24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I thought
Fog, mist
Waterislife had finally come,
But no.
It is beautiful death,
The sun startling red,
sitting heavy in the haze.
I can taste the blood in the smoke.
We kill ourselves slowly
Each other quickly
Drip drip at the gas pump.
Drop drop the dirt on us, and be done.
Can anyone tell, “Who am I?”
What am I doing on this Mother Earth?
I wish, someone could answer this question of mine!
Can anyone tell, “where did I spring from?”
And for what reason I have come into existence?
Am I a mere creature of flesh and bone in the guise of man or woman?
Am I just born to sustain, endure pressure, and feel elated or depressed and then…
Am I to abandon this place to an abode called ‘Heaven’?
I wish, someone could answer these volley of questions hovering in my mind!
Can anyone tell, “Where I can find God Almighty- the Omnipotent, Omniscient and Omnipresent?
Am I able to perceive the creator- “the one who is invincible” of Sun, Stars, the Flora and Fauna?
Am I assigned the authority to question My Lord, “Why all this vicious circle of birth, death and regeneration?
I wish, I am able to procure the answer to all my doubts!
Can anyone tell me, “Who am I?”
I implore you if you can acquaint me about the sole purpose of my existence.
I wish, God shall answer all thy questions before I reach the destined day of Doomsday!
I wish, I am able to accomplish the ordained goal of mine!
Thus, knowing, “I am nobody else, but God’s soul- meant to spread happiness all around.”
“I AM GOD’S CREATION- A SOUL!”
When there's a prompt that is entirely image-based, it'd be helpful for any blind or visually impaired participants to have a brief textual description of what is being shown in the photographs. An image called photo-1490823853387-09b84ca6227e doesn't make for a great jumping off point! So for this hour I've written an off-prompt piece, relating to participating in the Poetry Marathon 2017 :)
This poem is inspired by NASCAR, which I didn't get chance to go to when I lived Stateside (though we drove past the Talladega circuit in Alabama quite frequently. I did go to a stock car racing event in Birmingham, AL, at which Emerson Fittipaldi's daughter started the race :)
Gentlemen, Start. Your. Engines.
People, pay attention.
Mark your trail with rubber.
Digest your hourly prompt.
Foot to the floor, round and round and round and round
Pen to paper, finger to keyboard. Weave your words, dodge flying punctuation.
Pitstop crew wipe bugs from the screen
Wipe sleep from your eyes
Change the tires, fill up on petrol.
Drink tea, coffee or absinthe.
First hour down, only 3 more to go.
First hour down, only 24 to go.
This poem is sponsored by Monster Energy,
All proceeds to be donated to the 2017 Poetry Marathon.
Day 1
A warm summer day,
Luxurious sunlight we haven’t seen in weeks.
Bloor bustling with limbs and faces and trays of sample iced tea.
Turn on to Runnymede and keep going.
Step into the doctor’s office
(Really a house)
(Really the basement of a house)
Such is the state of things.
The basement
Office
Sorry,
The office is dark.
Which is an odd touch for the purpose.
Set the scene:
The long couch, one end curling like a ram’s horn, where your head is supposed to lay.
And the impassive authority on the chair opposite.
The impassive authority of whom the previous has praised as the ultimate.
To whom the government offers the people’s taxes
Because he is educated and knowledgable.
Sitting.
Feel free to get comfortable.
I am sitting in a dark basement.
OFFICE.
Office.
I can hear his roommate above us.
He crosses his legs.
He places his head in the palm of his hand.
He stays like that.
The clock ticks and the hour passes
And he stays like that, we stay like that,
Silent,
Until the hour ends and
“That’s all the time we have for today.”
Day 2
Again, I sit.
Again, he sits.
Head in his hands.
Where did you study?
You’re supposed to be doing the talking.
How can I offer
The pain in my heart,
Lord supreme of smothering silence,
To a stranger?
(Albeit one with a medical degree,
Framed and stamped on the wall behind him).
I despair
As the hour passes
And he looks up from his silent self-caress to note
“That’s all the time we have for today.”
Day 4
More of the same.
Salutations, silence, and
“That’s all the time we ha-“
Day 7
I suppose our therapeutic style will be silence
Go fuck yourself, old man.
Day 9
If this is the ultimate authority,
I am doomed.
Day 11
A family member passes.
I call in to report.
Day 20
Before resuming his position, he hands me a paper.
Your bill for the previous session
I called in.
You were under the impression that was sufficient?
Yes.
Well, that is unfortunate.
