"unsparing" poems
I planted a cherry tree
Four seasons back
In a morose rain
Pelting sharp upon nimble naked boughs
And rows, of wild berries
Running amuck in an unruly strain.
The tree is a full bloom now
Of white satin flowers
Swirling against a beaming blue
Tonight, as night keeps a vigil over my eyes
I get under my squally Cherry Tree
And suddenly I see it ailing
Sick old moon peeps through its branches
And I hear them crackle, not clear though
Moaning unobtrusive, through a wicked grin.
The moon lingers on long
Shining painfully in the womb of night.
I feel the stiffening wood coagulate in my veins
As blackness suffuses unbridled
In the cold wilderness of mind.
April never was summer in Kashmir
Look unto these dark skies
Those pierce the ether yet once more
Pelting mercilessly upon
The ailing, armourless beings
Whereby the cruel moon grins
And my heart wilts with each withering flower
Knocked down in the mud by
The unsparing shower.
Tears trickle down the smeared petals
And I collect them into my eyes
Till the plethora can no longer be contained
I let them fall
Into the capacious ***** of earth
And in this cruel April rain
My Cherry Tree shivers.
Moans. Weeps. Over me.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 9:46 AM UTC
Me, sometimes too slow
sometimes raring to go.
And you? like a ray of sunshine
that walked into my room,
Oh! my room full of my lonely
tumbled gloom.
Like a star that lost her moon,
like these rains that makes frozen
doors, inside my caged rooms.
I always saw myself, mostly through
the window, of my dark uneven mind.
Many of those characters I made
in my narratives could have been me!
But were never me for a reason.
Oh! did you ever know that
my beautiful silent vamp?
I usually sit down in my room
unsparing my mind, body and soul
sometimes in relentless pain,
but that was a story lost long back.
Now, in rosy curvy overture
you need to wake me up
with a sweet little pen lamp!
Read my vulpine runes
which I pen late nights
and then wake me up
to my own chorus tunes!
Also please use
my mystic crafty hands,
to give fire to your words
everywhere you wish to write!
But then again let me ask
with my mystic cryptic voice
where were you all this while?
Oh! my invisible little pen lamp.
Nov 28, 2019
Nov 28, 2019 at 2:34 AM UTC
To keep the lamp alive,
With oil we fill the bowl;
'Tis water makes the willow thrive,
And grace that feeds the soul.
The Lord's unsparing hand
Supplies the living stream;
It is not at our own command,
But still derived from Him.
Beware of Peter's word,
Nor confidently say,
"I never will deny Thee, Lord," --
But, -- "Grant I never may."
Man's wisdom is to seek
His strength in God alone;
And e'en an angel would be weak,
Who trusted in his own.
Retreat beneath his wings,
And in His gace confide!
This more exalts the King of kings
Than all your works beside.
In Jesus is our store,
Grace issues from His throne;
Whoever says, "I want no more,"
Confesses he has done.
1.2k
~a unconscious commissioned poem~
<>
La Lumière est une Dame d'honneur
advantage Frenchies,
everything sounds
better in their language,
we readily concede
we make do
with those tongues
whose fluidity
clothes & coats,
those, we are
best at
confessing in
first light this morning
was emasculated, in thickened
first fog, eerie, discomforting,
but yet, mine alone to utilize,
and make discomfiture into
a poem of coffee and cream,
stirring within, colored dreams
Lady Light finally arrives,
descending on a staircase
from heaven, radiating all
with patience, the animals
all, proclaiming in a thousand
tongues, their thanks, their
love, for everything breathing
understand best she is the source
of creation, reanimation, and a
sharing, unsparing, birth mother
to animate and inanimate, and
the death father to all we & us,
guide to our ultimate end
the waiting is most interesting,
for indeed, there is honor within,
as I compose, the sunrises to the
precise angle to bar my vision,
power to blind and enlighten,
how can this be, but it is so,
my bones warmed, suggest I
do not complain, accepting with
no exception for this is the power
source to us all, and humility is
the key to acceptance & understanding
is this poem, is this the missive,
me~my, intended, to write,
know not,
for the words leech from my skin,
in format uncolored, uncontrolled
by mine minuscule impoverished
compost of senses, morals and my
compote of cells that are products
of a thousand prior generations
morphed into a mess of me,
as of yet, purpose hidden,
undisclosed, perhaps my
reasoning is unseasoned,
my presumption of purpose,
is just a fool’s ridiculousness
Lady Light smiles kindly on my
rambunctious ilreasoning,
for I just one of billions come,
gone, and rebirthed in chains
of endless possibilities, two
words permanently paired,
conjoined, and though the
light has now risen to heights
to totally absolve my sight,
can no longer track what
is being written, accepting my
temporally blindness with grace,
even with solace, and-bid you
adieu, adieu, (bye~bye)
so musically,
until relief will
honor me with its presents…
and I can contemplate my
foolishness once more…
and the letting…
of the
*Lady’s light
of
honor illuminating
(even me)*
<>
commissioned by Pradip
7:35 am
in the sunroom where
the intersection of all light
illuminates all kinds
<>
music:
To Try for the Sun, Song by Donovan
Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In by Fifth Dimesion
Aug 5, 2024
Aug 5, 2024 at 7:52 AM UTC
It would be vivid orange because that is her favorite color.
The color of her; Always bold and sometimes jubilant with laughter.
I'd make my baby sister a blanket to lay on her bed and keep her warm throughout winter.
Her room is always coldest.
On the ends their would be tassels.
Some black, bright blues, vivid greens and pinks. Everything to represent her many sides.
She can be anywhere from caring baby blue
to frank and
unsparing
Black.
I am always the cold one in the family.
Yet, even when she doesn't show it, she is the one who always needs a hug and something--
or someone
to hold her.
When I am off to college the orange blanket can keep her company at night, like I have so many times before.
I'd leave it on her bed,
folded,
with a note that told her to call when the blanket wasn't enough.
Sometimes she would still feel alone,
But I hope it could hold at least the representation
of
a
friend.
When she hurts, it's soft sides can hug her.
When she is happy, almost unknowingly,
It can still rest upon her unweighted shoulders.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 12:34 AM UTC
to the girl who wrote me asking
me for advice at four o'clock in the
morning when her brain was high
off of an ashy heart: stop
******* around with toxins, and
no, i don't mean the drugs
turning your life into
unwholesome chaos. i mean
your ******* friends who told
you that
your problems are nothing
your demons are nothing
you are nothing. stop
it. you're better than
them.
to the friend who asked
for advice on how to turn
herself into a walking
skeleton: get over
yourself. anorexia and
bulimia will not fill
some hole in your tragic
past, they will ravage everything
good in you until you
are nothing but the flesh
you have despised. do
not ask me how to "become
an anorexic" because all you
are asking me is how
to die.
to the boy who i have
dedicated so many poems
to: god, you are so oblivious
to everything. to the soulless
"i love you"s spoken out of
pity, to the feigned grins, to
the fact that you are ripping
me apart. i was always told
to not love someone
who was sad because they would
drag me to the pit of the ocean
with them, and i should
have listened. there isn't
enough of me left
to share.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 8:47 PM UTC
An obscene, sickly beautiful scene
Met me with a ***** sheen
It dulled the tightness in my chest:
The butterflies when I misstep.
Like the second-guessed ache of paranoia
that left me curled at the foot of the sequoias
waiting still and tense, for your voice to fade.
Never for a moment dropping my charade
as I paraded proudly back inside declaring
my true innocence; I found you unsparing.
You swallowed my word and I found you even
Requesting repetition, so you could believe in
the obvious lies leaking my lips,
and you know what they say: loose lips sink ships.
So when you come to grips,
I’ll still be installing microchips
Inside that open wound of yours.
While you’re hugging porcelain on all fours
I won’t be sympathizing with all the ******
Who leave their lipstick napkins on your lap;
Who fall into your egocentric death trap.
I was never one of those,
To be used and then disposed…
So while you’re trying so hard to make me jealous;
I’ll just tell you your method is overzealous.
You had your chance before;
You’ll have no chances anymore.
You can finally stop trying to request the help of cupid,
I promise you I only ever loved you young and stupid.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 6:34 PM UTC
One more hit is all I need
Then I promise I am done.
For without it reality
Really does weighs a tonne.
Crushing my ribcage
Which used to home roses
But now is bruised
From fists, He stands amused
As he puts his
Hands back around my neck
Without even looking to check
If marks are visible this time.
He is long past caring
My body no longer unsparing
For he has destroyed each part
Making me look like a childs colour chart.
Maybe I am to blame
For why he torments my fragile frame.
One more hit to numb my pain
Though these thoughts I can never tame
In my new found biological remedy
As I blackout I find my serenity
Longing for a new identity
For my body is an empty shell
Storing secrets I will never tell
For fears the words will only spill out.
So I sew my lips together
As my skin looks like worn leather.
When I finally come back through
My body is an array of black, purple and blue.
I take my final hit
Hoping finally this might be it
As the world before me turns to grey.
For now is my time
As I leave the wind chimes
Bringing me into a brand new day.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 7:39 PM UTC
The Bear emerged
from the wildfire
a smoldering, wheezing ruin.
His paws had been
nearly completely seared off
by the superheated
forest floor
of the Sierra Nevada foothills.
His coat was singed and maimed
by ash and ember.
His eyes and nostrils burned
from the unsparing smoke he had breathed.
The Bear felt
the slightest pinch
behind his shoulder,
and his eyes grew heavy.
When he opened them again,
he was in a new place—
an incomprehensible place—
a place of straight lines
and unfathomable
mathematical precision and artificiality.
He had heard rumor
that such places existed—
the forest spoke of them
hurriedly but indirectly.
He had seen other bears return
with foreign things
inserted through their ears or ringing
their necks, inescapable and alien signifiers
of having encountered
an otherworldly form of existence.
The Bear had lost his strength and could
no longer walk. His paws were wrapped
in linen. He smelled fish skin
just beneath it.
Apes
came and went—just like
the ones he had
seen and smelled before in the woods.
But these apes were much quieter,
and less afraid.
They only visited when he was
half-asleep or having trouble breathing.
The Bear drifted in and out
of consciousness like this
until he lost track of day
and night and time.
After one long but fitful sleep
he came to.
He smelled the forest again
before he had even opened his eyes.
His paws were no longer wrapped,
although they still smelled of fish.
He braced his massive frame
against the warm, dry earth and pushed.
His strength had returned
at last.
Three of the apes were standing
just a short distance away.
The Bear did not fully understand
why they had intervened,
or why they abducted him as he was making
peace with his own death.
He thought that they could be divine.
But he decided to stay wary of them, as bears do.
The Bear walked back into the forest,
scorched but now healing.
He wondered who or what would intervene
to help the ones who had saved him,
wondered whether they, too,
have some incomprehensible celestial stewards
that wait to rescue them
as they themselves wheeze and smolder
and shamble, unknowingly,
toward death’s door.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 11:32 AM UTC
Burning coal glows in the no-food zone
Are they too cold and dead and alone?
It's said they're loyal but they can't boast
Are they too hungry and shadows of ghost?
Ignore them people drunk in their fest
Are they so useless as vermin and pest?
Night's peace shatters as they whine and roar
Are they without sleep and closed is your door?
It all seems so cruel our heart is stained steel
Are they too trifle and don't deserve a feel?
The night is so unsparing so long and cold
Are they still hopeful of the emerging gold?
The sun gives reason to celebrate the morn
They're still asleep they were rather not born.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 6:21 AM UTC
My prime example of love
Stemmed from intensity
Is not a once size fits all glove
The found each other- destiny
In the midst of a celebration
In highschool unintentionally
Born with high expectations
Maybe my soul mate is nearing
I'm just waiting for my invitation
The truth is it's unsparing
Waiting around for 'the one'
Takes away my caring
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 3:37 AM UTC
That bright light
between those mountains
fell on her radiant face.
Then it just got reflected back
to the innermost nerve of my heart.
Unsparing any approval of the mind
so into, so straight.
Everything here,
the sun , the mountains,
the river, the heaven
and the space is all about her, now.
All of these makes me too lost, now.
Well, if I would land back here
then it would be her eyes
that would be glittering everywhere
detaching me, from the life I'm into.
May I, ask this please?
Are those diamond blue eyes
that I saw, that day
on those mountains?
May be, yes.
But to my less fortune
I shall live in silence
and utter no words
cause I'm weak for any disapproval
and I don't want to deprive
myself from the little attention
and love that you might show or spare....
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 10:17 AM UTC
I'll peer through the flaxen strand
of night
with your color that excites,
and think myself the blue pither of fire
or a flummoxed stone left unturned.
it's not the rapture of a knowledgeable
beast or the common grip
of the eye's gift for unsparing detail.
it's the way the queen moves to all
corners unclenching a fold of sidereal,
and then like a child with almond eyes
spruced up, spritzed this morning's
incandescent dye,
the lapping of strange tides revealing
fish with dreams of brine
or that one moment when you had
at first light, the hot flush of coming
into, recognizing insatiable appetite,
whistling its overdue intent and the detritus
we try to hide when we had that virginal moment of once and never looking back
at mirrors.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 3:00 AM UTC
CORTÉS
But how to learn their Tower-of-Babel tongues?
I think I have an inkling. Sandoval,
Bring me that Díaz from the footmen’s ranks-
A proud alumnus of this school of vice. Exit Sandoval.
Young Sandoval shows promise of promotion,
But, Alvarado, you’re my confidante,
As well as in effect my deputy.
We must concur about these Indians.
They are not possibly the “natural slaves”
Of which the pagan Aristotle spoke,
And can be raised to all the dignity
Of sons of Christ.
ALVARADO I’ll take your word.
CORTÉS Take God’s.
Enter DÍAZ.
DÍAZ God save you, captain! What mighty business of state pulls my
rare proficiencies away from tent-tying?
CORTÉS
So Díaz,
Twice now have you arrived in Cozumel
With this old villain, who reveals to me,
When last you pitched your tents, a year ago,
Your fleet encountered awestruck Indians,
Who nodded at the whiteness of your hides
And uttered, “Castilán . . . Castilán.”
Who came before, that they knew you by face?
DÍAZ
Some say that eight years past, lost in the fog,
A Spanish galleon shattered on these reefs.
Her ribs discharged a dash of castaways
That disappeared into these gloomy woods.
ALVARADO
And thus within hide our interpreters.
DÍAZ
So: Castellano . . . Castilán.
CORTÉS Well done.
Commune with these glad-handed Indians,
And sleuth it out through means of pantomime
If any of our cast-off countrymen
Might swelter yet in this unsparing clime. Exit Díaz.
ALVARADO
And as regards your noble savages?
CORTÉS
I shall induct them to the host of Christ.
I’ll give them scissors, candles, silver mirrors,
With tops and kites to cheer their little ones.
As your bombastic threats have scattered them,
I must so kindly call to coax them back.
ALVARADO
With prayer and kindness- Save us all! Kind words!
CORTÉS
Speak now, or hold your peace. . .
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
Eyes like the river,
smile of a fox,
beauty unsparing,
my heart stops.
Moles on his neck
grin on his face,
tall as a mountain
strong arms to embrace.
Laugh like the wind
wheat coloured hair,
funny and happy
without a care.
Boy does he have me
caught on a hook,
butterflies take off
just with one look.
Wakes me up
takes my hand,
kiss and tell
ladies man.
Has a girl
back at home,
blonde hair, little waist,
draws me in with his sweet words
patiently she waits.
He was never mine
I was never his,
nothing to bind us
not even a kiss.
A loss at first
my heart may bleed,
but I know God
my soul will feed.
Uphold me and strengthen
my weak tired wings,
and after a winter
my heart starts to sing.
No longer a prey
caught in a net,
swim little fish
run far away.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
as unsparing as glass hung to mirror is--
in the cold cast monologue of eyes,
the faces of years never purveyed
true reflection.
so there is no preparing to meet it
in another's eyes who see themselves,
as you see yourself for the first time.
whereupon the light of day clears its
space overhung with veils, exposing
those eyes.
momentarily struck dead by the force
of their essential seeing--what played
haunted host to the lighting of a
lifetime.
suddenly stares back--one sees one's
reflection, a shock only Love can absorb.
Aug 18, 2019
Aug 18, 2019 at 12:27 PM UTC
History they sometimes say,
Doesn't repeat, but nay,
It rhymes and reminds,
and sometimes chimes.
[gong]
I can look back now and know
that I confused love with the flow
of life and parenthood and family
as Zorba said, the whole catastrophe!
[long gong]
There was caring and sharing
but life was so unsparing
The dings and dents of life
Did not soften but increased strife.
[wrong gong]
The kids' braces, the cars' repairs, the house
caused resentment in the spouse
And I was grasping at a solution
for what I thought should be the resolution.
[sad song]
Trying too hard for what is not
Can carry your soul into a spot
Where what life is becomes a chore
Rather than the secret to more.
[gong]
And so with my new ode
I think I've found the code.
The challenges are not to be resolved
for living is itself so involved.
[gong]
Each challenge or task
Is an echo of the ask
That life has in its incarnation
to feel and understand the demarcation.
[gong]
So as you go through time
Pay attention to the rhyme
For the small and tiresome tasks
can be brushstrokes for what lacks.
[gong]
And when it's time make a new edition
You'll be enriched by all the addition
Of lessons you learned while living
that the world is giving.
[belong]
May 1, 2023
May 1, 2023 at 9:41 PM UTC