"siesta" poems
I was brought into this house
Ordered from the local furniture shop
Made to order according to specifications
I am a wingback,
Upholstered in full-grain leather
True to my rich heritage
I was placed in the library
Amongst the illustrious works of famous writers
Half- a - century have passed, providing support
To the backbone of the family
Although tired, he finds solace in my cozy embrace
I give him my wings to fly into the world of literature
Cervantes, Bunyan, Bacon, Goehte, Dostoevsky, Chekov, Tolstoy
Some of the names from the illustrious collection
Not all were privileged to have a seat here
He was transported to each era, savoring the rich legacy
Of literature down the centuries
I was privy to the mind-boggling debates
Which he conducted with himself
Trying to reason each work of literature
A mere wingback rose to be a companion
Providing sturdy support on the mahogany legs
One fine day the reading session ended in deep slumber
Five decades of bonding and companionship came to an end
Now, I stand here, forlorn, at the corner of the library
Reminiscing the reading sessions, and siesta
The wingback does not have the wings to fly away from this bond
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
A song comes out of the speeding bhogis,
Seeta is the one rendering the song.
She chants that her husband has long been dead.
Seeta has two sons, just like her ballads.
One –
Gives rhythm to her song.
Other –
Rubs a gentleman out of his siesta
And asks for a little money.
The bhogis gain momentum (Ignores the station master who shows red to stop the pacing male phallus)
Long away –
A girl lies down, lower than the rails.
**** me, **** me, she bangs her head.
I will, I will, the rails swell the train song in her ears.
Though long away,
Though have not heard the girl,
As if she has heard something -
Seeta stops singing.
And her children dash out.
Two hobos enter in –
As if to sell sizzling peanuts.
Just as to give the body a bath –
Seemingly not pleased just with the rails –
The male train jumps off,
Into the wide sea.
(Whose ****** is the sea, the breeze hums a song)
A thousand crows flutters from –
One’s previous birth,
To –
Another’s next birth.
Seeta, having forgotten all her songs –
Looks out for her kids.
Will arrive shortly, will arrive shortly :
Weary, irked and bored -
Time waits at a station.
(I did remember Rupesh Paul, who drew a simile between the rails and the *** worker’s nights, Anitha Thampi, who wrote about female trains, Latheesh Mohan, who noted down how the train stretches its back, Vishnu Prasad and his poem on the phallus, Prasanna Aryans usage: **** says the wheel and shit-shit , says the rail et al , while writing this poem)
(Translated by Sherin Catherine)
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
Perfected spending ideal day off
Prepared a hot breakfast in bed
Procrastinated Java or Columbia
Perused the paper cover to cover
Perplexed prayer over crossword
Pampered by bath-time bubbles
Phoned almost forgotten friends
Purchased Murakami on Amazon
Polished off a lunchtime martini
Postponed exercise with siesta
Perambulated the beach slowly
Pushed the boat out for dinner
Preferred Barolo to Barbaresco
Panicked - work again tomorrow.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:23 AM UTC
Ang pagkain ng croissant at floss buns
sa public places.
O ng saging o hotdog sa jeepney.
Ng chocolate ice cream habang naka-all white ka.
Ang umibig ng mga taong may mental illness.
O ng taga-malayo o magkagusto sa pari.
Ng taong hindi maaaring ibigin.
Ang maki-apid sa asawa ng may asawa.
Ang kwarto **** napabayaang linisin
dahil mas masarap nga naman ang siesta.
Mas nakakahalina ang tawag ng pahinga,
kaysa talak ng pagliligpit.
Ang trend ng salted caramel everything
dahil mas mainam ang may konting alat.
Ang nakaligtaang lakad sa government offices
dahil mas kaakit-akit ang gumala.
Ang buhay **** salat sa kaayusan
dahil mas masarap ang makalat.
Oct 8, 2023
Oct 8, 2023 at 8:39 AM UTC
Morning, good morning!
What a pleasant feeling.
Look out of your window sill
Birds chirping down hill
Rising Sun’s warmness
with an aura of happiness
Dewdrops on rose petals
Moisture on flower beds
Lanes with damp mud roads
Children waiting with bookloads
Men with their tools to workshop
Women with their bags to shop
Each in thoughts of their chores
Or in groups musing at jokes.
As the clock’s hands move forward
with the moving Sun overhead
Look out of your window sill
watch the changes downhill
All energy withered in heat
Life slows down in many a feat
The splendour of dawn faded
As the brightness of light invaded
No musings or jokes on road
None could stand the heat to hold
The empty lanes appear haunted
Silence pervading unhindered.
