"speculations" poems
It was only a kiss.
This I must repeat,
As I feel my own selfishness,
But also my guilt.
Like a monster from a fairy tale,
It crawls from my stomach
And into my throat,
Clawing its way out.
You wanted this.
The truth.
Instead, another monster came to you.
One with green-eyes and
Speculations.
I should never have made you read that play.
The one I wrote
To push my fears of you away.
But alas…
The past and I aren’t friends.
And soon--
Neither will we.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 1:05 AM UTC
We've all been molested
By time and space
The lovers have problems
With keeping their place
A head filled with toxins
Colours, fairy tales
They teach us that men
Can make a home inside whales
My message is simple
Don't stand near train tracks
Though everyone does it
So it's time to relax
Speculations of pain
Hurt me enough
Weak to the core
Though I'm told that we're tough
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
Hey there
Girl with the veil
Eventhough you cover yourself with a scarf
Your inner beautiness radiates through it
Displaying the real you
Without any other distractions
Hey there
Girl with the veil
You are not shy to voice out your feelings
Even with that hijab
It doesn't mean you are timid
The speculations of the ******
Makes it harder for you to go on
But you don't care
Hey there
Girl with the veil
You seem to have been writing poems
Hopeless romantic ones lately
Is your heart lost?
If you need any help
I can help you to find directions again
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
you listen to what passes for the TV news
you read some
but not all
of social media views
you notice that
despite all internationalism
it‘s mostly old sensationalism
combined with more or less suggestive speculations about
how many people may have died in forest fires
to what imaginable depths the president aspires
whether the North Koreans have more rockets
despite the wonderful achievements
of the national superdealer
who of the leader‘s staff might be the next
to lose her job or his credentials
etc. etc.
in short
the world has mostly shrunk
to domestic politics and power games
plus a few places on the globe where
U.S. soldiers still are dying
in order to protect their country‘s interests
in oil, assorted mineral resources
or allies of political expedience
or a few thousand refugees from countries plagued
by persecution or dictators are
marching for weeks to claim asylum
in the home of the brave and the free
under the statue of liberty
only to discover that they are seen
as an invasion threatening
that blesséd city upon a hill
visions have grown smaller
more petty voices dominate the talk
a nation made of immigrants
faced with the poor who flee from their oppressors
decides to close its borders to the immigrants‘ next wave
oblivious of the times when they themselves
still searching for a better life
found a new place where they felt safe
led by the statue‘s torch that shone its light
upon a poet‘s words of welcome:
"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC
A caveman discovering fire,
he can now stay warm in the cold and see light in the dark,
It feeds him and protects him, and he does likewise.
Electricity suddenly figured out,
the harnessing of lightening used to capture the suns impressive illumination,
Dark corners seen where shadows once resided.
Neil Armstrong's foot touching the surface of the moon,
as stars swirl around him,
and the Earth looks innocent, safe, and beautiful.
The first successful flight of an airplane,
finally feeling free like the birds,
and touching the once elusive clouds.
A heart surgeon looking at a sensitive beating *****
knowing that rhythmic pulsing is necessary to sustain the body,
and caution must be taken not to hurt it.
Like a free-falling with a parachute.
Like a delicious appetizer, entree, and dessert all at once.
Like puppy kisses, or kitten purrs.
Like looking down from the top of a mountain.
Like every single sunrise and sunset you've ever seen, combined.
Like tearing up when you see people reunite.
Like meeting up with an old friend.
Like laughing until your stomach hurts.
Like that refreshingly calm breath after crying real hard.
Like holding a *** for too long but then finding a bathroom.
Like your first cup of coffee in the morning.
Like snow, a fireplace, hot cocoa, and a blanket.
Like a flower blooming.
Like the sound of the ocean.
Like a cool breeze on a sweltering day.
Like a good, long embrace.
Like a shot of hard liquor that warms your insides.
Like getting promoted.
Like finishing a creative endeavor.
Like your favorite sports team winning.
Like a baby smiling at you.
Like finding a good book or a good series.
Like fixing something properly all by yourself.
Like finding blue or purple sea glass.
Like mail with your name on it that isn't bills.
It's probably not like any of these things,
*it's probably a whole lot ******* better.*
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 3:37 PM UTC
EAST BOSTON, 1996
ON THE BUS
Franz Wright
It's one thing when you're twenty-one,
and I was way past twenty-one.
With unshaven face half concealed in the collar
of some deceased porcine philanthropist's
black cashmere rag of a coat,
I knew that I looked like a suicide
returning an overdue book to the library.
