For there’s much more to remember.
perhaps the walk that still embers.
The distinct message at the first sight.
and pin bent at the other end of the road.
Waited for the travellers to haunt at night.
when the moon with a smiley face to bright.
A stroll to remember where one walked,
with hands and hands together at ride.
The longest ride with no where to strife .
The pages had a crack of fork.
The sweetest song played once at night .
Today no longer serves the lost pride.
There is an unread scribblings,
at the frame on front hall.
The dried flowers on the wall lay,
there hung by their choice.
The spiders web too written its sign.
The haunted one by the choice.
GEETHA JAYAKUMAR. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Poetry is written with reflections
of dreams, pregnant with thoughts
born from openly emotional hearts.
Nurtured by a poet's experiences
and whimsical musings, charmingly penned.
Sometimes vivid imaginations run wild,
scribblings as if a child.
Casualties crumbled on the floor.
But flexible is the quill
and ink continues to spill.
Poets often sit in shadows,
and locked behind closed doors.
Aborting verses they haven't rhymed,
frequently losing track of time.
Sunrise mornings become stygian nights.
Some scribblings that pass for poetry
Yes they bear style and symmetry
But very wordy and message thin
And however much you listen keen
There’s little or nothing to be drawn
Not a mind thrilled, not a soul won
Cheapening the art I work to uphold
As a custodian red hot and stone cold
I take after the order of the psalmists
Penning fantastic fantasies as real to realists
Aiming for indelible works worth filing
Piece upon piece they keep piling
And just as light is distinct from dark
I make shown the difference stark
For as much as God’s Grace is supplied
The works show by the skill applied
Poetry has told both history and prophecy
And is one with life an odyssey
If the present falters, the past will hold fort
Until the hopeful day when the future resorts
To uphold this discipline with excellence
As a way of according its giver due reverence
Then shall we witness how mastery tends
And among us reside living legends
K. Muitherero
Feeling Secured
when I feel you around
Feeling healed
with your blessings abound
Feeling dolesome
while seeing your empty cot
Feeling wholesome
for the grace we have got
Happiness, sadness, madness and what not
Feelings for you will always remain
As your memories whirl forever in our mind
Thinking of you
Every now and then
Thinking like you
While confronting blues
Writing for you
As you like my scribblings
Writing about you
As I found solace in those writings
When I couldn't share my happiness with you
When I couldn't share what it feels like
All I do is write about it
And I know you will read it and beam
When I don't grab right words to vent my thoughts
Whenever I experience writer's block
I close my eyes and think about you
Like a saviour you arrive and trapped words you unlock
Your never ending love for writing and reading
Like the perfume
unfurled from our garden flowers... it's spreading
Now, I promise you that I will read
and keep on writing
through all the changing scenes of my life
As I could feel your aura beside me whenever I sit to write
That way, I will be with you always
"I am a writer. Therefore. I am not sane." - Edgar Allan Poe
We all go a little mad sometimes
... In the middle of the night,
Our minds raving words and rhymes
Hands compelled to write and write
In the middle of the night ...
Wide awake with a troubled brain,
Hands compelled to write and write
Soothes the self gone near sane
Wide awake, with a troubled brain
Crazed scribblings and a fury of ink,
Soothes the self gone near sane
'Til dawn turns black skies to pink
Crazed scribblings and a fury of ink
Nothing else matters, right this second,
'Til dawn turns black skies to pink
When the notion, so nearly beckoned
Nothing else matters, right this second
Lest lines be forgotten by then ...
When the notion so nearly beckoned
Grasping for lamplight, paper and pen
... Lest lines be forgotten by then
Our minds raving, words and rhymes,
Grasping for lamplight, paper and pen
We all go a little mad sometimes ...
I wish there is a multiverse
Where i not only secretly stare u from far
But sit beside u looking into your eyes
I wish there is a multiverse
Where all my scribblings aren't jus poems
But love letters u recieve every night
I wish there is a multiverse
Where u don't only give me butterflies
But take me to a candle night dinner
I wish there is a multiverse
Where its not only an accidental dash
But hug you tight enough
Making sure there is no multiverse left
Keeping us atleast inch apart
Sing ye poets of stunning birds and butterflies wings.
Kiss ye, your own,Muse pen, on divine parchment, scribblings!
Ride in gentle winds upon your colorful, faux unicorn
Your hair flies in the wind, soft as the new dawn.
Speaking of love, oh, tis so divine,
But the slaughter of the unborn…is fine?
Madness runs poetry, our lost souls shrink.in literary brine.
Heralding to all, that all the world is fine??
Ye run like sheep when a poem addresses a human evils and wrong!
Instead, you prefer jokes and applause from the gigglimg throng !
Is this all we are, in a world so vile?
I have read many poems here,far too many smiles?
A head from a body chopped off in Nice?
I find no poem about it, just gleeful pages
poetic fleece.
To Olympus should be our chosen.grand banter.
Why do we prefer trophies and empty chatter!
To reality, we keep the door fiirnly shut.
As if we can hide from evil, alas. tut-tut!
