The Poetry Marathon

The Devil Called

 

The devil called me in a voice so true

I could have sworn to hell it was you,

you left me here encased in flames

and the devil came and called me by name.

I’m lost, I’m lost, I don’t know where,

there are screams, everywhere.

I’m scared, I’m scared, what did I do?

What did I do to be abandoned by you?

The devil called and I replied,

it isn’t hard to imagine I died

a little death that pinned me down

with leather and lace and the crop’s harsh sound.

Oh baby, do it again,

leave me in Hell; I’ll crawl back up again.

Dancing (Half-marathon #2)

I feel the Vibration

Of bass and tamber echo

Through my bones

As I breathe in breaths of

Pink moscato.

With curtains open,

Open wide like blue

Caffeinated eyes,

The world can see us

Dancing

Bare-legged and laughing.

There are passing eyes

Moving with the passing lights

Beneath the technicolor

That washes against the pavement,

But all I can feel

Is the smiling eyes

Of the moon.

She watches her

Earth-bound

Star-struck

Daughters dance their way

Into the early dawn.

 

Beautiful Sleep

Awake . . . 
My eye are open
My mind is still sleeping;
In a way.
I want to go back to sleep;
Still I am here…
Creating…
Not very well . .
I’d venture, right now.
This is not my time . . .
Of day.
Noon . . .
It is better for me;
My time of day.
Aw, to be young again.
Nap . . .
What a beautiful word!
We dreaded as children;
We cling to as adults.
Sleep . . .
It is so wonderful;
When it is good.
We often have to seek it;
To force it . . .
Even when we are tired.
Eluding . . .
For too many of us.
The world has been anxious;
Steals our calm . . .
Affects our sleep.
Dis-ease . . .
Because we are not . . .
At ease, at all.
We are afraid;
We cannot rest or relax.
Sleep…

How do we get there?
How do we relax, again?

Terce

Sicut erat in princípio

Star scattered light

et nunc et semper

luminous trophosphere

et in sǽcula sæculórum

struck by infinity

Our rustic life #1

Thatched umbrellas snapped open.

Our village, our home already in pieces, broken.

The sky darkening into an ugly shade of grey,

Desperate for attention, ranted and raved.

 

Blotched and boiling with fiery rage,

Biting cheeks and knees (as if confining us into a cage)

Heavy sobbing and shuddering,

Thrashing, wailing and smothering.

 

Silencing the squawking migrating cranes,

It shot arrows of fear so cleverly well- aimed.

Swollen tears and destruction at its wake

Effortless done, in fact, a piece of cake

 

A torrential downpour with droplets

Like incoming bullets.

Hell bent on tasteless revenge,

The sky gleefully happy to see our world drenched.

 

The clouds churlish and smoky grey, brooded in the air,

All the green shoots below uprooted (this was its lair)

Again, the air cackled to life

Silencing our whispering and mumbles with a sharp knife.

 

Pitter, patter, pitter, patter- a monotonous melody.

Streaks of lightening arrived tentatively.

Only a blanket of silence, almost tangible, remained,

As we tried futilely to keep sane.

Think again

You say

You haven’t got time

Well, darling

I’ve got news for you

You have

Less than you think

Poem 1

Why I started writing..

Collecting hundred of thoughts
collecting memories..
but where are they?
After years, when we grow old, wrinkled, skinny, blind..
we forget evething..
only blur images left in mind.
I started to write..
to save all the moments of life
every piece of paper shows me the grace
with which I embrace..
counting the number of years i wasted
which left untasted..
But now, to give it a meaning,
I write everything..
Whenever, i needed or missed that charm,
I go back to that warmth..
It gives me joy, power, faith
encourages me to be more brave..

Sorrow, tears, struggle
all comes my way..
But reading those memories take them away
pictures, videos are one of the subsitutes
but writings re-creates that fruit..
what you felt, you wrote and then read, years after..
nobody can take that from you.

Ill-Prepared

Off am I to a rough start, a minute late, or two,

Scrambling to write a poem that is good enough for you.

I must apologize, for a tiny one it be,

But it’s enough to greet the day, and that is fine with me.

 

Hour Two: Georgia

Nostalgia can be such a beautiful waste of time
when you think back on the small, unimportant things

Past glories fade
into nothingness

Past defeats still sting
though perhaps not as much

The ritual of buying a can of coffee
from the vending machine
on the walk to the train station
is a memory that will never leave

If anything
the coffee will taste even better
as time goes on

(13 August 2016)

Freedom from Normal

How depressing to conform to the box.

You are the only standard to live up to.

Be you.