"untiring" poems
This trumpeter of nothingness, employed
To keep our reason dull and null and void.
This man of wind and froth and flux will sell
The wares of any who reward him well.
Praising whatever he is paid to praise,
He hunts for ever-newer, smarter ways
To make the gilt seen gold; the shoddy, silk;
To cheat us legally; to bluff and bilk
By methods which no jury can prevent
Because the law's not broken, only bent.
This mind for hire, this mental **********
Can tell the half-lie hardest to refute;
Knows how to hide an inconvenient fact
And when to leave a doubtful claim unbacked;
Manipulates the truth but not too much,
And if his patter needs the Human Touch,
Skillfully artless, artlessly naive,
Wears his convenient heart upon his sleeve.
He uses words that once were strong and fine,
Primal as sun and moon and bread and wine,
True, honourable, honoured, clear and keen,
And leaves them shabby, worn, diminished, mean.
He takes ideas and trains them to engage
In the long little wars big combines wage...
He keeps his logic loose, his feelings flimsy;
Turns eloquence to cant and wit to whimsy;
Trims language till it fits his clients, pattern
And style's a glossy **** or limping slattern.
He studies our defences, finds the cracks
And where the wall is weak or worn, attacks.
lie finds the fear that's deep, the wound that's tender,
And mastered, outmanouevered, we surrender.
We who have tried to choose accept his choice
And tired succumb to his untiring voice.
The dripping tap makes even granite soften
We trust the brand-name we have heard so often
And join the queue of sheep that flock to buy;
We fools who know our folly, you and I.
11.1k
Mr. Hummingbird,
How tired you must be.
Do you long for rest,
Enjoy your sleep,
Rest in Peace?
Mr. Hummingbird,
Your wings are so fast,
Blinding speeds!
You Zip, and Whistle By
Unafraid, Untiring, of this world
In it but not of it,
How fast you fly!
Mr. Hummingbird.
How fast your heart beats!
Do you too, Face defeat,
Every day? No, Not you
How good it must be,
To be so free.
Mr. Hummingbird,
You just go on by,
How fast you fly,
But yet you aren't running..
Just Humming while you work.
I admire you,
Mr. Hummingbird.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 9:42 PM UTC
Montgomery! true, the common lot
Of mortals lies in Lethe’s wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot,
Some shall exist beyond the grave.
“Unknown the region of his birth,”
The hero rolls the tide of war;
Yet not unknown his martial worth,
Which glares a meteor from afar.
His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
Perchance may ’scape the page of fame;
Yet nations, now unborn, will know
The record of his deathless name.
The Patriot’s and the Poet’s frame
Must share the common tomb of all:
Their glory will not sleep the same;
‘That’ will arise, though Empires fall.
The lustre of a Beauty’s eye
Assumes the ghastly stare of death;
The fair, the brave, the good must die,
And sink the yawning grave beneath.
Once more, the speaking eye revives,
Still beaming through the lover’s strain;
For Petrarch’s Laura still survives:
She died, but ne’er will die again.
The rolling seasons pass away,
And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
Whilst honour’s laurels ne’er decay,
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.
All, all must sleep in grim repose,
Collected in the silent tomb;
The old, the young, with friends and foes,
Fest’ring alike in shrouds, consume.
The mouldering marble lasts its day,
Yet falls at length an useless fane;
To Ruin’s ruthless fangs a prey,
The wrecks of pillar’d Pride remain.
What, though the sculpture be destroy’d,
From dark Oblivion meant to guard;
A bright renown shall be enjoy’d,
By those, whose virtues claim reward.
Then do not say the common lot
Of all lies deep in Lethe’s wave;
Some few who ne’er will be forgot
Shall burst the ******* of the grave.
2.9k
A vast unfeeling sordid breath,
That scalds my naked doubt
Grazing the space unfilled.
Lost in the waves
The summer an oppressive embrace,
Infecting this town.
And I am alone from here.
The stagnant tsunami,
Creeps up from the depths
Untiring in its attempts to overwhelm me.
But I'm already so tired,
Bone-weary.
I give up on my fight to the heat,
To the eternal god that glares
So balefully from beneath heavy clouds.
Have done with me now.
Leave me to the tide.
To the uncaring winds
Anywhere beyond the sweat of bodies
And incessant hate
Of the sun.-
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 5:16 PM UTC
All the words that I utter,
And all the words that I write,
Must spread out their wings untiring,
And never rest in their flight,
Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,
And sing to you in the night,
Beyond where the waters are moving,
Storm-darken'd or starry bright.
1.4k
the gardener
skipping to a solemn beat
swaying down the row
crouching down, and watching seeing everyone grow
crying silent tears
and nurturing all,
all except one
untiring, yet wondering when life will be done
gardener gardener
you’ve helped me grow
showing me how change is good
“like this, like so”
gardener gardener
when will you sprout
when all your little seedlings are watered, grown and out?
it may be too late
you’ve missed your chance at your ideal fate
collecting all your dreams,
and shoving them into a crate
for now winter has come,
and you’ll have to wait.
-l.r
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 10:00 AM UTC
That was the day she broke down the fence
to fly towards her secret sky,
to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment.
To move further with sheer confidence;
was certain to leave her nightmares behind,
she was untiring and keen.
Finally the time has come to reclaim her life.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 7:39 AM UTC
Dreams fly high
in the sky of wishes
driven by the winds
of our will
which, untiring, blow
and push you everywhere
tied to the thread of hope
which, strong, does not break
but they are papiermaché kites
and the tears
of those who surrender
are enough
to make them fall down
until the sun of the new day,
if we ever want to see it,
will dry those tears
giving them back to the sky.
27.6.’13
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
If only I were a painting,
indestructible and charming.
Then, and only then,
would my fairness be untiring.
For Beauty, on the surface,
is oh-so-overrated-
for what does Beauty value
but mirrors, silver-plated?
As proven with so many souls,
Beauty is skin deep:
hollow eyes and empty smiles,
no substance for one’s keep.
And so, my dear admirer,
please keep this thought in mind:
I value Wit and Character
In lieu of polished shine.
While I thank for your kind words,
If, in truth, you are commending:
keep in mind, I’m but a surface.
Please, don’t touch the painting.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 6:45 PM UTC
Death perched on a rotten fence clothed in Autumn colored quills
in the ancient pens that storied him in the colors of the fields
in the costume of a Cooper's Hawk slowly laid his eyes of stone
on me. Neither could I move nor stay an arm's reach
great and awful silence he commands living things gone
still as death itself is still. And this he deigned to show me
did not flinch fierce and fearless marked me with his eyes
of stone. This - a muscular stretch of wings untiring. This -
the sharp sure weaponry of death. This - endless curiosity
searching seeking sanctuaries never locked hides thrown open
shadows laid to rest. And this - an intellect uncaring cold
science mocked congeniality of birds societies lost
to appetite ceased by fear. Or is it better angels
gave the knowledge of prey to such as these what I
will not admit:
Hawks carry us away.
We will not return.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 11:15 AM UTC
Tick, tick, tick, they move steady with untiring feet
They break and they loot, and they plunder and shoot, and they March on the tick by tick
They step with every beat, through shower and Frost and heat
And they'll make you a part of an un beating heart as they March on the tick and repeat.
A river of troops, they sweep
Their canons break full and deep
And one moment you cry and in the next you're dry and you're washed away into the heap.
They wash all memories vain
Or on books they're best retained
But still a few soul are brave and bold,
For a while longer they fight and keep their hold
Blows from the present numerous they sustain, and blows more from this river cold.
I've read and heard of thy master's tales
Of their beanstalk rising and angel fails
But as long you stand this marching band
Of flesh and blood will they still prevail
And not be residents of a fantasy land.
So let your defenders shout in vain
Let them die in thousands for every awe it gains
For blessed are those who submerge than break
And blessed we more to see you make,
This losing battle.
Dec 11, 2021
Dec 11, 2021 at 5:30 AM UTC
I aspire for the ambition of a mother:
lifelong and untiring.
Ambition to realise her passion:
providing
serving
loving
learning
teaching
and persisting all hours
with no reflection on reward
but for the pleasure of the pursuit
of her God-given trust
- and so to serve royals
and her King
with contentment.
Then uniting with Him after a life well lived,
with lives better lived for knowing her.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC
There's something in the face of a man
Who has spent his life doing
Not what was required of him,
Nor what he loved,
But what he felt forced to do
By some inexorable pressure inside his head and chest
That would splash him on the walls
If he did not bow to its will and power.
There is something that writers might call Beauty,
If they had to put a word to it,
But Beauty is present from the cradle,
Or it is a sudden bloom as a man matures.
It is handsomeness. It is a standard, accepted value.
No, there is a hardness around the eyes
Of a man who is determined to be
What he must be, or else die.
His eyes are not beautiful.
There is something attractive, though,
Something that must be watched -
Like a solar eclipse -
Because it is rare and pleasant
And unpleasant too.
There is something there that will not be ignored,
Planted firmly as if to say, "This is the face
Of not a person,
But a personality.
This is not a man,
This is the constant, untiring, unflinching
Action of a man."
It is a thing that shouts "I must!"
And at the same time echoes the pleasure of doing,
The joy of not straining under that maxim,
But thriving - it is enough to tide him over
When he is helpless and hopeless and old.
There is something in his face
That has done what it set out to do,
And everything else is just time ticking by
Until it can be done again.
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 5:36 PM UTC
The clock is ticking out a ceaseless pattern;
It is heedless to the entreaties of man.
I hear the monotonous rhythm;
Its schedule will be kept.
Minus a minute, minus a day,
How soon before our lives have ticked away?
Sans mercy, sans compassion,
The clock is relentless, untiring in its fashion.
Each moment timeless,
Every second a treasure,
To fight against nature is a pointless endeavour;
Spend the remaining years wiser than the wise.
The clock has rendered your days to a number;
But despair not, and live them before eternal slumber.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 9:14 AM UTC
"He wanted to know about the sycamore tree and seemed to understand exactly what I meant when I told about the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. “It's that way with people, too,” he said, “only with people it's sometimes that the whole is less than the sum of the parts."
- Wendelin Van Draanen, Flipped
Look at me with those hopeful eyes
with the belief that we can make it through lows and highs
walk again with me, you and your untiring feet
you made the past months more complete
let's cross some more bridge together
stay when one needs the other
Lend me your hands and your arms
and I will gladly accept to ease my qualms
For I've learned that hands will just be hands
and arms will just be arms
but they become so much more
especially when comfort and solace are in store
I have not searched but I have found
someone standing on the same ground
Thank you for breaking the trope
and for helping me breathe a brand new hope
Even if there were a lot of people who were far less
In the short time we've spent together,
I can say you are one of the few who are far more...
you are greater than the sum of your parts
you are one beautiful whole
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 1:10 AM UTC
Busy catching each report, we are
glued to a fascination. Though, it is
more than that.
It is life and love taken.
Audio visual enhancements trigger
remote and widespread accord.
Fellow feeling vibrates and all tune
in to Paris. Who could help being
absorbed in bandaging blue ruin?
I want to hear the song playing
when shots rang out and life was
postponed, cut short.
I want to hear that song finish.
Survival depends on seeing,
hearing this song performed to fin. From where it was shot riven
Friday, November 13, 2015, it is
vital to have it play out, again.
Paris, I have danced with you.
Your artists, lovers, chefs have
dipped me in your graciousness.
I owe you promise of return.
Untiring are we who share your
passion for life. You gave us a
lady holding a torch of liberty.
She wants you to look past this
time of darkness, into her light.
She still holds up that noble idea.
Her arm is indefatigable.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 2:04 AM UTC
Here in a sleepy hamlet
in the shadow of Top Hill
amid barren aridity
I am hiding.
A runaway
from my family, friends,
familiar faces,
and also
from myself!
Why I call them friends?
My family
who cares coz I earn,
friends
all fair weather,
familiar faces
that breed only contempt,
and the most deadly myself,
the untiring aspirer
in home, office, deals,
the macabre face on the mirror,
sartorially correct
refined manners
polished etiquette
but inside a greedy *****
ever ready to sell his soul
at the sight of a penny!
Here no one can find me
and I’ve to work hard
to turn my inside out
carry it atop Top Hill
for the sun to bake
the rains to wash
and the moon to bathe
my reincarnate!
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 7:58 AM UTC
Wilted jasmines look like popcorns
… that wasn’t very poetic, right?
I was just watching the bushes sway outside my window.
There is no wind today
Just the hot air breathing
I have turned on the A.C. and the fan grumbles quietly
I feel as if my heart is in my stomach
Huh.
**** it,
I really am forcing it out today..
Whatever
I rested my palm on my stomach
As Faizan’s strange playlist chattered nonsense
Outside the blanket shroud I had built
Around myself
And I could feel the beat
The rhythm
Like a drum or a gong
I don’t know why it matters to me
Maybe because I feet as if nothing else does
Right now
I know that sounds exactly like something
A sentimental teenager would say
I don’t know
I want to talk to myself
A heart-to-heart
I want to ask that *****
What is going on
What is wrong
What the **** is wrong, girly!?
I want to hear her ramble on about stuff
Be bored of her talk, but feel kind of happy
That I’m the one she’s confiding in
I wanna give her a hug
To show I don’t have words good enough for comfort
Which I probably do
But am too lazy to fish them out my gooey head
(Besides
I think the poor **** needs a hug)
I wanna zone out and nod along to her words
Just so she can let it out for once
But that bitch’s a *****
She acts tough and all smart
But she’s a sappy preteen girl inside
I say,
“Yo, Ayesha, you can cry, you know—”
And she goes,
“Yeah, I know.”
A flip of that inexistent hair
That she long ago butchered
And, bam, she gone.
She tells me
"Yo, Ayesha, you can cry too, you know?"
"I know" I tell her.
I don’t know what to do
So I lie around
Feeling this stupid ***** dance in my stomach
In my wrists
In my temples
I run my fingers down my neck,
Feeling for the echoes of the gong
That keeps talking, talking, talking
Untiring
As if calling me to my people
gathering us together for a battle
that is yet to be fought
yet to be fought—
yet to be ******* fought
And, hey, my
Money plant doesn’t even look rich
That *****
(Hey, I got a rhyme!)
May 27, 2021
May 27, 2021 at 10:14 AM UTC
They travel a million miles
Untiring,relentless,seeking;
From somewhere deeper
From here farther
From there higher
They come.
In whispers,they thunder
Some kind of echoes, some music
That make Kings and Queens
Go on their knees.
They travel, these words:
'I love you!'
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 6:29 PM UTC
(
/// • |
<>
(
(
(
\/
/\
/ \
######
Softly
Truly
SHE ( pure love )
•
the Hour trembles
WE
Come with whatever courage we can bare
//
SHE was here before the world was here
She carries everyone in Strength
•
I walk beside her We are known
/:/
Tomorrow invades today
•
If you would live you have to live aloud
•
How much I love you is the tale of tears
Of pure and untiring trust
In the power you could be
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
the farthest branch
assures us there is life
the farthest branch.
where chatter swells in sight of gold
where raccoons see clouds, but no sun
the moon reflects
lifeless, controlling planes & folds foreign
even if so
his reach would only meet his grasp.
but it can not be this way
the clouds move & swell
protecting us from ourselves
from bizarre nebulas & unknown entities
harbingers of death originating
from our silky cigarettes & lean machines
inside the heavens, golden & blue
beyond the heavens
degree of souls,
all souls ask the same questions
why this way?
if you loved me,
it would not be
further into God's home,
words from his deep rivers & far roads,
if you loved me, together we'd stand
the cobwebs live behind shadows
placing my hand near sight
i see divine everlasting life.
how can it be so?
i do not move mountains
my blood does not course from me sweet as wine
i am here as the jaguar
as night.
untouched by morning's warmth
unseen by our sun's eye,
who stays eternal enemies
yet always in my heart, my sleep
alone he sits
far away.
telling us forever,
untiring,
if only you loved me
the copper straightens itself holding mountains together,
shiny veins
the trees speak in the language of survival,
cells
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
sometimes i am a
relentless, untiring, wave that
ebbs and flows to the
shore, back and
forth, back and
forth.
but today i am
transforming and
evaporating from the
sea to the sky, yes, i
have surrendered and
turned myself into
a possessive sun.
kindness and
love are now my
rays that i won't let
you kiss and have
anymore for
i am tired, tired, tired,
of going back
and forth, back
and forth without
receiving what i
always give.
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 3:33 AM UTC
The first time, at the age of four,
when I first peeked under my tongue
after brushing my teeth,
I got scared.
Frightened by the ugliness of it.
All the ruptured rivers of my veins and vessels,
the indefinite patterns of colonization of my cells;
a naked mannequin of the story I held inside.
It was as if someone had peeled the skin
off my tongue at my birth
and now all the prisoners were striving to escape.
It was as if someone had abducted the blanket
away, when I was sleeping
and now the monster under the bed was clawing its way out
asking if I needed a friend.
Scared that I would damage the fragile wires,
I carefully laid my tongue back in her cradle,
hoping that someday, the skin would be back.
That she had only walked around the corner of the alley
and she would be back.
That the vacancy in my heart did not mean she was gone,
she had only gone to the mall to grab some sweets
and she would be back.
Each day, I would steal a peep,
in belief that I might find her there.
Though foolish of me, sure, it was to hope.
Smart of me it was to stay away from despair.
I still get scared when I glance under my tongue.
But not because of the ugliness, no.
The darkness.
The darkness that, I know, flows beneath those streams.
The darkness that, I fear, resides behind my skin,
licking, biting and swallowing the hollow of my being.
I still shut my mouth as quick as I can,
sending my tongue back to sleep,
but not because I am afraid to cause damage, no.
The destruction.
The chaos.
All the words that hide inside my enigmatic brain.
All the demons that lurk around the shadows of my heart.
The beasts and ogres that I once crafted
out of the ashes of my soul.
They skulk in the void of my chest,
their laughs echoing around the abyss
where once cherished my being.
They drink and dance, and gamble away all my life.
They joke and sing, and rob me of all my hope.
I still check the cave in my mouth,
day after day.
Not in hope of arrival of spring, no,
but in helplessness of my desperate desire.
In temptation to split open a vessel,
and watch all the nothingness,
flow out of my mouth into the inviting sink.
In temptation to ravage the last barrier into pieces
and feel all my creations drain out of my body.
In temptation to see the corpse of my soul
sail away with the tides of my untiring blood.
--to be free.
May 30, 2020
May 30, 2020 at 5:53 AM UTC
Contains my favourite verses
With A Certain contented emotions
My red ink re -instates my devotion
A few alphabets I utter
Some I frame with a Metaphor
Untiring
Undenying
Feelings I mutter
I do not want to rest
I want to continue my quest
I want to write to my best
Like a soft feather
I want to be a part of a wing
And wrap each precious feeling around my finger like a ring .
-Anju
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 6:49 AM UTC