"unseasonal" poems
Unreality: Thanksgiving Miami Style
It is 70 degrees, afternoon,
sunny Miami winter style.
Nike shorts, flip flops,
polo shirt white,
music, pandora, and
no place he
needs to be.
the collected works and
worries, left behind,
the boy, and he is taking
it to the limit,
wanting a day of no cares,
one more time.
yet, recollecting, writing
impertent, dissatisfied,
no reason, none that I can
irrationally explain.
previous night,
my eyes have
seen the
second-coming.
everybody smiles
happy, looking fit,
tight black dresses
the law of the land.
food flows like wine,
wine flows like water.
lose track of the numbers,
glasses of Cortese di Gavi,
cold and white refilled
in the Miami heat,
exactly, how old am I,
and where
my eyes should
not be staring,
bodies intended
to maim,
after they
**** you.
it is a long-short tale,
how it came to be,
that I am living thanksgiving
in the unreality of Miami style.
was supposed be at the
head of the table carving,
giving secret tastes to
numerous grandchildren,
multiple dogs,
defrosting after the
Macy's Day Parade.
my children, their
kith and kin.
that was supposed to be
my New York reality,
at the head of the table.
divorce, monkey wrench,
I am in a different state,
a different table, a
welcome bystander,
but her love,
my love,
has brought me,
to unseasonal places,
higher and higher,
where I am welcomed
as her man.
not a bad unreality,
but still someone has torn
off a piece of me,
a tasty combo of
sad and guilt,
that I ******* up,
which is why this
writing is my re-righting
the ship of perspective.
maybe I am dreaming
of what was never,
could have been,
should of been,
kidding myself, with an idyll,
the unreality of an idol,
though I vague recollect,
there were meals like that.
think this is my fourth trip here,
sort of, almost a tradition.
BobbyDylan, he reminds
what that woman,
done for me,
been doing to me.
*"I was in another lifetime
one of toil and blood,
when blackness was a virtue
and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness
a creature void of form.
"Come in" she said
"I'll give you shelter
from the storm".*
so she did,
a new reality born.
so semi-sad poem, but
happy thanks to give,
for this day,
new family
embracing, and I am
recollecting,
read somewhere,
you cannot be thankful
for having,
only for giving.
Thanksgiving
Not
Thanks-having
Thanks-receiving
New Reality: Thanksgiving Miami Style.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
he trickled into my consciousness
like an unseasonal, stealthy raindrop
my mind still ripples
--the aftershock of his presence
testimonial to his absence
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
12.03.2013
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
The sun is out, and England is reborn, as are we.
The grass is singing,
as it pushes through the ground,
Daffodils are dancing in a frenzy, all around.
Let's pack a picnic,
Take a walk in the park.
I'll wear my vintage dress, with flouncy petticoat, seamed stockings
And cherry earrings, you'll make me your dessert
under the willow trees down by the lake.
No-one can see us, lose yourself in all my layers,
Find the seams, follow them up,
And tug at my tight little belt.
Yes, I am edible, do I taste sweet?
Let's make the most
Of this unseasonal heat.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
William raked the leaves and dry pine needles in silence, a reverence that, to him, seemed simple and appropriate in the cemetery. Mother was close by arranging silk flowers to place on his grandparents' graves, a festive red splash of color in celebration of the Christmas season despite the unseasonal warmth and humidity in the air.
"Can you believe the weather," he calls out to his mother. "Grandma and Papa would have loved this."
"Yes, they would have," she replied. "I'm ready if you are. We still have some errands to run before it gets too much later."
William bent down and scooped the loose pile of nature's molt off the graves and placed it in an old plastic shopping bag. "I'll go throw this in the trash while you set up the flowers, that way we can get moving with the day."
Mother set to work on the bronze vase as William walked away to the trash can ten yards distant. He was grateful for her presence, not just for the help in maintaining the graves, but also because it reinforced to him that she was the best mom he could have ever asked for. The graves were not those of her parents, but belonged to his father's parents. William thought it was a great show of respect for her to help him. Father had passed a year before either of his parents. Not that it much mattered; William's father had seemingly forgotten both William and his own parents somewhere along the way. Father had given all his attention to his new wife for the last few years of his life.