Look out of your window sill
Watch the Sun’s glare going still
If you enjoyed the day’s siesta
It’s a great blessing after the Fiesta
The evening’s glow at your doorstep
Spreading delight at each footstep
Look around for the actions of mankind
Adept in their chosen courses behind
With all the lives on earth in the swings
Singing the glory of Almighty on the wings
Oh! What a colourful day to consider
With lovely thoughts of you to ponder!
*************************************************
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 1:25 PM UTC
Mutted sounds
The city sleeps... traditional
Rest...closed shutters
Against the heat....skies white
Blinding, implacable
Brurnt, liquid: coupolas baking
Through centuries of glazed splendor
My lover's breath on old fashioned
Sheets: starched, crip...ironed flat
Our bodies recouping
In the cool inner wall... welcomed presence
Nary a sound...inanimate objects
Enrobed in silence
Languid , heavy, waiting for the shadows
Announcing night's fresh enconter.
Colette Anne Naegle
copyrights 2005
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 3:34 AM UTC
The air has a burnt smell
It is hot and dry
The streets are empty
Even the dogs are missing
It is a hot and bright afternoon
People have taken refuge
under the roofs of their homes or work places
Even the trees seem to be mute
So are the birds and the cattle
My throat is dry
My mind is blank
My brain is asleep
Am struggling to keep awake
The weather is strange
The climate is changing
The ponds are dry
The brooks are dusty
with no water to flow
The earth is moving lazy and slow
Time seem to crawling because of the heat
The noon seems to un-ending
The schools are noiseless and sleepy.
It is dusty and hazy
The only wind being because of the
fast moving buses and trucks
and some occasional cars
The windows are closed
so do the doors of the buildings
across the streets
The rich enjoying their siesta
in the air conditioned rooms
The poor, sweating it out
in their places of work
for their daily wages
so that they can have
some food to eat in the night.
so also that
the rich can continue to have
their peaceful siestas
..
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 1:46 AM UTC
*Coiled golden serpent, furiously hisses from behind the thicket,
hiding mongoose, wakes up from its siesta, gets alert,
game of life and death, spying on each other goes on nonstop,
death hidden in serpent either surrenders or escapes now and awaits its next chance.*
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
Pardie, mine is thine, parfay in
Mine siesta; I hadst a sweven of
Tender refine. We art perantique
To the temporal, sacrosanct we
Art, divinity's temple's. Patration
Hath been acknowledged, by the
Guardian's of the extrasolar, as doth
Me and thine beauty amour', lieth in
The eye's of ourn beholder.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedicated
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 9:28 PM UTC
Barcelona in the siesta:
two alien idiots walking
the dry deserted streets
in search of mineral water -
like infants in a land of gentiles.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 7:53 AM UTC
It is the same garden that holds,
Prickly rose bushes,
Healing basil and spritely marigolds.
It is here the bees fly, birds rest their wings,
It is here every morning the nightingale sings.
It is here the hare scampers, the squirrel scurries,
The snake slithers, the rodent hurries.
It is here the gecko hides, the worm crawls,
The bat flies when darkness falls.
In the mud and the dirt, the soil and the gravel,
In coarse little stones, smooth little pebbles,
In topaz skies, in waters azure,
In a lotus that blossoms in a world impure.
In the siesta of flowers, the fiesta of leaves,
In the dance of raindrops serenaded by a breeze.
In summer's golden glare, autumns russet finger
In the green breath of spring, the white hand of winter..
Beauty in His creations, in every season,
In every color for a rainbow of reasons.
Each special and each rare,
Each, in a bough or burrow,
Has a niche somewhere.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 9:12 AM UTC
Vientecico murmurador,
Que lo gozas y andas todo, &c.;
Airs, that wander and murmur round,
Bearing delight where'er ye blow!
Make in the elms a lulling sound,
While my lady sleeps in the shade below.
Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest,
Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er.
Sweet be her slumbers! though in my breast
The pain she has waked may slumber no more.
Breathing soft from the blue profound,
Bearing delight where'er ye blow,
Make in the elms a lulling sound,
While my lady sleeps in the shade below.
Airs! that over the bending boughs,
And under the shade of pendent leaves,
Murmur soft, like my timid vows
Or the secret sighs my ***** heaves,--
Gently sweeping the grassy ground,
Bearing delight where'er ye blow,
Make in the elms a lulling sound,
While my lady sleeps in the shade below.
