,
And performed their last rites.
The corpses were mostly of those who died of cold,
Their stories untold.
The man had no home,
Come rain,cold or storm,
They lived under an old building's dome.
The little girl with him tagged along,
Looked at life as a song,
Never a complaint,
The little grubby saint.
On cold frosty days,
To stay warm,the only way,
The corpses became the child's blanket,
She cuddled amongst them as if in a basket.
Tears welled up in my eyes,
This was reality, not lies,
The strings of my heart broke,
From a lifetime of dreams I woke,
I have to turn the hands of the clock,
The Almighty had cleared my vision,
I was sent here for a reason.
I made up my mind,
Gambling and drinking I left behind.
I adopted the pair,
On the same street,I opened a Shelter,
For the needy and underprevileged,
And a Home for the aged.
In life I found my mettle
With wife and children I am settled.
I also work with other NGO's
For the betterment of people's lives.
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 3:46 AM UTC
Never decide all of a sudden
Take time and act shrewdly
In case you take a rash step
The repercussion will be bad
Consult many in the trade
Talk to those whom you trust
Very carefully analyze points
Finally a solution will emerge
Acting based on just instinct
Will take in the wrong direction
It may spoil all your initiative
Animals are only **** rash
Crude decisions end shabbily
Producing lots of confusions
The position may turn terrible
As a result of blind approach
Use brain and also your heart
Here only shrewdness mingles
With your heart's natural mercy
Use this combination to achieve.
mvvenkataraman
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 11:09 AM UTC
When I said “I love you,” I lied
with a drifting and dreamy head
across the velvety sea
I imagined
resting and narrowly defined
in the nakedness
at the edge of your lap.
I have a history
of over-indulging
mixed-up senses.
I tasted the sight
of a gently curved nose.
I caressed the scent
of a lightly perfumed neck.
I’ll speak but not hear again
of the salty, savory, sweetness;
all bitterness has gone.
It’s not that I binged
so much as feasted
after a prolonged period
of self-deprivation.
And now I’m caught
between two urges:
To shave, to shear, to no longer
shabbily make shrift;
Or to revel
in the sloppy temptation
of recalling you.
Powerless I'll watch
the dissembling
tomorrow makes.
Before it comes, whisper-soft,
I repeat my mistake,
and unreliably say,
“I loved you.”
Oct 29, 2010
Oct 29, 2010 at 8:27 AM UTC
You were a poem from the beginning
Something in your boyish features and shining blonde hair, shabbily cut across those blue eyes
You were a marvel to me simply in the way you walked, floating on knobby knees and slouching socks
In your blackline tattoos, the silver hoop in your left ear, your skin Moroccan gold
And you had that one darkened tooth of a crooked smile lover
In the afternoon, I watched the sun cut through the holes in the space above us
In shy glances, I watched whole worlds of your boyish beauty as you slept in the sun
Occassionally waking for sips of warming beer from green glass bottles
Your warm honey belly balancing a clever man's novel
And later, in the dark, empty palace of a room, between those ancient stained glass windows and those eternal flowing fabrics,
The boy I knew as endless whispered so softly,
"I think I must be boring"
But I could swear you are a poem breathing life
You are sweet cadence come alive
I can still taste chocolate and wine on your lips
And I feel the laughs from deep in my belly as you crossed your legs and told me stories
I still feel the softness of your hair, the sweat from the tip of your nose
I still see you smiling at me from the far end of the pool
That one dark tooth of yours the only imperfection in sight
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 10:13 AM UTC
The Roamer roams on,
without thought or mind,
he is free and on his own,
but at what cost?
He roams in the day,
walking the streets,
shabbily dressed, and
confused for a vagrant.
He roams in the night
boots trampling the mud,
of a slick rain-struck sidewalk,
with no direction or guide.
He roams from city to city,
staying for just a few weeks,
then he's off again to
roam to another city.
He roams the woods,
when he gets bored
with the cities and lights,
and the noise and people.
He roams the fields,
observing the sights,
utterly alone with
his thoughts as company.
He roams the world,
roaming far and wide,
searching for something,
he just can't find.
He roams endlessly,
evermore for something
more, yet will he lose
himself in the process?
The Roamer is a nomad,
searching for a place,
for a people who he
can call his home.
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 11:02 PM UTC
Propeller hat:
A poem about us-
Exquisite equation
So simple and classic
Calm sea of frustration
And new life Jurassic
Shabbily dressed to the nines
Your metal-band flute
My tangles of straight lines
The angles acute
Never cross (without reason)
My low-born sublime
Through good and bad seasons
Sans passage of time
Love,
Your jello-y rock
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 7:21 AM UTC
I spent five hours thinking about you, that day,
flipping through your pictures,
smiling at the letters
you never wrote for me but hoping that one day,
you might just draw the first alphabet of my name in a different style,
trying to figure out if my name rhymes with yours.
I smelled through the pages of the book
that has hidden notes about your eyes
and your smile in spaces between the lines
and shabbily scribbled dates
under the dog ears of the turn down page
that reminds me of the day
when you looked into my eyes for a second;
when your hands brushed against mine
and you didn't apologise for it
like you mostly did and,
when you told me that the closest
you had ever gone to someone
was by harming yourself.
And then,
there were moments
even after those hours when
I sneaked extra memories of you
from my subconscious and
laid it under the table lamp
like we did- under the blanket of the night sky,
squinting our eyes to search for the stars
amidst the silhouetted leaves.
