"stationery" poems
Though in dexterity my physically challenged carpenter father,
Than the physically fit proves better,as a source to his anger,
With contemporaries a level ground he enjoyed never!
From late childhood there was one thing that me used to bother, why my so discriminated father
On his turn true to cultural dictates,ill treats my domestic chores saddled mother
And heeds not her say though by the sweat of their brow
As responsible parents they were happily bringing my sister and I together?
I still wonder why ,why ,why my sister who has IQ
On par with me if not better,to help out mother
Suffering a cold shoulder even by her mom was denied the right to pursue education further
While I was given a chance to prove a man of letter(s)?
I remember, crossing many a pool, barefooted, I used to trek
A long distance to a nearby town's a school,
Where for my provincial and shabby clothes I was seen a fool
By the relatively rich in showing courtesy far from cool.
Though stationery they didn't lack , sad,I had a hand tied behind my back.
Alas,up on joining campus where I yearned for the sagacious a chance
There too in my class,I was looked down by students
Hailing from families of the top brass.
When I went abroad for a higher education enjoying fellowship and donation
Worse still, I met many, colour has coloured whose vision.
Ironically my dissertation was drawing attention
To why should the broad mass be standers by
And with ill-fate marked die
While the favoured ,racist and the corrupt few gobble over 3/4 of the pie? /
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC
My First Day at Hogwarts
On a Saturday morning,
I woke up in pain.
Perched on top of my head,
Was an owl shaking its mane.
As I focused my glance,
the owl got clearer.
There was something clutched in its beak;
a pale yellow letter.
When I opened it,
words started to bloom,
Mr Y. Vartak,
The inner bedroom.
‘You have a place
in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,
Points will be taken for wrong,
and awarded for bravery.’
I showed it to my parents,
Who were not at all surprised.
They were in fact very happy,
I am a wizard I realized!
We took a plane to London,
Visit Diagon Alley.
In a hurry to buy my first wand,
robes and stationery.
It was the first of September,
so we hurried to Kings Cross.
We got to platform nine and three quarters,
after struggling through the chaos.
I had everything in my trunk,
I had nothing more to get.
My parents surprised me,
by giving me an owl as a pet.
I got a seat in the Hogwarts Express,
and put my robes,
There was a boy opposite me,
he was juggling bewitched globes.
We got off the train,
At Hogsmeade Station.
There was an amazing castle,
that was beyond my imagination.
We rowed across the lake,
sitting on boats,
It was getting colder,
so we pulled on our coats
We entered the hall,
Full of eyes.
There was a roof above us,
that represented the vast skies.
There was a dusty hat,
in the middle of a stage,
It had a rip near the brim,
so it looked older than its age.
A professor named Minerva,
Put that hat on my head.
The rip opened like a mouth,
Interesting is what it said.
The Sorting Hat as it was called,
said that he had to think some more,
After a while it yelled:
‘He’ll go in GRYFFINDOR!’
I joined the Gryffindor,
at the Start-Of-Term Feast.
We were so involved I talking,
we cared for our sleep the least.
After the feast, we departed,
for Gryffindor Common Room,
Outside the portrait hole, there was,
a shiny black broom.
I changed from my robes to my nightdress,
lay down watching the dying ember.
My eyelids were getting heavy,
I walked into a deep slumber.
This poem is written by me,
Yash Singh.
Specially written for my favourite,
Joanne Kathleen Rowling.
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 7:20 AM UTC
The stationery was stationary,
When the train was standing still,
The stationery was no longer stationary,
When the train started up the hill,
The train was not now stationary,
And the stationery started sliding,
The train was moving fast,
And the pen no longer gliding,
On the now non stationary stationery,
That the pen was writing on,
The pen had suddenly abruptly stopped,
Now that the stationery had gone.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 5:21 AM UTC
Monster snowstorm Meteorologist have warned
But when you have faith you don’t be alarmed
Yet this snowstorm is going to be for the record books
All a person has to do is just look
Like a typewriter keyboard going up the ladder
But in this case it is the Northeast with the matter
If the snowstorm piles up as much as Meteorologist predict, the snow will be around long and will certainly be icy and thick
Transportation will definitely shutdown
There will be no way too get around
Everyone will be stationery in homeward bound
It will television and cell phones with snowstorm updates
Then a mission to work or wait
There is no guarantee
It is a matter of wait and see
The snowstorm provided by thee
Man can’t defeat and tell the snow too stop
It’s all controlled from the almighty being at the top
The Sanitation Department will be doing their job in clearing the snow away
However it won’t be gone all in one day
This could be a snowstorm bringing snow that could last for days
Don’t even think on taking a plane being a getaway
It will be the wintry frozen ice that will stay
The best advice that I could give is to think of the season spring
Mild with warm hearts in getting through the snow in helping you preserver
Don’t think on fear
As God is always near
A snowstorm is God’s way in purifying the earth
I remember being taught that at birth
But think on doing things at home being fun
Always remember, weather conditions you have no control and God will always be the centered number of one.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
Look at the clouds
Look how they move for you.
Look at the crowd
their words they're saying to you.
Parking full, so no cars to chase
but still let's lie down here
make the world stationery in our heads.
Let's just forget all common sense and
leave elephants about the place.
Words that lack sentiment
yet need to validate.
Look at your verbs,
so in demand, so imperative!
The notion of emotion
is unable to compute.
A cacophony of love without solitude.
Signs without direction
on a two way street.
Let's go to outer space
as our bodies collide like the big bang
The moon will be too modest to shine in
the presence of your face.
Look at the clouds
look how they move for you
so the stars can disperse through
through for you.
When I look into your eyes
I see the world as it should be
before mankind got to grips with machinery.
Your ****** expression reads like a deer in headlights
as you make headlines on the evening news,
my daily summary of events that happen
in the life of me, myself and caffeine.
I'm aware that I'm the legs to your table
but I'm not so stable, I'm about to break.
I'm the root the keeps your grounded
but the soils getting dry.
Sun-lights long shone from our skies
and we can't photosynthesise
when your stork lacks a spine of support.
It's a cycle that needs to change,
If our fruits to ripe.
So, put a pipe in your gripe
and learn the twelve letter word.
So the ship can get a sail.
Look at the crowd
the words they're screaming at you.
Look how they turn around wearing my face
then disappear.
When I look in to your eyes
I see the world before it lost it's
innocence.
What do you see when you look in mine?
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
the little pink paper clamp
you see once upon a time there was a little pink paper clip
which had three anchors on it, one of them is blue, and
2 are black. the anchors mean it keeps the paper from blowing
away, you see it opens really widely and it keeps all of your
personal papers from blowing away, but what i am doing
is saying, what will happen in the anchors wanted to move away
from the paper clip, like if one moved, it will lose 1 third of the power
and if it lost 2 anchors, they would lose 2 third of the power.
if it lost all three of the anchors, the power of the paperclip will
lose all it’s power and the only way to get the anchors back is
go the ship dock and take some of the anchors there, sure it
might mean the ships haven’t got anchors but this paperclip needs
it anchors because it needs the power of which it brings.
at present the little pink paperclip without the anchors is sitting
at the bottom of the stationery desk hoping that one day the anchors
will come back so he can keep paper in a folder.
this was going to be a hard job, as the people thought the anchors
were way to heavy to carry home, despite the anchors being small
on the clip, so one man went out on a boat who was doing whale watching
and when they threw out the anchor, which incidentally was blue, and he had
to stay by the anchor, so when the tour was over, he took the anchor away
and the blue one goes in the middle of the paperclip, and then he walked around the
other ships to find 2 black anchors to give the paperclip a lot of power to keep the paper
down, but there was only one black anchor on every boat, so he rang up the company
to find a black anchor to make up the 3, but he took one black anchor to bring back to
the paperclip and it got two thirds of the power, but they were having a hard time
trying to find the other black anchor, you see they found a pink anchor, the same colour as
the paperclip, and they found a pink anchor but it was far to light, they found a green anchor
but it was like green cordial, so he went out again and he got a orange anchor, but no it wasn’t the one
and he bought a purple anchor, the same colour as black, but no way, this wasn’t working, none of these
anchors fitted on the paperclip, so they looked hard and wide, hoping they will find a black anchor
you see they needed to keep the paper from blowing away from everywhere around the office, and just
as we gave up for day, we found the second black anchor and we put it on the paperclip and it worked
the paper was tightly on the folder, and that is how they gave anchor power to the paperclip, but the only
problem is, the ships will miss their anchor, so we must go out to buy some for them, and we did, and
our paperclip hooked the paper together and every boat was anchored down, and everyone is happy.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC
His voise deep and husky
it’s incredibly ****
his tone when he says my name
if he was playing I’d be in the game
a gentle, slow, ****** attack on my aural senses
I think he’s my marital nemesis
teasing and seducing me
albeit unwittingly
I can’t touch him enters my mind
to his looks I’m blind
he’s the new office stationery man
and I’ll take the call whenever I can
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC
Lighting a candle before my bedside,
I slip a small piece of my past
underneath the brass holder
to catch the waxy overflow.
A pink envelope addressed to
(my love)
encases the torn and tattered teardrop-filled
piece of stationery paper.
Your words mush together with the
slight scent of beeswax and sage
and my mind wanders off to an unknown place
3 am:
Awaking to the smell of
an almost-smoke
burning my nostrils
burning my curtains
Is this what it was like
loving me?
Loving you was an ongoing river
each rush getting away from me
the second I felt it
while the rocks, the biggest burdens,
stay in place,
unmoved, unsolved
The light of the candle flickers
as I watch the fiery masterpiece
flow over the room
I lit the candle before my bedside.
I knew the consequences,
repercussions
of loving you.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 5:41 PM UTC
When I go out at night
trying to sweep up the stars
my woman grows weary
of the cold weather in me
she thinks I am with someone
else, but it is midnight
and I am alone with the moon
that woman in a red dress
standing on the beach
but you see, it is an empty
plate with no supper, or
maybe a piece of stationery
without a lover's phone number.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 9:13 PM UTC
please, you have to understand,
this isn't me.
i am not my mood swings,
i am not my fear of talking on phones.
please, you have to understand,
this isn't me.
i am not my depressive episodes,
i am not my medications i must take.
please, you have to understand,
this isn't me.
i am not my fear of eating,
i am not my fear of being replaced or ignored.
understand, i am not my depression.
understand, i am not my anxiety.
understand, i am not my PMDD.
understand, i am not my BPD.
understand, i am not my eating disorder.
please, you have to understand,
this is me.
i am my love of cats,
and i am my admiration of everything musical.
please, you have to understand,
this is me.
i am a lover of stationery,
and i am a lover of every single living creature.
please, you have to understand,
this is me.
i am one who eats one too many brownies,
and i am one who cares for the entirety of the environment.
please, see past my mental disorder(s).
see the real me,
not just the chemistry in my brain.
please, see my lust for life.
see me beating stereotypes,
see me being me.
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 12:31 AM UTC
I am usually an amnesiac
Which is why there is always
cheap stationery in my pockets
- "An inexpensive set from Faber-Castell"
I look to my scribbles when I'm lost
unless an unexpected shower
has been tasked to ruin them
- "Pages stuck together, smudged and stained"
Three monsoons have come and went
I don't carry an umbrella or run for cover anymore
I stand in the middle of the downpour, drenched
But I guess some inks are just too hard to wash away
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 8:17 AM UTC
She differentiated herself from society, thinking that her life would never intersect with another's.
Her irrational thinking was harmful, she called herself odd.
"Think positively" they said, "the outcomes are countless.
Life is nonlinear, it's not as simple as x=y.
It may not always make sense but you will make it add up."
She had no proof.
She hated the sine wave of life, her countable infinity that she wanted to stop.
The probability of her meeting her congruent mate was 7,000,000,000:1
Until the day her life was bisected by a girl.
The girl was her complimentary angle, her stationery point, her happy infinity.
She was integrated.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 6:15 PM UTC
**Lots of roses for her Birthday party
As it was held in the garden outside
Look at the pretty rose stationery
That was used for her invitations wide
Oh look how pretty is her rose party
With lots of pretty roses here and there
Oh look at our Birthday Girl of beauty
Oh let us offer her a pretty chair
Oh look at the waltzing red roses sweet
In the garden of unending love
Oh listen to the patter of our Girl's feet
As Tasha waltzes in the sky above
Oh let me dance with you, my dear Tasha
My Birthday Girl with the name: Natasha**
~Marian~
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 10:18 PM UTC
I am the rising sun.
So when your eyelids open to explore the beauty of the day
I pour My light into your soul, and set you on your laughing, loving way.
They shafted steel into My heart
That when My children linger, longing, looking at the Cross of Hope
I pierce their hearts with shafts of love for all who near their pathways lope.
I am the eagle
Who rises on the wind and sees the visions of the future dreams,
Who gives his eaglets flying starts so that they too the visions can impart.
I am the cobbled pathway.
My children pick me out among the highways, hills and valleys of their lives.
Their prayer-flowered Kingdom road is tough but leads to pearly gates and open skies.
True and Faithful are My thighs.
Disciples know I’ll never leave but pour My peace on all their fear.
Their weakness will become the towers of strength that men hold very dear.
Blood Brother is My name.
Commune with Me and in the strife your back is covered by My Life,
And you will all blood brothers be to one another on this sea of strife.
I am the Truth.
The truth established long before the breath of life was mankind’s tool.
Rock-solid, stationery still, though winds of change blow good and ill.
I am LOVE
If you will cast your lot with Me I’ll surf with you on curling sea.
We’ll ride upon the tides of life on boards of love. You’ll be My wife.
I’ll cherish you beyond whatever you could dream or e’en consider.
Trust Me. That’s where it begins. You get to know Me and life spins
In exponential, ceaselessly expanding spirals of liberty.
COME.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 3:42 PM UTC
her mother called her
a textbook virgo,
levelheaded, organized,
practical
and every spare moment she had
was spent writing
most of it was hopeful...
possibilities outlined neatly
on elite paper stock -
serious poems to be
submitted to editors,
poems to celebrate
special occasions,
outlines of plots
for short stories
she planned to write
her personal writings
were deeper, sadder
she wrote reams in a daily
journal about troubled
relationships, tiffs with
her husband and kids, her
competitive sister, each
comment meticulously penned
in an elegant flowing manner
but that final note she left
was the shocker,
written in a freakishly
jumpy, shaky hand,
overly loopy, jagged,
a note on cheesy motel
stationery, filled with longing,
with despair,
words spewing out of her pen,
out of control words
scrawled far from home,
the solitary writer engaged
in an emotional seizure,
facing her phantoms alone
and losing
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
Age has reached the end of the beginning of a word. May be guilty in his seems to passing a lot of different life became the appearance of the same day; May be back in the past, to oneself the paranoid weird belief disillusionment, these days, my mind has been very messy, in my mind constantly. Always feel oneself should go to do something, or write something. Twenty years of life trajectory deeply shallow, suddenly feel something, do it.
The end of our life, and can meet many things really do?
During my childhood, think lucky money and new clothes are necessary for New Year, but as the advance of the age, will be more and more found that those things are optional; Junior high school, thought to have a crush on just means that the real growth, but over the past three years later, his writing of alumni in peace, suddenly found that isn't really grow up, it seems is not so important; Then in high school, think don't want to give vent to out your inner voice can be in the high school children of the feelings in a period, but was eventually infarction when graduation party in the throat, later again stood on the pitch he has sweat profusely, looked at his thrown a basketball hoops, suddenly found himself has already can't remember his appearance.
Originally, this world, can produce a chemical reaction to an event, in addition to resolutely, have to do, and time.
A person's time, your ideas are always special to clear. Want, want, line is clear, as if nothing could shake his. Also once seemed to be determined to do something, but more often is he backed out at last. Dislike his cowardice, finally found that there are a lot of love, there are a lot of miss, like shadow really have been doomed. Those who do, just green years oneself give oneself an arm injection, or is a self-righteous spiritual.