I cannot afford this.
That is similarly unfortunate.
Day 26
I enter the basement
Office
Fuck off.
I enter the basement.
I do not think this is working well for me. I will not continue.
Do you want to know what I think?
Of course.
I think you’re a troubled woman who will require years of extensive
therapy.
Wonderful. Good day to you, doctor, hope for the despondent.
Fin.
my brain is a broken record
that I am constantly trying
to buffer, a chorus that changes every
time but the melody stays the same, my
tongue skips over itself like
graft my name onto your
family tree I mean tell me you love
me like a daughter I mean I sleep
better on your couch than I do
in any space my father has walked
in I mean will you still be there
in the morning?
if you tell me you love me
I will play it over and over
in my mind until the tape
comes undone. give me
a reason to keep pressing
rewind because if I just let
the memories play, I hear
my father saying I love you for
the last time and then empty
space, the record keeps spinning
but no sound is coming out this
album is not over. it is just
waiting for you to put the needle
down.
Eternity Now
I am lost in a desert
of things.
Think that these
things matter.
Occasionally
I remember.
I don’t live here.
I am looking at a reflection
of a reflection of a reflection…
Because the real me
is far from here.
Tapping his feet to an LP.
Scoffing at cassettes
and later CD’s that
morph into digital
sound on their way to
who knows what.
He sees the obvious.
Nothing changes.
And he laughs at
the smoke screen
that I think is
permanent.
In darkness there is a neon light saying
ETERNITY NOW, but he knows
come sunrise it will be battered
by bright blaring blasts of light
that cover creation in a clarity
that seems so real.
As a kid I enjoyed
dot drawings where by linking A to B to C
a dog or bear, or flower
would appear in the find of randomness
Looking up in the sky
I can make our the Big Dipper and Orion
but my visual agility is limited
without numbers or letters to cue me
Our sense of the world has exploded with
bytes of information beseeching
us to recruit them into pictures
with orderly and diabolical intent
We are asked to judge
if the umbrella man
is part of the conspiracy
or part of the background sparkle of stars
I miss the simplicity and satisfaction
of the outlined tiger or frog
where the chaos theory of
our lives remained invisible.
Abandonment feels like this
Staying out of the reach
Of waves.
Sitting pretty on the beach
longing to mingle with the roaring oceans
To be dissolved in eons of life
Stay away human
You will drown.
Shining neon
On a lone road
Attracting wasps on a dark night
Halt . Stay. Have a cup of tea.
Or a pint. Or two.
Get drunk.
Stay with me.
Mountain side loft
Pictueresque empty.
Storms hit the rocky tops
Drifting back to destroy my windows.
Weeds abundant
Hummingbirds flit
Come home
I wait for thee.
Life is ebbing away
One firefly at a time.
Tiny glowering
Stars of my skin.
You see the glow
I see my breaths.
Counting away on my fingertips.
_narinder.
“HE”
He is an important persona.
He is- who is omnipresent,
and makes me feel special.
He is- who is outstandingly unique,
that nobody can ever beat.
He is- who rings the bells of my heart,
with a dart.
“HE”
He is an important persona.
He is- who possesses comforting,
words to soothe me.
He is- who has the smoothness,
of the dark chocolate.
He is- whose silence is even,
self-expressive.
“HE”
He is an important persona.
He is- whose eyes are the deep down,
ocean of romance.
He is- whom a chick like me,
can count upon.
He is the love in my thought,
the best thing I have got.
“HE”
He is an important persona.
He is the poetry of my tear,
explains it very clear.
He is the person of motivation.
comes in every combination.
He is who makes my nerve tingle,
when I with you mingle.
“HE”
He is an important persona.
His love is a big part,
of the memories of my heart.
His love for me it serves,
comes alive as perks.
His eye I meet on the way,
tells we’ll meet one day.
“HE”
He is an important persona.
He is whose breath is missing,
but I hope it is a blessing.
He is one life to live,
one love to give.
He though a life of thrift,
is my best gift.
“HE”
He is an important persona.
He believes life is fun,
when we act like one.
He is- whose only welcome gift,
gives me a lift.
He gives me a pump, “If English has a future,
I need YOU as a teacher”.
“HE”
He is an important persona.
My love is empty and bare,
without you around me to care.
I hope your listening ear,
will soon appear.
Modesty
Proud, Seemly,
Respected, Protected; Safeguarded.
Proper, Demure, Ashamed, Unsure,
Obscured, Concealed, Suppressed,
Precarious, Vulnerable
Insecurity