5/30/2023
I wrote this three years ago. And I do not recall the beheading story
of the woman in Nice. I do know the world is in a catastrophic space
right now. More so that three years ago! Not only the Uktaine
Inside a library of things uncountable,
clippings, extracts, jottings, and snippets
gather words out of nothing.
Mind dust wafts.
A woman approaches with an armful
of my early, roughly cobbled poems.
behind her, unwritten books
begin to fall off bookless shelve.
“Don’t worry” she says,
she is Scottish and actually says:
“dinna fash yersel.”
An old Celtic grandma peeps out of her eyes.
The enormity of everything
overcomes the moment.
She places the fragmented scribblings
in an untidy pile upon a small reading table.
The thought of a ‘reading table’
amuses me;
she smiles while the rest of her vanishes.
After reading all the table had to offer,
I leave the building empty-handed.
Outside, a mackerel sky
begins to rewrite some passing clouds,
Like myself,
it is constantly editing and revising
its reality
the way a bowl fish does
when it swims full circle.
I once belonged to a garden shed
it had a small window you could look inward into it.
There I sat smoking a funky tobacco and
cleaning my fingernails
with a small gun metal pocket knife.
Occasionally I hum the La Marseillaise
I am an exiled Paddy not a Frenchie
but I do grow garlic and to this day
pine for those large English pickled onion
that the limeys eat with their fish and chips
and the frogs despise.
The shed is small enough
to accommodate several cats
or one overweight flatulent bulldog.
Now I keep no cats, and the dog
is buried in another part of that faraway garden.
I once composed poems in that very shed,
those scribblings are long defunct
and debunked.
It's quite legal to kill poems
when their only purpose
is to litter up a small space in your head
as if you were a cramped, overstaffed shed.
What he wrote in a room
got darker,
he could hardly see the static snow
he was printing his mind upon.
He knew
that there would have to be a change, a mind-shift.
His place in his world was becoming precarious.
"Next summer" he thought, "I will take my desk
and laptop out into the public square." He smiled
at the thought of a 'public square'
his mind had gone public years ago
and perfect squares were hard to find.
Yet he knew also he was hiding himself still,
his scribblings were like kites
spinning in a windstorm.
"'I will go and sit outside Walmart,
hand out scraps of paper to the patrons
as they come and go.
When and if they ask me to explain myself
I will be forced into a truth
not seen in dark rooms.
Sometimes one has to be a public curiosity,
a square in a round hole
in order to find out the right question to ask yourself."
You were the one I passed every day
across the street from the station
and never spoke to. You were the one
my thoughts left last when falling asleep
at night and first to rush to when I awoke.
You were the one I addressed my poems to,
the clumsy lines of a youth spilling out
on a page and quickly thrown away.
I could never think of what to say.
Five days a week for three months
my life centered on the precious seconds
it took to pass you in the street. Then one day
you were gone. I never saw you again.
It's silly that sometimes I still think of you
and can't even give you a name.
You will never know that I have carried
your memory through the tangled scribblings
of my life and arrived here with your lovely face
unchanged, mine, furrowed and gray,
an old man, a lifetime late but now
with something to say.
WHIMSICALITY
nonsense
verse
& limerick
in
extraordinary
visual
sketchesin
a
diary
of
requited
jottings
down
&
visiting
images
the
pictorial
aide-memoire
of
observations
&
evocative
sequenced
slices
of time
changing
drifting down
notations
revealing
singled out
spectacular
images
of
the silly the
surreptitious
private
joke
in
cartoon-like
scribblings
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
In the end
it was too slow, afflicted
by either age or illness
or simply distracted,
flew head first
into the eye of a headlight.
Flung contorted, neck bent
back, snapped of life,
it died
clumped on a verge.
Rewound to its first flight,
its brief existence traced
untold scribblings
across time and the space
stretched between
these tall trees.
No record remains.
A full stop is placed
here on this muddy shoulder,
the end to something
which, only a moment ago,
flickered through the circuits
of a living brain.
It leaves nothing
but a small hole
and progeny
ignorant of history.
Whatever flowering form
that bloomed here
grew in the blind reaches
beyond knowing, no more
than a short awakening
programmed by its kind,
an expendable part fed
into the machinery
through which all life churns.
Chance had my way
intersect this point
and dab thought upon thought
to stem the bleed.
No balm soothes
the wounds
of this crumpled mess.
Cement trucks rumble by
moved by the need
to fill an empty space,
as these words try to do.
Deft tiptoing of enemy feet
Trails progress of this ink;
Such that when one word
I pen I must pose to think.
Usurping hand’s derailment
Detracts my scribblings too;
So when firing thoughts stir,
I lose lucid inspiration's glue.
Weirdest passions do this quill
Assail with craftiest forces still;
Turning minutes of finest Muse
Into dullest bouts the poet rues.
And so what might this scribbler
Do to halt such thievish assaults;
Decadent schemes blunting wits,
Shoving this bard to idler's faults?
After reading a well-known poem
I came away from it
carrying certain words,
planning to use them
inside my own scribblings.
When I tried that,
my half-completed muse
began to scratch itself
like a dog with tics.
They were really good words,
but they were sounds -
just pretty sounds.
In the end I shook my shaggy head
and wrote only plain words instead.
Ugly bugs,
but they won’t itch later on.
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