At the moment, the sky is dark, the air is fresh factor after just rained. Suddenly thought of blue plaid shirt; Those were broken into various shapes of stationery; From the corner at the beginning of deep friendship; Have declared the end of the encounter that haven't start planning... Those years, those days of do, finally, like youth, will end in our life.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 3:34 AM UTC
saying goodbye is a strange gesture.
the lingering knowledge you'll see them again
eases the startling punch of the word.
but when you're fully resolved,
when you've finally dug yourself out of the depths,
saying goodbye to the single person you saw your entire life with,
twists your insides,
stretches them out
and when they snap back
you're left standing stationery with whiplash.
this exact moment,
all the fear and heart break,
bundled tightly into the lump in my throat,
should be making me feel more severely than it is.
but i almost feel nothing,
and you feel like a lifetime ago.
i feel deeply...
so you should be haunting me.
but you're not.
and i've finally let go.
i've finally let go.
Jul 24, 2021
Jul 24, 2021 at 12:38 AM UTC
I am a heavily folded
sheet of stationery.
A Roman
nobleman.
She is
so
so
sick.
You are
Shakespeare;
you are
wrong.
It took me
f o r e v e r
to decode:
The fault is
NOT
in our stars,
but in
ourselves.
She is a letterhead.
She is in
my empty bed.
She is
enough.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
these guys
i knew
were joy
that Burt
drew an
intel from
the skull
that blitz
found Congo
with stationery
a gorilla
strong that
Marshall Square
threw the
gis with
bib and
tucker home
Feb 14, 2021
Feb 14, 2021 at 4:10 PM UTC
Blotched botched
word failures spewing forth
from defective machinery
subtracted from
popularity conquests
showing youngbloods
how to write up
this tragedy thing right
Mouthless voiceless
shapeless formless
avoidance and mockery
creeping like carbon monoxide admissions scrawled out
in digitized assault
and crying out
What kind of democracy is this?
What kind of freedom is this?
When torn from those clutched
analytical political land mines
I have to ask
Before revolutionary words are mistaken and reduced
to stripped inspirational drivel
adorning office drone strike stationery
What makes you think
your
words can hurt someone
who wants to ******
themself
daily?
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
She writes to him in the hospice,
his widow-in-waiting. A girl at her care home
brings her envelopes, colourful pens, sheets of paper in
pastel shades, and takes her missives to
Reception to go out with the mail.
She writes to him, keeping her messages short so
the nurses have time to read them to him, and because
he gets tired so quickly now.
She encloses copy photographs for the nurses to
show to him, pictures of their adventures together:
them in hiking boots and toting backpacks atop a
Saxon burial mound; picnicking and almost sunburnt
beside a vast lake reflecting a perfect, bygone blue sky
in its tranquil surface; on a sandy Welsh beach, building a
campfire from smooth, soft-grained, bone-pale driftwood; him
asleep on a train, his head resting on luggage
and hat pulled down over eyes.
In one communiqué she writes:
“I’m sorry you took the mountains with you.”
She means – she explains to the care home girl
who brings her stationery and takes her mail – that
when he moved to the hospice and she to the care home,
all the photos of their mountain holidays – the Vogelsberg,
the Dolomites, Monte Rosa, Chamonix – had been
packed up along with his possessions, and put in storage
by his family. She sends him copies of
the only photos she has left.
And that is what she means, but not just that.
It’s been a long time since she stomped mud off of
hiking boots, or felt that gorgeous ache in her muscles
from a long, hard climb, or kissed in a cable-car,
or let the wind tan her face as she breathed
rarefied air. Those summits seem very far away,
and the woman who once scaled them never could have dreamed
that life could become so flattened.
In some quiet room, a nurse shows him the photographs.
A heart monitor describes
a craggy range of peaks and dips; each elevation, every ascent,
could be a terminal journey. Soon, one surely will.
The nurse can’t tell if he hears her as she reads to him,
“I’m sorry you took the mountains with you.”
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 11:24 AM UTC