"All done! Just let me pull these last few weeds before we go," Mother said. William nodded acknowledgement and absent-mindedly wandered the surrounding grave plots. Unknown faces of unfamiliar names blanketed the grounds nearby. He found himself suddenly wondering if he had even visited his father's grave. Feeling ashamed, he began searching in earnest for the site of his father's final resting place. He thought it was close at hand, perhaps in the vicinity of the small copse of trees a few dozen yards east of his grandparents.
After a ten minute search, William realized he could not find it on his own. Mom will know, I will ask her, he thought. "Hey Mom, I know this sounds weird, but I can't find Dad's grave...where is it?"
Mother cocked her head slightly, and after a brief pause says, "Will, your father was cremated, and your stepmother told us that she spread the ashes at sea, but we can't be sure that she really did."
"Oh. I forgot."
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC
My Apologies, Sona
by Gulzar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My apologies, Sona,
if traversing my verse's terrain
in these torrential rains
inconvenienced you.
The monsoons are unseasonal here.
My poems' pitfalls are sometimes sodden.
Water often overflows these ditches.
If you stumble and fall here, you run the risk
of spraining an ankle.
My apologies, however,
if you were inconvenienced
because my dismal verse lacks light,
or because my threshold's stones
interfered as you passed.
I have often cracked toenails against them!
As for the streetlamp at the intersection,
it remains unlit ... endlessly indecisive.
If you were inconvenienced,
you have my heartfelt apologies!
Come!
by Gulzar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come, let us construct night
over the monumental edifice of silence.
Come, let us clothe ourselves in the winding sheets of darkness,
where we'll ignite our bodies' incandescent wax.
As the midnight dew dances its delicate ballet,
let us not disclose the slightest whispers of our breath!
Lost in night's mists,
let us lie immersed in love's fragrance,
absorbing the musky aromas of our bodies!
Let us rise like rustling spirits ...
Old Habits Die Hard
by Gulzar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The habit of breathing
is an odd tradition.
Why struggle so to keep on living?
The body shudders,
the eyes veil,
yet the feet somehow keep moving.
Why this journey, this restless, relentless flowing?
For how many weeks, months, years, centuries
shall we struggle to keep on living, keep on living?
Habits are such strange things, such hard things to break!
Inconclusive
by Gulzar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A body lies on a white bed—
dead, abandoned,
a forsaken corpse they forgot to bury.
They concluded its death was not their concern.
I hope they return and recognize me,
then bury me so I can breathe.
Keywords/Tags: Gulzar, Urdu, Hindi, Punjabi, Triveni, translation, life, death, love, ghazal, couplet, mrburdu
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 6:18 AM UTC
The chances of finding a love thts true
Where it seems next to impossible
Crazily minimal, so I should count myself favored
A love tht uplifts me when everything's weighing me down
Loving that draws me closer n closer to my creator
Love that maximises on the strength n less on my unending flaws
Loving thts unseasonal, timeless..for ever <3
Sacrificial & fully committed.
True love fueled by the Savior Himself.
Great blessing it is.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 4:52 PM UTC
Inedible frozen fruit appears sensual;
Wasted flesh dressed as blessed and fresh.
Life's cycle is unseasonal and inevitable
Now onto Winters unfair descent;
To perish like apples stacked in barrels;
Left to sour and rot to the most bitter core.
To hell with the gourd and the hazel shells
The prolonged farewells. Send me away to shore;
To Rome where I will walk beyond the gloam.
To warmer days that will silent my moan;
Where my master has rung out my knell.
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 8:46 AM UTC
Unseasonal harvest priced too high
Just the right time to tell her a lie
Not one in the market not even a seed
What she wanted I thought for her own need!
But plump and large they were on show
Their vigor luring me calling me their glow
Fresh from the soil glistening green and cute
Jeered me mockingly the unseasonal fruit!
What anguish breeds the unseasonal fruit
Its pompous arrogance uncivilly brute
You dream of its savor yearn for a slice
Wish could bargain its unreachable price!
It argues with you it’s only the poor’s reason
They don’t taste as good as they do in the season
The excuse for not having them when the price is high
Reason enough to move away in failure’s depressed sigh!
*It’s not the right time of year in the market is not even a seed
Come season you would have them plentier than your need*
I told her to see the radiance come back onto her face
As she found not in my carry bag her requisitioned fruit’s trace!
*It’s not for me I want them the birds they love the seed
Oh dear after so many years my need you couldn’t read*
Sorry dear I hold her and as the clouds leave her face
See there the fruit and seed of her love seasonless!