I wrote letters to you,
I couldn't ever find an address to deliver it to
*because until the last time I met you,
I never realised I could be homesick for people too.*
Some nights,
I call you to ask you if you have ever loved someone,
if you have laughed just enough,
how deep have you been hurt,
how long will you wait till you belong to someone
and then, I just hang up before the dial tone goes off
because I am afraid you won't ask me the same
and even if you do,
I will end up liking you enough
to not let you go.
I know you won't say word after that
so, we will just sit there,
listening to each other's whiskey stenching breaths
over the telephone.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
A piece of art and oral histories
Matched together to create a radiant attire.
A match of skins from animals bones
Made into robes and aprons
To dazzle our uniqueness.
Simplicity is said to be
"The keynote of all true elegance".
Elegance is indeed the word
That describes our fashion.
The beauty of ours cannot be over emphasized
For even with no trace of histories
Our styles describes who we are.
African fashion,
Inspired by "youth"
Not by age
But at heart
For the youthfulness of the heart
Is in no match with the frivolity of mankind.
Let me digress us off a bit
From styles to our world
For afri fashion is not something
That exist in dresses only,
It is in the sky,
It appears In the street,
Africa fashion speaks to us through individuals ideas
The way we live and what is happening..
Africa fashion..
An impeccable,outstanding and flawless art
I call it "art" because it endorse creativity
For an author once said"dress shabbily and the world remember the dress,dress impeccably and the world remembers you".
Africa fashion"our styles,our mood.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 6:27 AM UTC
matted hair on tobacco stained fingers
reaches through the six inches
of unrolled window
crumpling the ten dollar bill
I have extended
to somebodies family –
Driving out of the parking lot
I notice four others
in similar attire
all with shabbily crafted
cardboard signs
expressing “God’s love”
and “please help”
hundreds pass…
do they see? –
forgoing poison fast food,
I circle behind a corporate chain
and fish out of my wallet
a five and two ones
again, I roll my window down
and make eye contact
same ***** hand
same crumpled bills –
Struggling to make sense
of what I am witnessing
I look back at my now empty wallet
and rub a belly, slightly extended
and partially irritated by lack of food
and chuckle….
I really have it so good.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC
here.....so lively!
we begin anew!
as the old times vanish!
as the NEW DAY rages!
as all SIMPLE STORIES END
as DEATH
show a face SO UGLY
A CHILD......UNGAINLY
walks his solemn valley
none dare see
we only know
"our portfolio"
DEAR GOD
I AM SORRY
SO SHABBILY
WE
TREATED
WHAT WE KNEW TOO WELL
WAS YOURS
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 10:17 AM UTC
we are obsessed with making every moment count and we are hardwired to believe that the best days of our lives – the ones we’ll shabbily reconstruct from memory when we’re old and wrinkly – are the ones we’re living now.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
edgy
semi-hostile;
opinionated *******
with mad skillz
and
no remorse –
I use the hate
the anger
find myself
satiated
by social unrest
and cultural rage…
a bully,
on a pulpit –
I have no consideration
for the feelings
of those scorned
skin thickens only after reddening
evolution and growth
rarely come pain free –
So many tears
flow freely down ***** streets
void of children’s laughter,
or simple sounds of midday traffic…
I sit on the corner
enjoying the un-comfortability
of a nation locked
in systematic racial injustice
and unease over whose **** goes were –
My **** roosts in a shabbily build coop
looking over a brood
producing eggs
that I will soon abort
and create a lovely omelet –
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
When you saw me sit with my head in my hands,
When you saw me unshaven and shabbily dressed,
When you saw the smile, that rigid liar's smile,
When you saw me cry, and then laugh on point,
When you saw me suffer in silence,
Did you feel anything? Or see anything at all?
I see it all, feel it all, torture myself with it all.
One kind word or that one question,
Would have changed my life, and maybe would have saved me.
Ask.
Please?
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 9:31 AM UTC
Tonight
it would be hard
for me to sleep
my duty
I performed
shabbily
I hurt
mindlessly
my promises
I failed to keep--
my excuses
sleep
would not overlook
or forgive
deep
inside
it's as though
some worms
are beginning to creep
gnawing
at my whole being
how could I sleep?
when poisons
seep
into the blood-system
when conscience
bites
at the seam
when
loud internal voices
ring to condemn
where would
I find sweet memories
to keep?
what I sow
I reap
it's well past midnight
but how could I sleep?
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC
The chapters you live in are pages I visit often
The novel of my life is indexed by your name.
Dog eared, bookmarked, frayed at the edges
Memories I keep (re)turning to
Some shabbily hastily taped back
Ripped out in fury, the need to forget
All consuming
And yet
I put them back
Slowly
Deliberately
Smoothing out the wrinkles
Relishing the agony to remember
To cherish the love not too long ago
The roses you gave me
Pressed against these pages
sweetness wafting
pervading my senses
mingling with a whiff of your salty aftertaste
********* the pages like they conceal
fragments of you within their folds
forever on my bedside table and in my dreams
you reappear,
the protagonist of a story that never belonged to you.
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 12:33 PM UTC
The fighter making passes at the fading sun sees.
how the shadows seek dark places
and
how they run,the combing of the distant dream leans
heavily on shoulders bent,
falls shabbily on rented circumstances,
no second chances here at the milepost of the year
and what a year it's been,
more shadows seen.
Tripping once or twice as he slips into the
promised paradise, that is
no gift to him,
there is no *** of gold just a tin of beer,not cold but
welcoming.
A churning in his guts,a yearning somewhere for something,
a wedding ring that rings no bell,
see how once mighty men have fell,
still fall,
fall still and silent and the will once strong.
long time ago
makes eyes at suns.
It comes to some when the fighting's done
and the gloves are put away,I
expect
It'll come to me one day.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC