"uprooted" poems
I came upon a dandelion
An ordinary, common ****
Most people don't look twice
Unless it infected their gardens.
Then it is uprooted, stem and head.
Thrown away and then forgotten.
But that **** meant something different to me
It was sunshine and laughter
Bouquets made of thistle and lavender
Bunched together and given to my mother
It was rolled up jeans
That perfect summer breeze
Cuts and bruises on my knees
It was my childhood
Memories that I can't quite grasp
But what I can remember is the bright yellow,
Stark against the grass
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 9:48 PM UTC
#*Lord Jesus, Plower of my heart,
though the darkness descends around me
and heavy moods fall over me,
though the warm feelings of intimacy begin to fade
and encroaching melancholy threatens to set in
like a cold reversal of the winds,
still I will rejoice in Your presence with me,
for You are causing me to press beyond—
beyond the delightful sense of You
and into the delightful assurance of You.
If I know nothing else, I know that You are here,
You are faithful and You love me.
So I will keep clinging to that
when everything else seems to slip
like dust through my fingers
and all hope of good things
in this life grows dim.
I will cling to the promise
that You are clinging to me,
that You’ve got me no matter what,
that You are never leaving or letting go.
For You are the unchanging I AM
in my ever-changing circumstances,
through my ever-shifting emotions,
over my ever-shaking life
and around my ever-feeble heart.
Here is my hand, Lord Jesus.
I put it safely in Yours and trust You
to lead me through this dark night.
Work Your holy, harrowing fingers
deep into the soil of my heart
until every idol is uprooted,
every stone removed
and every broken place restored.
Thank You, Jesus.
I love You.*#
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 5:16 PM UTC
You used to tell me that beautiful things come from pain and adversity.
Like motherhood, unconditional love, and true stories.
As I stood in the middle of a room painted white,
Staring at the remains of rolling hills burned to black,
I saw you staring back at me.
Burnt fields like black panther fur
Shining against your bones
Velvet black
You’ve changed
And changed and changed
Yet your love still remains
Burnt fields like black panther fur
Whiskers are the needles on a compass
Always pointing to the azure sky
You used to sing when I cried
Rolling your r’s over rrolling hills
A haunting melody startling black birds into the night
Feathered constellations against a sliver moon
And lips pressed to my salty cheeks
You told me that your favorite skin tone was chocolate,
As you laid out in the sun hoping to melt. “A quarter black” is what you say when you want to feel proud,
Even as you tell me stories of how your mother was called negrita,
The girl who stood too dark amongst the crowd.
Burnt fields like black panther fur
Black like the broken wings of mothers before you
Who had hands with scars from cotton seeds
And blue veins like uprooted trees
Stretching all the way to their tired knees
Burnt fields like black panther fur
You criticize your aging beauty
Speaking in envy of the color gold
Like you are a broken bowl in need of kintsugi
Yet silver snakes still slither
Over the pebbled river beds of your black curls
Dripping down the small of your back
Until they reach the base of your ivory spine
Burnt fields like black panther fur
You criticize your aging beauty
Because you never thought
Cocoa lips and sun spots painted on sculpted clay that never cracks
Could ever look as stunning as it does on you
You told me that it is better to speak my truth then tell pretty lies.
So I told you mine and you cried,
And cried and cried.
But look where we are now,
Standing beside each other with the same eyes,
Just different reflections.
Burnt fields like black panther fur
Tongue like a sword set ablaze
Tempered in pools of milk and honey
Blood red sun grazing the tops of your eyelids
Still reminiscent of those in old photographs
Where you saw the little girl you search for in me
Burnt fields like black panther fur
I am sorry I made you cry
But even when our backs are turned
We are still
Black birds singing in the dead of night
Free
Thank you mama for my broken wings.
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
Lost Love
He remembers that day
many sad years ago
it was sunny out,
but soon a storm raged.
He returned home early
from work,
eager
to rest and nurse a cold.
Eager
to see his gorgeous wife
fix him a delicious soup
and give loving care,
a remedy not.
He caught a surprise.
Was it then a hallucination?
To see her ex's car
in front of their house,
fanning the flames in his heart?
Or to imagine the house shaking,
or to hear love noises howling
from the rafters of contempt,
as her fireplace warmed tempest.
He sure hoped then... it had been a misfire
it wasn't.
He slowly opened the front door,
walking decrepit and sad,
like he was in hospice care.
He could see the final script
playing out,
more so the tragic ending
the trail of clothes,
her ex-boyfriend's scent,
calamity,
and approaching closer
the devil speaking louder.
He opened the bedroom door
to their parts caught in honey jars
and scarlet red on his tainted wife
over bed sheets of shame.
Their eyes catch,
both flush, and tearful,
as breathing stopped,
his melancholy eyes asking why?
Why?
What about the future lily pods,
our family, house, kids
... and you sell out.
What about being fresh
out of college with our dreams,
passion and honor...us.
What about the bonds,
pinky swears, pricking of blood
marital vows.
Her eyes had no answers.
She cried, loudest
as her ex-boyfriend bolted
not before passing the mill.
He closed her door for good
that mournful day,
dismissing darkness,
opening his wrath for her
in his mind, yet
what words or light can be exchanged?
Uprooted and lost, he walked
scarred over and over
by her promise and lost love.
That was thirty years ago
and he still walks with her
ghosts, and it still pains.
LR-5/4/17
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 11:31 PM UTC
She tends her cactus garden,
beads of perspiration,
works with a maniacal absorption.
One of many visitors she receives
yet looking at each other's eyes
dawned this quick realization;
similar maniacal obsession and passion.
A tornado she was, self created,
in her swirl uprooted
many huge trees, even tombstones
by the sheer force unleashed,
with her poetic flourish.
Love of a crazy woman
with effervescent creative surge,
is a magical portion
brewed by a witch ,
in her forbidden rituals, night after dark night.
Injured by conjugal lust, unrequited
prompted to walk the garden path
holding hands of lovers, one after the other,
who took her to wilderness, deeper and deeper
and at the end to a blind alley,
life was a tribal dance,
from where return was impossible.
She never had to apologize to her mate,
who for all the world to see, remained with her
till he went behind the curtain.
Imagine a life, a walk
through a cactus garden,where sharp thorns would nip,
searing pain and bleeding has its moments of exhilaration.
Life pulsated wildly for her on such notions,
(There were many who walked with her for each adventure)
They met, poetry flowed like wine,
she had a rare warmth seen in women of such creative combinations,
she feared nothing, but her truth made many squirm.
Midnight dances of her and her friends gypsy bunch,
attained such fame.But all ended in a great betrayal,
she was deep down a naive woman,
craving for love, to immerse in it.
On occasions she would change identities
at will, she was one but many
there wasn't any one like her before or after.
They would walk through the witch's cactus patch,
somnambulists reciting poems,
when they are together, in private,
cactus spine criss- crossed his skin
her nail wrote poems on the back
of the lover of the moment,
each one bled like soldiers in combat.
One monsoon night brought
everything to an end,
the cactus garden was trampled by
big grey wolves, the journey
met with an abrupt end.
What is she, cactus herself,
vampire, witch, lover indefatigable,
with the heart of a lion?
Erotomaniacal poetic surge,
yet a fantasy in flesh and blood?
**They buried her
in a cactus garden away from town
not even ten people arrived to mourn,
not even all her lovers, had time that afternoon.
Her songs of pain, pierced hearts and they
still shed tears,
cactus garden, it was---
the metaphor perfected by her life and death.**
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
i remember being little when the
fire of my eyes still shone bright
my fingertips green with the world at the edge
i thought that someday i’d grow tall
like the linden trees
i wanted to stand before
things greater
than my imagination
experience the world with every
spare hundred dollars in my pocket
and now my branches have overgrown
and i can never be uprooted
so i stand tall and watch the planes overhead
flying to islands with names
i can’t pronounce
and i dream of the days when i was little
and still caught fire in my reflection
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 11:07 AM UTC
As they walked along after the matinee, the older brother teased his sister, “Hey, guess what, Frankenstein lives in the attic and he’s goin’ get you.” With a flushed face the little sister responded, "Nah-ah, besides the attic door is locked." And her brother smirked, “Think Frankenstein cares about locked doors?"
Throughout their childhood, the brother jumped out behind closed doors, terrifying his little sister, and with each fright he gave his own fear seemed to lessen. After a startle the sister thought, ‘Does my brother love me, like I love him?’, and she concluded, “He must, why else would he try to scare me to death?’
Within the decade, a sudden brain hemorrhage took their dearly loved mother. Now, untethered in their mother’s love, the siblings changed, tightened, within, While their father, a traumatized, war veteran, swiftly fell off the wagon, and the brother and sister cast off, rudderless, uprooted into troubled waters.
And with their hearts snapped shut, immersed in relentless grief, they parted ways. Some years later, their father died, bequeathed them both his unhealed pain. The brother, the sister, slid secretively into alcoholism, conceded the family custom, invested deeply in their despair, the two went on, married, raised families, conformed.
And time went by, as alcohol soothed the pain until the brother breathed his last, his belly taut with fluid, his liver destroyed, a life sentence ended. While she, the lone survivor, mysteriously yielded unto Grace and was pardoned, recovered, she finally understood, she knew deep inside; everyone did the best they could, even her.
…and within a circle of one; I loved them all forever and ever.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
The river is polluted
The skies are grey in falling night
The stars are hidden from our sight
Constellations convoluted
Bilge water and bile
Corrupted hearts so vile
Defile of a sacred form
This is not divine
Only desecration
The river is polluted
The seeds we plant do not survive
And even life is doomed to die
The trees are all uprooted
We want the leaves
We want the flowers
We want the scent of the forest
The river is polluted
Our dismay is all man-made
Unwholesome branch that holds no shade
Our hope for shelter all eluted
Brackish is the water
Swim if you care to drown
We take giant gulps
Deluded with hope
And still we die of thirst
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 5:09 AM UTC
The blazing eye of Dawn is all to fools:
those who see the joy
in Light expressed as Light,
but brightness also graces Night.
Her veil parted, the black curtain
giving way to shades of blue and gold,
Her rapturous embrace inspiring eyes beholden.
*Planted in Her garden, neighboring eaves
rustling in their trembling eagerness to share their leaves!*
For in Her realm eternal, flawless
clay of earth and blade of grass
stretch forth to feel the loving light
of their supernal Goddess!
Her joy ran rampant through my boughs,
my swaying branches spreading wide
to grasp the rays of her horizon --
*With love untainted as a child's, so boundless
as my selfless roots cried out to sing her praises soundless!*
No dalliance ever felt before complete
until this blessed revelation -
this, Her holy emanation, warmed my heart,
annulled my restless reason:
She was every mother: deepest love
in understanding all that came of Her,
enclosing us within the circular.
*She beckoned but a moment by Her brilliance; best,
lest I uprooted trunk and earth to shade Her manifest.*
Aug 4, 2011
Aug 4, 2011 at 5:14 PM UTC
Amnesia like leaky faucets swollen drain ventilates vapid powdered portrait
At least smiled.
Blood slightly warmed manicure and smiled in forgotten garden
Such lovely font. All wanted
Mini clouds surrounding shrines backlit green in ritual.
Smiles speak but of the wet smell of pollen and the sweat collecting in his hand behind the small of her uncrushed spine.
Curing chlamydia the straight—A fairytale. Conned alive, clumsily and bitter.
Nurtured cotton uprooted attempt. Scrubbed stains to shreds
Not even the green light merely aftermath so of course when shaking egg shells sheltering in “cold hands warm heart” chests receive the song I sing but never knew
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 4:40 PM UTC
Vengeance is for God to have, But today I lay religion down to rest
The demon in my mind has been relentless, whispering at my behest
He has been in his cage far too long, he is unyieldingly repressed
I not only want to free him, I want to put his imagination to the test
My mind's eye dark and searching, the corners of my sinister mind
I have now become your worst fear and mine devils intertwined
My mental and emotional state, has made the inhumanity refined
I hate how you made me long for your pain, I am now your kind
Your flesh is but a canvas and your screams will be to no avail
You’re now mine, your soul will beg for mercy on the grandest scale
I will assault your every sense, leaving no minute detail
Until your body is lying lifeless, pointless, broken and frail
I will take my time to revive you, bringing you back to my device
There will be no amount of pain I inflict, that my heart will suffice
Before I am done with your miserable existence, infliction so precise
I will nourish every animalistic desire,until we felt you paid the price
You have uprooted in my heart an evil, that cannot be undone
The angel of death is upon you waiting, your suffering just begun
There is a special place in hell for you and I want you to see it
And if I burn with you for my revenge, then I say so be it
Taking your pride, shoving it down your throat with my baron hands
all that I can taste right now, what the voice in my head demands
For you there is no more wasted life, your breath will let you endure
And there is no second thought behind my vengeance, my hate is pure
With deeds now done and lifeless you lay
At my feet, which death did not show haste
A smile without tears did appease my lust
For your soul and blood that I did taste
Jan 20, 2011
Jan 20, 2011 at 6:45 AM UTC
My African culture
Uprooted from my ancestors
And pused on from generation to generation
My African culture- might seem
wied sounds funny or looks like a
**** but these carry alot of benedictions
My African culture tells the story of were we
came from and most probably were we are heading
My African culture describes and names itself
there is really no need for a heading
My African culture the one source of pride and
Joy
My African culture hard to replace yet easy to enjoy
My African culture oh my beautiful culture
my soul screams in joy from the energy of my
people and from the rythm of the African drum my
heart beats
movements degin within my feet
my inner voice telling me to move
in a fleet
I dispiss and dislike a person who
malingers or derides his culture,such
a beautiful thing,such a precious
, Special thing
My African culture tells the true
tells of fallen legends, of great worriors
And of most celebrated heros though
it never varies the tall in the telling
Now that's my Wonderful African culture
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 6:13 AM UTC
One heart,
born in whole,
Free from all captivity.
Not a slave,
nor care,
Beating for one,
Myself.
Two hearts,
one of the other,
made to feed and grow.
Beating for me,
Mother.
Torn hearts, inseparable, separated.
Lost to the world,
by choice of deception.
The curse begins.
The seeking heart,
Beats for another.
One piece lost,
Destined to recover.
Absent of nurture,
Wicked, wicked,
Stepmother.
Repelled, repulsed, shamed.
Uprooted,
over and over again,
Homesick.
Adulthood,
weirdness and awkward.
With a childs desperate heart.
Hopelessly hopeful,
Helplessly lost.
Found love,
Beautiful love,
lasting love.
My lover,
Deception, infidelity,
Another piece lost.
The cycle continues.
The seeking heart,
Desperate to replace,
What was lost long ago.
Ten times over.
Realization, awakening, awareness.
This piece left,
Peace of heart,
Beats for one,
It's my own.
No longer captive,
Nor a seeking slave.
This last piece,
Freed for me.
Oct 1, 2011
Oct 1, 2011 at 10:47 AM UTC
When roaring sorrow
Uprooted me
I envision a lotus flower, staying gently a float upon the pond.
The sun's soothing, comforting light warmed my heart.
Breathing in.... Breathing, gently out.
Releasing both hands
Clasped in pain.
No need to leave
No need to go
The deep sorrow of my heart beating
Rivers of Love's tears upon the pond.
Yet the sunshine never failed.
I am floating gently - to that perfect spot
Within the pond.
I, Lotus flower
Send my tap root deep down below
Taking root, among the other lotus
Beautiful flowers anchored to the pond's murky floor.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 3:49 PM UTC
‘Twas during inner turmoil that a certain yearning arose
Whispers of breakage reaching deeper as time goes
From the disillusionment of reality it was forged
Of seething rage the desires hunger gorged
In following certain conformities felt like being a prisoner
The will to resist the motions of many being aimed to muster
To not be like a tree that has to be cut or uprooted just to move
To be driven by reasons that to only ones viewpoint can behoove
Looking at another view of the coming uncertainty
As a pathway to many possibilities with regards to unpredictability
That stopping a tragedy is sometimes not the thing to do
Lest one forgets that the phoenix must burn down to rise anew
Or that Ragnarok is followed by a great rebirth
Who can know what revelations a raging flood might unearth?
Being lost might as well be the way to find an elusive longing
The remedy to the Anhedonia closely and ominously looming
When being chained to the rhythm just compares to an inner futile feeling
Knowing that a greater horizon is missed by the act of settling
A bet on the odds that epiphany might be found in whatever form
To behold serendipity actually being brought by the coming inner storm
In using the great idleness to plan the restoring of a balance
And to see clearly without the feeling of rushing pressure and turbulence
The path and pace may change to the deeper quest not yet ceased
In bringing forth the long sought betterment through a cataclysmic release.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 12:32 AM UTC
grey and worn
the lawn chair has dead leaves stuck to it
its one bent arm an expression of pained indifference
mud clings to its feet
and a single vine like a thin snake
wraps its way across its frame seeking the sun
i pull at it to set the chair right
to seat myself
and **** at the breeze from the open field
marvel that a cow stands not five feet away
silently watching my every move with a wary eye
lunching on the grass and ****
but the chair now uprooted from its long held position
seems more than ever a proclamation
of mans intent to be seated here on heavens lawn
clear illustration of the intent that you are supposed to
take this bent greasy seat
sit at your leasuire
in the bountiful sunshine
it is one of a dozen in the field
in this beautiful slice of heaven
the lawn chairs
litter the field like broken teeth
set in a line that wanders across the wilderness growth
each having suffered from years standing in the open field
two almost completely consumed by bushes
one had been tossed into the tree
where time had swallowed it into the bark
this broken and brutalized fence of chairs
these lawn chairs of heaven's field
sit in this beautiful place some would say eyesore
i say artwork of life's randomness...
what party of fools once sat here
dressed no doubt for the occasion
perhaps celebrating
perhaps mourning
then got up from these plastic seats
and left them behind as testament
to that forgotten day...
so i sit in heavens lawn chair
a mute salutation to my unknown compatriots
who painted this pastoral scene
of plastic in a field
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
Just survived a cyclone on 12-october-2014.No loss to lives but massive, colossal damage to trees.Almost all the trees have either been uprooted or lost its branches by the cyclone travelling at 180-240 km per hour speed.
I have a few details about the cyclone in my blog and few pictures of the present city, Visakhapatnam.
I request everyone to at least have a look at the pictures.
Here's a link to the blog.
http://purvigadia.blogspot.in/
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
I have gone cold turkey
On many a vice and addictions,
Wasn't nearly there,
When it came to you,
You -a newly seeded dandelion,
In my beautiful garden,
Pulled you out cleanly,
From root to tip,
Far away from flowering,
You didn't even look pretty,
Once a part of a beauty,
Swayed fuzzy and whispy,
Got kicked and treaded over,
Scattered fragments,
Waiting to seed again,
Pretty on the outside,
Trouble for the gardener,
Didn't even use my rage,
Just calmly uprooted you,
So you wouldn't flower,
Won't scatter anymore,
Spread like a **** again,
But who knows,
Weeds are resilient,
Maybe you'll flower,
In someone else's garden,
Blossom and bloom,
Just to be kicked again,
Always loved a dandelion,
Pretty in the hands,
Prettier when scattered,
So I won't hold you again.
Jan 30, 2023
Jan 30, 2023 at 12:59 PM UTC
A summer of discontent
Uprooted families swap a bombed house for tent.
A summer of disbelief.
Acts of terror but where is the relief?
A summer of turmoil.
Mass migration not safe on home soil.
A summer of confusion.
Gangs, traffickers, corruption collusion.
A summer of down trodden flowers.
The tears we shed from the sins of powers.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
Before
He knew
What patience means
Before
He believed
Just a step away dream is
At least for the One
She could be
a good cause
a savior
a hope
an example
that love
If had thought
With a kind heart
He felt sorry
For being patience
He felt sorry
For the trust
He felt sorry
For being uprooted
He felt sorry
Unable of undoing
Towards that Idol
Far away
Holding the breath
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 9:41 AM UTC
You are a sunflower
Stand tall
Let your limbs reach down to the earth
Feel grounded
Feel happiness
Feel peace
You are bright colours
Greens and yellows
Against blue backdrop skies
Feel proud
I am a sunflower
Whose colours have faded
My limbs droop and sag
Feel uprooted
Feel anger
Feel war
I am dull colours
Blacks and whites
Against grey backdrop skies
Feel defeated
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 5:22 AM UTC
Love is rarely ever found, (I found you)
Instead,
Love is built. (We've built so much)
Built with a solid foundation,
Built with a design in mind,
Built with strong materials,
Love is built with hard work. (Sweat and sacrifice)
with willingness to sacrifice,
to be hurt.
Upholding one another
at our worsts. (Our hearts are strong enough)
Love isn't taken, but grown, (We've grown together)
Starting as a seed.
Nurtured in the rains
and sunlight
of life.
Roots strong enough not
to be uprooted by fiends. (I'll never leave you)
Delicate and tenderly, slow and steady.
Flourishing branches (We have flourished)
upholding the weight of grown love. (We've grown together)
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 6:13 PM UTC
*She is a breeze,
gently wafts in,
in the fiery climes
she quickly transforms,
arousal of passion
makes her
a whirlwind fierce,
her spirited twists and turns
were beyond prediction
her predilection
to dominate becomes
so insistent
she turned to a twister
had an unrestricted run
the giant redwood
was uprooted in no time*
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
I saw a gigantic tree.
Uprooted and on its side.
The great roots forming a mane for the snarling ringed face on the stump.
But the fallen beast is taken, it’s husk a Home.
A vibrancy of weevils, ladybugs, frog hoppers, Cockchaffers that’s skittering, scattered like a smashed ant farm.
Around its base were prehistoric ferns,
Curled and scaled like sand lizards’ tales.
Reminiscing the demise of the tyrannosaur.
When dust clouds darkened the sun which warmed their claws.
The skittering skinks, slow worms and other small lizards, who need far less to survive, then feasted upon the monsters’ flesh and found a home in its bone structured palace.
As whale sinks,
Distorted into a globster of its former self,
It hits the sea bed hard in oil-Black darkness.
The hagfish burrow, starved for millennia.
Brutally tearing at the befallen banquet.
Mouths used to scraps choking on steak.
Getting their guts knitted as they squirm over each other to grasp some sashimi.
Dripping saliva as if we’re sweat in the ruckus.
Yeti crab pinch, as do isopods
But get only mucus insulting their jaws.
And they thought they helped to cut up the portions.
Soon all that is left is a skeleton.
Hanging in a museum for future generations to see.
Once again, dust gathers, from bombed out sand.
Erupting in the air as giants hit the ground.
We may soon again see darkness fall.
As the rayiys is skinned.
But no tears are shed.
We all cheer none the less.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 6:07 AM UTC