Almost everyone else did as well,
but I found no particular solace in this;
at best, the fact awakened some diverting speculations
on the comparative benefits
of waiting in front of a ditch to be shot
alone or in company
of others, and then whether one would prefer
these last hypothetical others
to be friends, family, enemies, total
or relative strangers. Would you hold hands?
Or would you rather like a good **** sapiens
monster employ them
to cover your genitals?
What percentage would lose bowel control?
And given time restrictions -
and assuming some still had the ability to move -
would ostracism result? Anyway,
I knew the rules on this bus.
No eye contact: the eyes of the terrified
terrify. Look
like you know where you're going,
possess ample change to get there,
and don't move your lips when you talk
to yourself: the destroyed
and sick, the poor, the hungry
and the disturbed estrange.
The badly dressed estrange, even,
and that is uncalled for. The degree
of one's power to estrange will increase
in direct proportion to the depth
of need for others. Do not cry.
This can only bring about, on the one hand,
an instant condition of banishment
from the sole available companionship, or
on the other, a near
fatal beating (one more disappointment).
Just follow the simple instruction
if you ever come here.
It's easy to remember - any idiot can do it.
Don't cry,
the world has abandoned us.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC
Dear friends , this is an old poem of mine which was composed after I learnt that one of my favourite Hollywood actor Richard Gere had become a Buddhist and believed in Zen Philosophy. So having read about Zen, I composed in a simple format about the same. Hope you like it. Thanks, - Raj.
ZEN PHILOSOPHY
With roots buried deep in soils of Ancient India,
And watered by the exotic blend of three different
cultures;
Reflecting the mysticism of India, the pragmatism
of the Confucian mind, and the Taoist’s love of
naturalness and spontaneity,
Buddhism bloomed and blossomed into an exotic
flower called 'Zen Philosophy'!
In 475 AD a pupil of Buddha called Bodhidharma
went to China.
There the Mahayana School of Buddhism mingled
with Chinese Taoism, which evolved into Chan
Philosophy!
'Chan ' derived from the Sanskrit word 'dhyana',
which meant 'silent meditation', -
Through which the Buddha attained enlightenment
and salvation!
Later, in 1200 AD this Chan philosophy travelled to
the shores of Japan,
Where 'Chan' got translated to 'Zen' by its many
followers and fans!
ZEN is the art of meditation to achieve inner awakening,
To gain intuitive knowledge, highlighting the inadequacy
of logical reasoning!
It therefore advocates the practice of 'zazen' or 'sitting
meditation',
For acquiring inner awakening through silent
contemplation!
ZEN could be practised in our daily life,
Without entering a hermitage, leaving behind your
family or wife!
'Gain the naturalness of your original true nature',
- preaches the Zen Teacher through meditation,
'Rather than through mere faith and devotion,
which is contrary to Zen notion.'
'One must awaken to this present moment to feel
this life,
And not waste time in speculations of an Elusive
After-Life’!
The 'Enso' or the ‘circle’, is the Zen symbol which is
often deployed,
Symbolising Enlightenment, Strength, the Universe,
and the Void!
With this 'expression of the moment ' the Zen Philosophy
starts,
And today the ‘Enso’ is also the symbol of Expressionist
Art!
Never ask the Zen Master 'What is Zen, when, or how? ',
For he will always tell you, - 'Zen Is The Instant Now'!
- Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC
.
He doesn't realise...
The weight of his actions and words that pummel her to the ground.
Beating her down for every time she rises up to undo his ropes with which she's bound.
He doesn't see...
Past the darkened lenses that she dons.
She wears them,
not to shield her pride that was wrongfully taken,
but to protect him from the repercussions that would come with accusatory speculations.
He doesn't know...
Of the soaked pillow that accompanied her.
The rivulets of tears...
She had quietly shed without a whimper.
He doesn't hear...
The silent altercation between the treasure that beats in her chest and the thing that thinks in her head.
The struggle that ensues when the mind tries to rescind what the heart had wholly given and carelessly said.
He doesn't care...
To think of the devastating waves that come.
Only to erode the last bastion of hope she nurtures...
This frail wall that she prays for nightly.
Just so that it would hold up through another day's endeavour.
He doesn't feel...
The need for empathy.
For he thinks that he's god with one devout follower.
He commands her loyalty with his deluded testaments
and his fists as sceptre.
She doesn't live...
To see future suns.
For her day finally set when it all came down.
The wall she had feebly held together with her life...
Easily gave way when he came at her armed with a knife.
.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
Working her hands
As she cleans the tables
With magnificent strength
But soft as a turtledove
I notice her joyful smile
My words a few
As my tongue began to tighten
No action shall come between us
To a monument of speculations
As my heart bleeds
For her sponge of hope
I exit
How can a delicate woman clean a lustful soul?