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 5:59 AM UTC
darkness withers the heart
but for some that thrill is life itself
unseasonal to her tenderness but she is drawn to it
to her mind it was the tempest she sought
a desire too strong to deny
she derided him for his winter heart
magic he would say
liar she would cry
but she would never turn him away
never deny him his pleasures
dire and dark a man with his winter heart
bright eyed she opened herself to whatever he desired
passions flame burns quick
untill all she is and has is gone
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
I stood in the corner of Tawes Plaza
It was hot again, unseasonal,
like it was in those days
so many years ago.
You were walking away as always
I watched.
I was under the canopy of sun and leaf,
trying to hide myself from you
in the pockmarked shadows
of that same ambiguous weather
that we had always existed in.
You retreated.
I thought about things that weren’t meant for me.
You cut your hair too, it
no longer cowlicky and boy-like.
That hair,
as dark as mine,
the way I would cradle your head to my chest,
like a child.
How I loved to run my hands through it,
to look down
my line of sight overwhelmed by the soft blackness.
I would not smile,
but silently, I was contented,
warmed with shapeless pride.
You turned your head
and fixed on that beauty mark squarely on your nose
I thought –
ah mine,
as though it was true.
It was that fading light,
that vernal dusk
that cast everything in deep orange,
so deceptively warm.
We were always in transition,
we only ever wanted
when
the air was still,
pregnant with the expectation
of what was next.
On our axis it was always
equinox –
your mind
equally divided.
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC
out of season rain
falls steady on my roof
its pattern on the slate walkway is a confusion of circles
birds continue to sing
cars continue to speed by
it is only i that has ground to a halt by this
gentle downpour
rainy season isnt supposed to be here yet
so why have you clogged my day
with your wet bedraggled deluge
away with you rain
away with you
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
I took a walk through the park today.
The leaves were gently dropping
through the light and shade of an Indian summer.
The warmth was quite unseasonal
and that weird contrast between autumnal death
and the arousing sunshine’s heat
struck me with the strangest thought
that that could almost be
a metaphor
for me.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
Give us next summer.
Bring it on early.
Serve it to us on a silver platter.
Edged with rosebuds.
All dressed up in ****** pastel pink.
May it please be garnished with the glow of sunshine's kiss.
Bring a change unseasonal.
Such ample bounds of bliss renewed.
Totally abnormal.
Instead of tumultuous wind and rain.
Introduce the sun again.
Let us shake hands with the foxes.
They who left their gloves behind in the park.
Digitalis you know, ho,ho **
Christmas just gone.
Time for some fun.
And tickle the kittens.
Who discarded their mittens.
On butterfly bushes outside in front gardens.
Cherish the thought.
They'll be no more floods.
And food won't run short .
All the bad folk be caught.
Tied up with silly string.
Carried away by a roc on the wing.
To a land where the bees made loads of honey.
There was no need for money and people never got sick.
But then again, without pleasure or pain. I'd realise.
I'd shot myself straight through the foot.
If people weren't ill,
I wouldn't get paid.
I'd have to find another trade.
Don't know what.
My pen's all gone to ***
Time to relax.
Potentially sleep.
Night night.
(c)LIVVI
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 4:52 PM UTC
The sun gleams,
and glitters, famously...
a gilded disco ball,
hung from the ceiling,
of a peaky blue sky.
White clouds, are stretched,
and whipped out,
to a spun-sugar confection.
The wind, snags my legs,
and my bare wrists.
I feel like a side of beef,
on a frozen meat hook.
I gaze, longingly
at the array,
of tender seedlings,
screaming,
to be unpackaged, at last,
and to be freed...
to be given unto the earth,
and surrendered to the elements,
like eager children,
that they may rise, and grow!
...but I can't seem to recall
any of their names, or faces.
...I'm a terrible mother.
Were you impulse buys?
...I hope you'll all be beautiful.
The arctic, unseasonal breeze,
bites at my wrists, again:
a bad-tempered dog,
with an impatient demeanor.
**** all of this,
I'm going back inside.
Apr 22, 2025
Apr 22, 2025 at 5:05 AM UTC
Not even the rain can stand our way
Neither can the scorching sun,
The wind blows us but we not shaken
The winter freezes our bodies
But thoughts for each other never go.
Memories blown away by west winds
And east winds return them by morning.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC