"spectator" poems
What is our life? The play of passion.
Our mirth? The music of division:
Our mothers’ wombs the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for life’s short comedy.
The earth the stage; Heaven the spectator is,
Who sits and views whosoe’er doth act amiss.
The graves which hide us from the scorching sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus playing post we to our latest rest,
And then we die in earnest, not in jest.
20.7k
I’m rendered powerless. Just about breathless. I watch as each layer of clothing gravitates toward the floor. Strip off the clothes that enveloped his beauty. My knees begin to fail me. Through his stare it feels as though he’s already probing every crevice of my being. Eye-fingers ravish me. He’s bare. My eyes haven’t left him. He smirks, refusing to leave me a spectator. Clammy hands penetrate the chill of the tile lined room. He strips me. I'm sure he senses me shaking.. goosebumps begin to rise. We step into shower. The tap is high, the temperature hot. The passion as well. He’s capturing me. Rapturing my frame, Grasping me. Gasping for me. He pulls me into him.. into the air. My legs incoherently wrap around him. The hot vapors aren't from the water, but our lust we heed. It’s wet. "Think ya can make it to the bedroom?" My throat closes. Barley touching, the pleasure, pressure, of his words render me unable to respond clearly. I nearly whimper out an answer. The smirk returns. This act meant for cleansing morphs into such a ***** one. I’m miserable within myself, the sheer amount of desire burns. Pushing me to the wall his body presses against me. He pushes into me. His hips. His lips. I feel him sliding in and out, violating, his tongue twisting around my own. His body as well. We’re intertwined...
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC
A phoenix is...
Extended ash, through unending life,
Darkness clouds the happiness of distant days, as eternal life
might be cursed by the flames of hell, yet she is always resurrecting,
Like a spectator, she watches life rise and fall, alike day and night,
Comparable to the smoke which thins it's trail as it travels into the distant sky, yet never truly dying never truly disappearing, living on.
Such is the fate of one who is imperishable, it is alonely existence,
Scared to bond but filled with hope she keeps her head up high,
Because the majestic, azure sky is always a source of hope and bliss,
This makes her fight on, although this battle will never end,
Believing there is a future, in which she someday will rest happily,
Misery and hatred burn up in her flames, which then fall into the darkness of a deep sin which has found its occurance in the long past,
As her body scorches into a blaze of immortality, recurring memories soar, illuminating the land and guiding her through the long night,
Even if all what is lost can be found again, it will perish, transiently.
For now all what is left, is but immortal smoke.
~ Umi
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
*To be alone
Every day
To see you leave, and return
Just a spectator
In this play
Many bees, come and go
Filled with hives
Filled with words
Still alone
Yet surrounded
By an ocean
Sounds too fast
To be heard
Hello, goodbye
I am busy don't you see
With many tasks
In the hive, of this world
A load too heavy
For my arms
Carry without choice
Caught in a web
Filled with hives, and the bees
A grand purpose
All its own
Heavy loads defeat the hands
Falls and cracks, such empty shells
To expose, raw and blank
Lack of hope, of despair
Staying here all alone
Unemployed*
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 9:24 AM UTC
— - —
Call it magic if you may
the sun, the moon’s pray
Constantly chasing each other
day after night, night after day
Such a perfect contradiction they make
Putting together the right ingredients
to complement each coloured ray
When one were to fall the other
would silently rise, filling its place
With every small step they take,
synchronicity follows without ever
missing a beat
So on they move
Completely balanced,
without anybody taking the lead
In the beauty they unfold upon us
this has to be
one of the most wondrous spectacles
if you ask me
Words are unable to measure
by any means their lightning show
how they glow with a radiance
that highlights their power and control
Or how they never let
each other down
Or stand in each other’s sway
No envy I feel
nor does appreciate is able to say
The truths about their nature,
always ready to unveil
hidden in every passage lay
the constant sacrifices they have made
The forces that pulls
each other so close
the same it pushes away, too
If one steps out of place,
all falls out of space and will be let loose
With lightyears of travelling
they unified their bond but are still
bound to live in separation
I admire you,
from a far
An admiration so magnificent
it cannot be free
One of the most magical things
enabling us to see
Right on time
as ever so soon
The dance
between the sun and the moon.
— - —
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 5:06 AM UTC
A coy fish in a pond with nowhere to swim nor splash. The clear water allowed him to see in all four directions, though there was nothing to catch the eye but four concrete walls and bunches of lily pads.
A tiny spectator circled the grass surrounding the pond. She looked as though she were only 5 years old. A second later she was hastily ripping a lily pad from its roots. Upon discovering no magic beneath its belly, she dropped it and began on her way.
The lifeless plant rested at the ponds edge for weeks before the wind carried it back to its place. It was somehow different now, wrinkled and stretched at the stem, though it floated uniform among the rest. The coy hid in the shadows created by the walls, and watched.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC
Living this life is unpredictable until the end;
conclusions of the statement are only made from opinionated experiences.
At the dawn of birth, there is "choice"
and "choices", are for better or worse.
There is an expression that goes,
"everything is likely fifty-fifty in choosing",
consequently believe it to be true.
Humanity exemplifies a just way of living,
in an understanding that people make
poor decisions due to the life they may
have been brought up in, however,
this life is full of petty mistakes as we know it,
some unfortunate souls are born into a dysfunctional
or broken family and others of a different situation i.e.(poverty).
This could cause unjust mannerisms
that occur in the daily lives we so often face.
These situations very freely throw more
than the average curve ball growing up.
Sadly, I ask that we feel sorrow
for the majority of individuals
with an intention that in reading this;
it would justify some clarity in my eyes through yours.
With clarity, let there be a world in heartthrob,
which could potentially change mankind towards purity.
A very specific conclusion led me to this;
When a man struggles at his own destiny
because of his nature vs. nurture,
his good along with his bad leak like a salivating sieve.
However, his “good” shows his mentality
and lust for life, yet his “bad”,
shows his incompetence relating to
a moral dignity for the greater good of living (if unfortunate).
As this revelation evolves,
humanistic mannerisms slowly slip away
in a young society and fade from
the common core values we once knew from our elders.
Surrounded by an ideological critical society,
a fear trembles for our youth has no future
in a sense for they may be too deaf
to hear their state of “consciousness”,
to the extent of being blind to see their own “actions”.
"The unknown spectator of our world;
is the light beyond the dark,"
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 12:17 AM UTC
As I go to sleep
Dreams come knocking
My subconscious mind
In a rendezvous with me
Am I asleep?
The REM phase kicks in
What do I want to view?
I do not have a choice
I am just a spectator
For another movie
Do I know the cast or crew?
Is it a blockbuster or horror movie?
The conclusion is inconclusive
I may not be a protagonist
Maybe a figment of my imagination
Or, a vivid description of my days events
It requires psychoanalysis
My subconscious mind is in control
Why can’t I have control?
It’s not within my control
I am asleep and my mind is awake
Freud wrote extensively about it-
In the ‘Interpretation of Dreams’
But still, outside our realm of understanding
The symbols and motifs can give clue
Ancient cultures have recorded on clay tablets
But we may not be ever sure
Or maybe the soul is guided somewhere
Or it could be our inner desires
Maybe it’s an unknown world
Where we go out to venture
Let there be beautiful dreams
And dreams that inspire
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
this is a poem dedicated to distance.
to every time i have wanted to kiss you, but couldn't.
to every time i looked at my empty hands and thought of yours.
to every time i was in a crowded room and secretly hoped that i'd find your face.
to every happy couple we see that inadvertently mocks our inability to be near each other.
to every time i've played your laughter over and over in my head to drown out the silence.
to every time you just wanted to hear my voice, but i was busy.
to every missed call and every undelivered text and every time your internet was down.
to every miscommunicated statement and every typo.
to every time that one of us was asleep when the other needed them.
to every time you wept and i wasn't there to hold you.
to every self-destructive tendency we share.
to every pill your mother has hidden and every razor blade i have flushed.
to every worry that plagues my consciousness whenever you take long to reply.
to every night we have been together through a screen, but alone in our beds.
to every, "i miss you" and "i wish you were here".
to every broken-record apology that never makes it better.
to every makeup stain that mars the sweater you sent me so that i could
feel like i was sleeping with you (and to the fact that it doesn't smell like you anymore).
to every hour, every minute, every second of difference in the time between us.
to every dollar i don't have, and every time i wished for your chest against my back.
to every, "why are you even with me?" and "you could do better".
to every spectator and cynic that has told us we'd fail.
to every doubt of mine and to all your jealousy.
to every ounce of water in the pacific ocean.
to every ******* mile between my head and your chest (i checked, and there are 9,752).
you will not win.
- m.f.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
I lost myself in the nightsky
scaring me with it´s creatures
and found a stranger in the sunrise
blinding me with it´s shine
and the red sky left me stained
hiding my true colors
it was when the ocean turned purple
and the sky began to cry
soaking me with it´s odor
washing away my fragrance
that the reflection in the ocean
showed a stranger in me
So scared of the night I hid myself
becoming the spectator of my life
watching without interacting
silently in the back of my mind
I lost myself in the night
fearing it´s monsters
but the shine of the moon
brought me back
and as the sun rised
I finally saw
I was the monster
all along
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 7:56 AM UTC
Look in the mirror,
That face is looking back at me,
Sure that face is what others see,
But inside is it someone else at times?
I’m left feeling like a spectator in my mind,
Feeling the world as it occurs around, disconnected,
Feeling who people refer to as is someone else, not me,
Feeling like a different person every few periods,
The habit controlling my body,
The conscious wondering what this foreign place could be,
Uncomfortable in my own skin,
I am left staring through the eyes of the person I’m supposed to be,
Meeting people, shaking hands,
Reacting as they might expect from who I am,
The person staring back at me from the mirror, is that me?
Alas I debate and conclude on who the person running this body could be.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 8:04 PM UTC
There’s a lot to be said for this place.
A near-perfect pitch for diversity,
Diversity: a neurolinguistic term;
A quaint way to say: miscegenation.
No, just kidding; I meant the melting ***
A fine blend of Anglo, Hispanic & Indian blood—
That’s Pueblo & Plains Indian blood--
Not that **** masala, chapati & dal Indian blood.
My apologies to "Who's the White Guy?" Bobby Jindal.
New Mexico: “The Land of Enchantment.”
Where 310 sunny days per annum,
Are like money in the bank, earning
Double-plus compound interest for those
Suffering with seasonal affective disorders.
A land of sunshine without the orange juice,
But substitute chili, red or green?
An equitable offset to be sure.
310 days of sunshine:
Even the white people are brown here.
Which does a lot for my self-esteem.
Back east—New York, Chicago & Philadelphia e.g.—
People that look like me, i.e.,
People with dark brown hair, eyes and skin,
Get stopped/ass-cheek spread/& frisked, routinely.
Stop & Frisk: NYPD’s spectator sport for decades.
Stop & Frisk: Mayor Bloomberg-defended
Crime-stopping Godsend,
Getting guns off the streets.
Getting homicides down.
Everything’s cool until some slick race baiter,
Starts yelling: RACIAL PROFILING.
Forget for a moment that people that look like me,
People like me with dark hair, eyes & skin,
Commit 78% of the crime in most cities.
“It’s not racially driven profiling,”
Said Newark’s police director recently
Referring to stops carried out by his officers.
“IT’S CRIME-DRIVEN PROFILING!”
But, again, political-correctness trumps common sense:
August 2013: Judge Rules NYPD
Stop-and-Frisk Unconstitutional.
Well I’ll be a monkey’s *** ******
I moved to New Mexico to blend in.
My complexion a shoe-in for
The Witness Protection Program or
Any other public or private,
Domestic or international rendition site.
But I digress.
New Mexico: no passport necessary, Babaloo!
New Mexico: be you white or black, Hispanic or Indian,
Or even Roswell extraterrestrial,
The cops here will beat the **** out of you.
Or shoot you dead, Kemosabe.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
A bell tolls
Friends join in to walk
With me to the end of the path
Carrying on heavy shoulders,
All that last journey, and
All that was not said
And all that silences
Which will echo forever in our hearts.
Some where
Silence waits for the desert spaces
To speak up
And break our lives
Into small grains of sand
Which pours within the Hour Glass
Of our togetherness
Some where - a blast-off to distant stars
In the cloud of dust
In the drum beats of
Shiva's Tandav* dance.
Some where, Love alone
Worships the intensity of the togetherness
Or
Truthfulness of belongingness.
Or
Remains
A mute spectator to the Tandav* of emotions
Silence some time does sound
In, Our lives
And
A bell tolls forever
Calling in lost soul
Or soul mates
To be in the valley of lost flower stars.
_____________________________
Tandav is the eternal dance of Lord Shiva, a dance of destruction as well as creation...
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 10:11 AM UTC
Even to an untrained eye
One can spot layers of foundation
Caked into her face
Is she a victim
Of some historical imperative?
Is she caged
In some arbitrary matrix?
Some fun-house of mirrors
While a mustachioed ringleader
Overcharges, shouting
“Come one, come all, bedazzled spectator
Behold, the distorted woman
Transmogrifying before your eyes!”
Or maybe she’s just vain
Or betwixt the two
Somewhere, a boy drops a sixpence
It rattles in the dusky jar
As he enters the dark show
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 8:51 PM UTC
We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill
So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.
The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.
When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.
A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.
Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.
After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees
Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.
They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.
Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
Verdant eyes, translucent pearls
speak in silent witness,
wounds unfurl
meaning revealed,
interrupted girl.
Safe in solidarity
prolific eccentricity,
the scandal of particularity.
Pouting mouth
grief - filled lips
alluring, set sail a thousand ships;
tempt me to leave harbor.
Arousing euphoria as such,
resistance, amity and distance
amour sans touch
her sense of humor transcends,
appeasing the mind’s thirst
a vogue sultana,
seasoned swagger
hair resplendent flame,
alternating cool, black
asymmetrical coiffure;
nonconforming demure
the renegade metaphor -
singular for sure, no cure.
Muted vanity, bathos piercing
the jaded circumference of banality;
pale protagonist servitude
the sapient palaver of the urbane,
covered patina of pretense,
induced coercion,
the commodity self
appearing abased
wearing lesions of lassitude.
Artistic chattel - eminent domain
preempting genius,
subsidiary of consuming narcissism
external locus of control;
surrender to the tentative,
fettered pendant, Venus in chains
arrested visionary bane
sterile savant, edifice of pain.
The soubrette, dubious incarnation
gravid ingénue of prevarication
imperceptible venue -
theatre of the absurd;
withdrawn siren,
solitude of necessity -
skin - slender veil of shame,
nearness loitering redemption;
moments envisage
the appointment with the soul;
ambiguity eschews clarity
awareness; ineluctable anxiety,
imago - centric confession
sacred pardon, seraphic venation
intravenous textures presume,
the tactile margins of liberty.
Therapeutic retrieval,
Sanguine,
beneath the portico of
individuation;
Your smile I hear,
recovered autonomy
blessed emancipation,
The scandal of particularity;
peculiar treasure
ironically captured
film, canvas,
prose profundity.
Ciphering as an ambling book,
I peruse you,
rendered captive
hypnotic avant-garde fiction,
spectator of denuded opacity
analogous reflection, I Mirror you.
A modest proposal - pontificate the imperative,
forgo the disposal, adapt your narrative,
the scandal of particularity -
resonate the echo, cogitate our propinquity
Love, imagination and destiny.
©2008 & 2011 W.S Warner
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
Oh, the sensation, the media frenzy,
The spotlight, the fame, the hullabaloo,
When anti-evolution laws
Were challenged by the ACLU!
The year: 1925.
The place: Dayton, Tennessee.
To say it was an extravaganza
Wouldn't be hyperbole.
For many people it was hard
To find a way to reconcile
Biblical accounts with science,
So science found itself on trial.
A young teacher, John T. Scopes,
Was willing to face prosecution
For breaking a Tennessee law for having
Given a lesson on evolution.
The "Monkey Trial" it was called.
The challenge meant swimming upstream
For the feisty lawyer Clarence Darrow,
Who helped to lead the defense team.
A prosecutor was William Jennings
Bryan, who with no apology
Loved to stir up outrage against
Evolutionary biology.
Defendant Scopes quickly found
It wouldn't take long for him to know
What it was like to have a part
In a multimedia reality show.
The courthouse received a make-over:
Platforms for newsreel cameras were built;
Extra spectator seats were added.
They were playing the trial to the hilt.
Concession stands sold food and drinks;
Toy monkeys were on display;
A chimp was dressed in a suit and fedora;
The clergy also joined the fray.
The media and the public loved it!
The country watched the trial progress.
What would win: science or scripture?
The answer was probably easy to guess.
After an eight-day trial, the jury
Deliberated. Nine minutes later
They had their verdict: guilty! How
Could someone question THEIR creator?
Scopes had actually never given
The lesson. That's what he later said.
Strangely, five days after the trial,
Williams Jennings Bryan dropped dead.
Laws later changed, but even during
Current times, some people feel
That stories from the Bible should be
In science textbooks. Now THAT'S surreal!
-by Bob B (11-6-18)
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
*Surreal landscape
Silky smooth winds
Assuring caresses
Enlightened bonds
Glamorous display
Enthralled spectator
Nature’s sanctuary
Alluring wilderness
Untamed hearts
Rolling over
Nature’s carpet
Enticing gazes
Euphoric moments
Pristine backdrop
Unrestrained hearts
Sweet surrender
Intense meanings*
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
.*oh forget Disney H'america... technicolor H'america was the bomb... gentlemen prefer blondes... oh **** no... the seven year itch... the Rachmaninoff scene... bell, book & candle scene... whoever the genius was behind the technicolor project, outmatched the Disney in 1950s H'america... little town America... big little ******** worth of Europe... eddi reader...more like: keep the cats, a woman may desire luxury, but a man a freedom... keep the town, the summit, the fireplace... keep your luxury... just give me the shadow, the sun, the moon, and the road: perpetually greeting me.*
oh forget looking
for scapegoats
these days...
full blown schizophrenia,
happening,
all over the anglophone
world...
me?
i'm just looking
at the lampoons...
sorry...
lemmings...
and the English?
top the table in western
world...
they thought they'd be
bailed out by
the H'americans...
good luck rolling
that pin-ball...
not gonna happen...
they have their own ****
to deal with...
it could have...
but now it will never
work out, no anglophone
alliance bail-out plan...
it's a ******* farce...
it's a bogus in the bogie
in the ******* coalmine...
forget the canary...
**** i'm seriously flipping
the coin on phrases...
FDR contra DJT?
magic!
no... the politicians were always
going to place the card...
the joker... free-fall dance-loose
feet...
my bet is...
it'll fall flat on its face...
the eastern European Achilles
heel of the europhiles...
that's a supposition,
not a proposition...
or thereby, pre-....
but i do love being a spectator
of rare sport...
en masse schizophrenia...
a nation, divided...
what a load of ********
the English thought that their
anglophone alliances would
last, would encrust them in
a new globalization mechanism...
even the ******* Icelandic people
think they're European...
what did the English think?
just east of Las Vegas?!
an island surrounded
by a massive prehistorical lake
"facility"?!
no one is looking for scapegoats
these days,
there's no one to blame...
mea culpa, mea culpa...
these days?!
everyone is looking for the lampoon
brigade!
- and let me tell you...
mea culpa mea culpa...
no one is looking for a scapegoat
worth kristallnacht;
people are looking
for a lampoon...
or...
karmesinrotherznacht,
the night of... broken hearts;
broken, crimson hearts.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
Candleabra's flickering flames
cast a shimmering dancing
shadow of me,
upon my golden coffer overhead,
brought about by a sudden gust
of window-wind... God's finger-breeze...
Master airy-finger puppeteer
you are
dance the leaves
about my Autumn yard...
Push and stir
soft light newly blanketed wintry snow
on lifting eddies,
causing flying fancy, barnyard dancer's dos-a-dos
among infinitesimal,
and featherweight
delicately frozen
crystal-looking flakes...
Push tiny tango waves
upon reflected sparkling silvery lakes
that crest s l i d e then fall
And spectator trees
that enciricle about the watery ballroom-lake
surface-floor,
then with airy fingertips
clap, clap together
the loudly whispering and rustling leaves
that applaud
the watery dancing waves below...
And with windy fingertips
sail white billowing cotton like
vapor-sails
across an unplowable
oceanless
spatial blue...
Glad God
You mostly are
puppeteer of every star
Dance sundries of objects
on your play-ball planet
and puppet-likened stage
And let me laugh
in zestful rage
about danceable things
that can be danced,
that can be danced
on windy-finger days...
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
The staining aroma we so avidly inhaled in the reign of night
At tables made of glass that reflet the moonlight
The faint white illumination lit our misdeeds of younger
Keeps me reminiscent of days of simpler
Plagued & blessed by lack of consideration
No respect for damnation
We lived without hesitation to be free
To feel we truly needed to be
I sit alone now inhaling what was once shared and sought-after
Feeling but trying not to think-of those days of before
Watching storms roll through, making me feel spectator to memories of more
I retreat into myself, knowing those days are over
I could never imagine I'd look back on those days and call them simpler.
I keep running from what i can't see and it's lead me in circles
Cycle through the times to get to the next
Dec 19, 2021
Dec 19, 2021 at 11:22 PM UTC
dear mother,
my mental health is not a spectator sport.
you do not get to tell me "you need to go to school to learn to be a decent person" when i am too depressed to get out of bed and then brag about my ACT score.
it is not your score. it is mine.
dear mother,
you do not get to tell me that you are sending me to a psychologist to "learn how to treat other people" and then ask me if i am okay. i am not okay.
dear mother,
you do not get to watch me hyperventilate under a bed on a school morning and get angry and then brag to your friends about my GPA. it is not your GPA. it is mine.
dear mother,
you do not get to scream at me for "upsetting your household" and order me to take easier classes and then brag to your friends that your daughter took 5 AP classes. yes, that is hard, but you made it harder.
dear mother,
you do not get to scold me when, yes, i stayed up all night but didn't finish my work but then brag to your friends about my success. it is not your success. it is mine.
dear mother,
you do not get to push me down and then comment on how wonderfully i got back up.
you do not get to cheer me in success and boo me in defeat. i am not a sports team, i am your daughter
dear mother,
you are not my mother. you are my fair-weather fan, and yes i am doing well now but i do not have time for autographs.
dear mother,
goodbye.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
I'm just a dreamer under the moon
Etching out lines on a paper, no one knows.
They see me in another world,
Far off, aloof, distant and forlorn.
You look at me, with the eyes of a spectator,
Do I look so funny to you?
Can you see these sad eyes,
Watching you make no difference
As you go on with your taunts
And poorly worded chants?
I'm a dreamer, with a world inside my head
I can create a magic, within.
Then bring it out with just some words.
I am a dreamer, under the moon,
Penchant to writing,
Adding colors and dimensions
To dimly lit corridors,
To green fields that
welcome the morning sun.
Painting darkness and light with
The subtle strokes of my mind.
Sculpturing a woman or a man
Their life, and all their strife.
I am a dreamer, under the moon
The pen, to me, is definitely
Mightier than the sword.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 1:15 PM UTC
Hushed tones , the birds chirped
The Mind stood handcuffed
Waiting for Judgements
The courtroom voices/noises
Filled the Arena
Waiting for judgment ..
Were the pleas heard...
What was the verdict ...
Around Came a plaintiff asking for directions to a courtroom
Surprised
Standing handcuffed
the Mind thought
'Why walk in the entrapment
Where the judgements
Have no room for 'fair trials '
Nevertheless
The Mind as usual stood a mute spectator,
Handcuffed
Drifting .....
The view beyond the courtroom
Was that of a playground
The children played without a care
The Mind , so pleased and at peace
All charged now
Reminded of the two legs and feet
which were free of cuffs and could escape
Now , set free ,
The Mind flew into Mindscape
Evading all
Trials
Judgements
Leaving ...
The courtroom empty ..
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 11:40 PM UTC
~
*Imagine a box
In shadow
Of utter regalia
Iris, dressed as a waterfall
She comes scattered
Imagine an eyelid illusionist
Praying for more palettes
Enters steelbook cathedrals
To a ministry of colour
For the street outside
Cannot offer as
Interesting a hue
As those fascinating within
The pigment of her imagination
It's compelling artistry
Like oil on canvas
A slight of hand
Smoke and mirrors
Her skilled fingers
Kohl mining
For soft medley
And the new liminality
Above the spectator's eye*
~
Jun 7, 2022
Jun 7, 2022 at 1:02 PM UTC