Watching from afar
While leaving her alone
Jan 29, 2010
Jan 29, 2010 at 8:46 AM UTC
The will o' the wisp is
displayed on the screen of
conventions. There are those
who pretend to decipher it;
by borrowing philosophical speculations from the great
thinkers, they formulate a
critical reading, justifying the
poverty of the lexicon.
They dare to do so.
On the other hand there is
Poetry, sat on a bench
in a park somewhere, on a
rock nearby the ocean, on
an old chair in a remote room
without any other furniture,
on the pillow made with papers
of a clochard,
on the cover of an unabridged
book nobody wants.
On the trembling hand of a
young lover who picks flowers
for her, that remain forever
between the pages of a diary.
Poetry is in the multiplicity of life,
in the thousands layers, either
red or grey, that compound the
variety of the existence. It can't
escape feelings, love, roses,
tears, grief, graveyards and
gardens. And, even when it turns
to be redundant with naivety, it
keeps the greatness of its end
which is nothing else but itself.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 10:40 AM UTC
Under the grieving moon
we whispered secrets long kept.
Beneath the roaring waves
that drowned us as...
we quietly wept.
We spoke in hushed tones
of promises made to last.
Our cracked voices
melded with the echoes of a time...
of a fond memory in the past.
Water in our mouths
with words we jousted and lunged.
Heard only as hapless gurgles
and inaudible whimpers.
Unparried speculations
unsheathed and then plunged.
We cupped our wounds and retreated
knowing that we each drew blood.
We kissed with our eyes,
broke down walls
and welcomed the flood.
We wiped our cheeks
now smeared hot with tears.
Where did we err?
Who do we blame...
for dishevelled years?
We would never know...
but we must learn.
Time had shown us our mistakes
but our hearts had taught us
eternal love that burns.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
Dear Friends , this is an old poem of mine which was composed after I learnt that Richard Gere, one of my favourite Hollywood actors had become a Buddhist and believed in Zen Philosophy. So having read about Zen I composed this simple verse. Hope you like it. If you like it kindly re-post this poem. Thanks, - Raj.
ZEN PHILOSOPHY
With roots buried deep in soils of Ancient India,
And watered by the exotic blend of three different
cultures;
Reflecting the mysticism of India, the pragmatism
of the Confucian mind, and the Taoist’s love of
naturalness and spontaneity,
Buddhism bloomed and blossomed into an exotic
flower called 'Zen Philosophy'!
In 475 AD a pupil of Buddha called Bodhidharma
went to China.
There the Mahayana School of Buddhism mingled
with Chinese Taoism, which evolved into Chan
Philosophy!
'Chan ' derived from the Sanskrit word 'dhyana',
which meant 'silent meditation', -
Through which the Buddha attained enlightenment
and salvation!
Later, in 1200 AD this Chan philosophy travelled to
the shores of Japan,
Where 'Chan' got translated to 'Zen' by its many
followers and fans!
ZEN is the art of meditation to achieve inner awakening,
To gain intuitive knowledge, highlighting the inadequacy
of logical reasoning!
It therefore advocates the practice of 'Zazen' or 'sitting
meditation',
For acquiring inner awakening through silent
contemplation!
ZEN could be practiced in our daily life,
Without entering a hermitage, leaving behind your
family or wife!
'Gain the naturalness of your original true nature',
- preaches the Zen Teacher through meditation,
'Rather than through mere faith and devotion,
which is contrary to Zen notion.'
'One must awaken to this present moment to feel
this life,
And not waste time in speculations of an ‘elusive
After-Life’.
The 'Enso' or the ‘circle’, is the Zen symbol which is
often deployed,
Symbolizing Enlightenment, Strength, the Universe,
and the Void!
With this 'expression of the moment ' the Zen Philosophy
starts,
And today the ‘Enso’ is also the symbol of Expressionist
Art!
Never ask the Zen Master 'What is Zen, When, or How? ' ,
For he will always tell you, - 'Zen Is The Instant Now'!
- Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
Mahayana in Sanskrit means 'Great Vehicle', and is the largest major tradition of Buddhism existing today. The other branch is called Hinayana, meaning the ‘Lesser Vehicle’.
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 8:02 AM UTC
She lives the poetry she cannot write
Not her words,
A life that became hers.
She has written fiction,
Dreams and speculations;
Until all turned into a tale
She did not long to put on paper.
She writes the poetry she cannot live
Her words,
Gives life when it is not hers.
She has had desires,
Loss and tantrums;
Turned nightmares into tales
On any piece of paper.
She lives the poetry she cannot write
Not her words,
A love that finally became hers.
She has written fiction,
Heartache and expectations;
That embrace in her coffee place
He took away her pen.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
it’s simply awesome
how much energy
is spent to document
the newness of the news
no matter how repetitive
may be the words of the reporters
the hype needs to be built
no matter whether right or stilted
driven by fear the topic might be wilted
a minute later
and half an hour later
you hear the same with minor variations
adorned with various speculations
so that the viewers may get the illusion
it’s NEW – though it is old,
and just repetitive
an endless loop of hyped-up trivialities
of who did what and when and why
maybe with whom or not
makes you aware that even new banalities
rarely include what really matters
to the majority of people on this globe
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 5:10 PM UTC
Anticipation, say it s-l-o-w-l-y
Allow it to linger, feel it wholly
Place your heart upon your hand
Or the other way around
Hand over heart
Feel, hear, see your flesh pound
Rhythmic chaos contracting inside
Expectations building, rising
Higher and higher (along with anxiety levels)
Anticipation is a rude guest
Overstays his welcome, always outstandingly overdressed
Beckons silly fantasies to sit next to him on the couch
Leaves drops of contemplation on the carpet
Broken hearts, shattered expectations
Or best case scenario, a dream come true
Beautiful visualizations of contentment
The joy of fulfilled hopes
No sensation equals receiving
All the ideas you dare to believe
Can a cranium explode from the pressure of a hundred- thousand untamed thoughts?
The agony of uncertainty
Being in the pitch dark
Only speculations
No actualities
Merely the human imagination
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
Nothing is but an ideology
Created within the midst of terminology
Contemplated inside the realm of human sociology
Excessive thought creates a disease of unknown etiology
Without nothing, the purpose of something lacks possibly
Fathoming such perceives speculations of oddities
How can one measure that lacking of qualities
and incomplete of quantity?
Theorization subconsciously
Rationalizing improbably
On the brink of psychopathy
Is it really all but a prophecy?
Distorting my mind in such ferocity?
Encompassing dimension of philosophy
Does the term nothing orbit a sense of despondency?
Interpreting into a form of commodity
But how can I construe what nothing is,
I mean quite honestly?
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
In a cloud of disbelief and great distrust,
Over three hundred were snatched in the dead of night,
Since, more speculations have characterised their plight,
And put this minority's government on a failed ******
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 7:01 AM UTC
all the words to express the feelings
all the feelings i am expressing
pointed you
propel me in the
direction of your fantasies
letting me to exist in your speculations
The day I met you
was the day I understood
how frightening being apart can be.
Dec 2, 2023
Dec 2, 2023 at 10:23 AM UTC
Take your pills, go to therapy,
Take your pills. go to therapy
“get better”
Take your pills, go to therapy,
Tell yourself you’re getting better
“You’re getting sick again ariana, we will raise your dose”
Take your pills, go to therapy
“Am i getting any better, am i healthier? do i look sick?”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
“Why are you doing this to yourself Ariana?”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
help
“how do i get the maggot thoughts that crawl into my head and tell me i’m inadequate, trifling?”
“It’s all circumstantial, and that is what we need to mend and patch”
Give me your mental diagnosis-diagnonsense
Go ahead, tell me what you’ve espied when you sat oneself down and perched your virtuoso intellect in my head
“oh yes, you comprehend
you understand
Everything.
You know me deeper than i know my self”
“We are getting somewhere, we are moving forward you are progressing!”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
You must be pleased as punch you’re finally fixing me
dismally i disinform you, i lied
Why you may inquire? Not one can understand ones speculations or thoughts unless they are legitimately situated in my chamber of a lugubrious trench filled with distasteful maggots which leave dolorous contusions-bruises and thoughts that leave me questioning reality, questioning my essence, questioning myself
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
If i were in deed reviving from the sorrow i would no longer have these god awful scars and bruises
You can’t tell me i am not out of ones tree
when
you
scarcely
know
me
At times I’m not sure if i even know me___________________________________________________________________________
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Pare 1 Of 3)
For the barefoot girl, the faithful
album was an afternoon in the
sports bar where there had been
a guitar player and some ginger ale.
Now the trumpet was singing a wide
screen view of the big game.
Eliminating distractions, the crew
was focused on the game, ignoring
the girl as she wandered, in bare feet,
between the tables. No pretense
suggested that the medium was not
appropriate for those who climbed
railroad ties and those who drank beer
in moderation after negotiations about
the green sheaves and the upstairs room.
In this castle, time was suspended.
The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Part 2 Of 3)
Ashes were good for the roots of the plant
in the window where the response was
directed to the coolness, or the hot weather.
In sports, the weather seemed to be extreme.
It was always freezing cold the opposite;
coaches meant to be cautious watching for
heat stroke among the players. The club was
not louder than the dim barn where animals
were removed from the immediacy of the
last few weeks of the season. Some of the
birds could not fly; there were mice that
could climb to humble abodes in the rafters,
and the cats gathered apart from the dogs.
The heavy lifters had reassuring
incantations derived by the artificial
structures of the radiology through iconic
projection. Antenna reception hovered to
mark the insects with aesthetic devices,
a discovery by evolution.
The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Part 3 Of 3)
Screams came from the permutation and
signing a transcript of the spiritual drawing
which had been seen wandering among all
the other creatures living and working in
the flying building. The gathering showed
grinning teeth and disappeared. Found at
the bottom of the mineshaft, was the fictional
ring of speculations and associations
confronting the mischief of the few by the
motionless badges of authority. Life depended
on the weathered red boards where the climate
ranged like it was galloping across the public
space, proved free by the friendliness of
kindly associates and the universe of powers,
the authority of birds that did not fly and barns
that had flown away.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
Corrupted human beings saunter our streets
Consisting of nothing but absurd hostility
Consumed with bias and a mind confined
It seems to be
That you misconceived
The purpose of this viability.
Hate, steal, **** fight
Living a life of polluted spite.
Nothing but blemishes in society
Simply blind to the basic factors of psychiatry.
The human mind was composed to connect
Composed to detect
Love, companionship, intellect.
We clench the power to do so much more,
Relax your fist and allow your speculations to pour.
Inessential anger increases inside
what used to be a selfless kind.
A kind who shared, one who cared.
Who built companions up and helped them grow.
Now there's egotistical maniacs, count them by the rows.
They see others as files, humans they dispose.
Follow the leader, that's a game they like to play.
Think for yourself, our brains weren't made to think this way.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
Dishearted and lonely trying to maintain
this frail existence. Could it be the end?
What is a man but the sum of his memories.
What are we but the stories we live, the tails
we tell ourselves. Anger and grief clouded my mind and would have consumed me, if it was not for the wisdom of a friend i could call a second father. He taught me to look past my instincts and even he might not fully answered my speculations he guided me well to learn from myself. I was free to choose and all that is good in me rekindled again. Thank you Mr. Socrates i wish the best.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
977
Besides this May
We know
There is Another—
How fair
Our Speculations of the Foreigner!
Some know Him whom We knew—
Sweet Wonder—
A Nature be
Where Saints, and our plain going Neighbor
Keep May!
1.2k
For these bonded ties,
our lifelines of love.
Keeping us 'float
'bove the troubled waters.
Our bridge we crossed
together for each other.
In separating truly
the oceans are skies.
No long am I floating among the stars
but falling and drowning in this sloshing heir.
It seems my kingdom come
has fallen in the future.
A future different
than we live now
My course once steady
as I tagged along with you
now goes with the flow
unknown to me.
The pattern of these stars
foreign to me.
My eyes deceived,
blinded to sea.
Sealed my fate to be,
Unable to follow
where you may go.
Lest you deny me so.
No waves to tell me
where
your waters flow.
This stagnant water
reeking of the innocent blood.
Never leaving.
The wind beneath my bloodied sail, has left me 'neath it's silent veil.
No longer does it sing your lullaby to me. All that's left is the ghostly lull.
A bye.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
When your poem doesn’t work
Or you cliché lines make you look like a dork
Neither your sweet words got her head turn
It seems you were so hot and her tongue got burned
When she didn’t react with what you said
Though for her heart to throb, it was meant
When it wasn’t brought on topic yet
Maybe it was too worthless she forget
When she’s not in the mood to reply back
When it seems you’re talking to someone whose mouth is shut
When simple smileys from her are all you got
When you messaged her a whole lot
Fear not and keep calm
Maybe most of it is all in your mind
Stay cool and try to understand
Be reminded to be as patient as you can
“She’s probably busy
But she even sought time to text a smiley”
Chant that to yourself and be as positive as you can be
Because getting emotional isn’t the key
Take time to ask her what’s wrong
You’ve probably done something without knowing so
If that’s the case, whisper a “Sorry” or sing a song
Make her feel that you’ll never let her go
It’s better to trust then regret
Than doubt then regret
“I love you”, in those words of her, you should always place your bet
Believe in her instead of your weak speculations, that, you shouldn’t forget
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 4:51 AM UTC