2.1k
the piano
a deep baritone
and somewhere
the steady hum
of a television
i wake limbs
lethargic
from the magic
of a siesta
and he sings
my eyes heavy
my heart light
i stretch
languorously
the kettle hisses
the shapes
of the afternoon
the lilies cast
a shadow
the light changes
and the piano
touches
chords deep
in my body
places i had forgotten
memories of times
long ago, kisses
under the velvet
canopy of stars
so bright
and dancing
and laughing
of youth
carelessly spent
and smoky kisses
over the river
the sweet tea
brings me back
to now
the drone
of the television
back to mediocrity
and life
but he plays
and there are dreams
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 2:48 AM UTC
We awake to morning sounds
Of pavements washing down
Everyone's a trader
In this terracotta town
Wander through the winding streets
Drink in sights and sounds
A trader or an artist
In this terracotta town
Time to find a slice of shade
Siesta hour has come around
All is quiet, all is still
In this little tourist town
The waiters they are waiting
No-one wears a frown
Everybody holds a stake
In this their terracotta town
The fishermen are coming in
The sun is going down
We hold onto a painted pebble
To remind us of the peace we found
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 3:16 PM UTC
*no wonder i watch *********** it's a moral struggle these days downing a whiskey trying to down america 1930s. al capone would have laughed with me i'm sure, and shouted: cuba! cuba! fiddle castrato! well, there was the violin to mind in tao when the castratos masturbated;. oh look... the pope! where’s my bishop purple and cardinal red? down the toilet, with the goldfish i’m assured: bobs the necktie password concerning the onomatopoeia the bubbles made when appearing: bubbles are called bob... ok?*
it was only an old man attired
in the usual monochrome of gray,
so i walked,
scratched a stone wall,
and by the 2nd gesture similis i
pulled my hand scratching toward my chest
to resemble a stone heart:
equivalent chinese? small is european stone:
writing this i missed six knuckles and felt the rest.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC
*Intricately laid by a master mason centuries ago,
the cobbles have become shiny and worn through use.
If we listen closely at the echoes contained within,
what would we hear? The din of old, the clatter of hooves,
the patois of tradesmen, the fisher wives bellows?
Or, just life as it was, moving along at a pace we today find slow?
The sun beats down on the Spanish stone, firing them hot and
languid, pace has slowed, need has slowed, greed has slowed.
Dusty cobbles leading to cool houses, siesta has called and all obey.
The midday sun beats down, only tourists looking for quaint shops
remain, decrying the heat, ready to swoon.
Sweat drips onto the dusty cobbles, and is soon boiled away.
Blood has dripped on these cobbles, human and beasts.
Only to be scrubbed by the crow black crones that sit and watch the day.
Afternoon lull, boats bobbing slowly up and down,
babies rocked by a quiet lullaby.
The sun lowers bathing the cobbles in a pink, orange glow,
quiet now, Spain is sleeping, forgetting her past, the Moors are long gone,
the Armada been and gone, bullfights are frowned upon,
their Kings and Dictator laid to rest, only foolish tourists throng the
dusty cobbles, oblivious to their history, looking for that awful gift.
Spain's pain is echoed in her cobbles, few hear it, but know this,
if you listen you'll hear the heat, the pain, civil war,
pride and flamenco feet*.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
Afternoon nap, a siesta!
the spectacular view,
but eyes are told to shut
the sound of the ocean waves,
but ears are made to close
Perfect siesta!
The mind is dancing with the ocean waves..
The sea breeze is massaging the tired skin..
Dreams of heaven in my mind
Far off places, far away from this life
Relaxing...
The body, the mind and the soul...
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 4:08 AM UTC
his fluid being mimics that of cigarettes;
death chopped up and rolled
into a curious little thing
i could hold him in my hands
but that is a mere only;
his wonderment insufficient
my soul too mammoth
my lips crave the grim reaper's touch
my skin detests the flawlessness of
staged idiosyncrasy
this world has seen enough
of those
you yell misanthrope,
but you do not understand
i seek
the intertwining of
precariousity
intimacy marked by fluttering thumbs
tracing specks of golden
on his cheeks
galaxies splashed across the
bridge of his nose
he is everything i yearn
yet;
everything i cannot be
he is my exotic morns
and my sunday siesta
fingertips outline
connect-the-dot maps
i could only ever get lost in
freckles.
like a lacklustre silence
the end of sentences pinpointing areas
chipped fingernails have lusted to memorise
you only crave what you know cannot be.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
Save water
Green clean
Share shower
Love living
Parents play
Kids away
Soap lather
Hot bodies
Skin close
Electric touch
Perfect passion
Warm towels
Wet kisses
Afternoon love
Siesta slumber
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 8:40 AM UTC
The day the angels came for you,
I was wearing a lipstick that stained my mouth
the color of raspberries.
When I came into the room,
we both ignored the fact that the monitor showed
that your heartrate jumped when you saw me,
and that my body instantly began to tingle.
I brought yellow roses
because I thought red would have been inappropriate,
and you giggled and made them into a flower-crown for me.
You remembered that yellow stood for friendship and admiration,
and I only nodded in response.
The get well soon cards were stapled to the walls of your room,
but only the outside of them showed,
and we were surrounded by teddy bears and balloons that
did not show the tastes of a twenty year old boy.
The nurse came in and when she saw the holes in the walls,
you shrugged and said that we ran out of tape.
She left in a hurry.
You said that you were excited to leave your body and go to heaven,
because you wondered if the "land of milk and honey"
was really all it is cracked up to be.
I sighed, and slowly asked the clouds
to keep you with me for another day.
You told me you were tired,
but you asked me if I would stay while you took a quick "siesta",
I said I would and when you drifted off,
I fought off my better judgment
and left a mark of raspberries on your forehead,
so when I sneaked out you would wake up
and look in the mirror and see that I told you goodbye.
My lips were still stained the color of berries
when I left red roses on your gravestone two weeks later,
and I wondered if you knew that all this time
I thought you would outlive me.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
Yellow striped apron
drapes her flesh
as the meat sizzles in the pan
My senses huddle
the view from behind
more appetizing a meal
Yellow striped apron
is a nightgown
made in Spain
in the heat of the afternoon
making siesta impossible
if she is the cook
Oh Jesus I drool
I thirst I crave
I want I yearn
for
the ingredients behind
Yellow striped apron
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 9:06 PM UTC
"There is something in you"
"Do not tell me it's the state of my mind that
Crave for meaningful commitments
Do not tell me, our doors are mutually exclusive,
That cannot open to same pathway"
I am in the make and modes of that solitary *****
Who does not know what is the gift of the given moment.
Who does not know whether the next breath is life or not having it anymore.
I am the ***** living life on the edges when not in the fringes!
With desultory realms of engagements,
Let me avoid that growing sarcastic curve on your face
When "my passions are flimsy"; why define the adulations any lower!
So my 'distant untouched enigma';
Do not be dismayed at this callous, rantings of mine;
I have done with many futile 'serious' talkathons...
Ignore me as a silly, frivolous thought
Flew in and darted away in an afternoon siesta
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 10:14 PM UTC
Full belly, warm day.
Perfect mix for siesta.
I'll just close my eyes...
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 8:26 AM UTC
(tales of my mamasita)
after breakfast
father would tend his tuba
father and mother
would then forage the farm for
cassava, sweet potatoes, green bananas
tarot roots and fruits
sometimes harvesting enough
for two days
while mother prepared lunch
father would fish for viand with
his fishing net
going to the far side
of our part of the island
or staying not far from the house
sometimes big brother and little brother
would go with him
to carry large baskets for catch
father was an artist with
his fishing net
circular and hand knotted
lead pieces sewn to the rim
his fishing net
was carried folded over his shoulder
the tip held in front of him
the heavy weighted part hanging behind
eyes shaded with hands
he searched for schools near the shore
in the clear turquoise
putting it down on powdery dry sand
his fishing net
was supported on his forearm
grabbing another part with his free hand
he would turn and fling
his fishing net
over the blueness
seemingly effortlessly
arms stretched skyward
his fishing net
would expand in mid-air
arcing like a geodesic dome
hovering like a frisbee
floating down to the water
in slow motion
finally sinking into sea
father would wade waist deep
stir the fish with his hand
then haul
his fishing net
full of mullets and other small fish
we would feast for lunch and dinner
with a plentiful catch both
father and mother
would scale and clean
sun dried, smoked or salted
preserved for tomorrows
everything was cleaned up
and put away after lunch
siesta time
afterwards, mother would
do her pottery
fix the tree bark for father’s tuba
or repair
his fishing net
using a tatting device
father and mother
always kept themselves busy
never whiling away the time
till dark
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC