unity of colors

I never saw the colors in fragments,
could never steal one away from another,

the red sharpens my eyes into a belief
that tomorrow will be a new sky
of blue.

I got blue shoes today, with a hint of red,
quite allowing my navy shorts to stand out,
I wonder if they would go with the green ones.

I walked into the play of the clouds and the sun,
the grey teasing the bright yellow and orange,
butterflies cross my vision, I grab invisible webs
clinging to my body, they are colorless and
out of reach.

there was a time when I used to look around for
a rainbow after the dull rains, but never could find one.
now, I know that it is everywhere, in the light,
in the shadow, in the hills, in the meadows,
it’s everywhere, this unity of our changing times.

and I wear all these colors around me at once.

.

A plain one, with some colorful symbolism, for Poets United Midweek Motif.

Image source: Rainbow Color Art by Sandra Illing

not to be the night when I lick my fingers

it was not to be the night when I lick my fingers,
you laughed at me, chortled at the way I spilled
everything on the canvas of the sky. a roundlet
of onion stuck in our conversation, our poetry.

I remind you of a pie you were to make for me,
and I worry today if I am an irksome ingredient,
like those peppercorns in your vadas that you
spit away saying you find them ground better,

but I am this whole, not a powder of intimacy,
I am a dripping stick-kulfi that coats desires,
I am the extra spice that burns your words,
I am just not a bullet in the index of the menu

that you skip over and come back to, because
I am affordable and easily available today, even
if I come out to be not what you really wanted.

after all,

it is not to to be the night when I lick my fingers,
invisible tears emerge on downtrodden cheeks,
painting colorless sky grey and blue. a julienne
of a fantasy is shattered, to become my poetry.

.

For dVerse Poetics.

Image source

her flippant dance

the farsighted ocean calls me,
I shift my glance to take a whiff, of
new visions on the landscape
soaked with blood, of dreariness.

I am an effigy made of sand, touched
by the fingers of her sweet melodies.

her lips open up into the cavern
of the sky, dotted with planetary
orbits of my heart.

I can not see the ocean, it is away
in the gloom of the void, but I watch
her flippant dance as she clutches
her dress buttoned up for modesty
unlocking charms of my dead eye.

Image source

Inspired from Bjorn Rudberg’s poem, Nipping at the hard place. I loved the play of metaphors in his verse. It is a very artistic write.
Though, I couldn’t keep up with Bjorn’s natural flow, I still tried my hand at Catachresis, the literary device Bjorn used in his poem. I had to check what it meant and I read in detail about it here(shame on me for not knowing about it :D). And as soon as I read about it, I went on to write this piece.

To become Fire

my heart has begun to rhyme,
it’s committed the solemn crime
to begin the walk taken alone,
stepping on land that moans
with every blink of yellow eyes,
I’m finding stars that never rise,
I am in the wilderness of desire,
I am reaching out to become fire.

touch me where it hurts the most,
I am ready to pay all the costs,
there is no meaning to the sea
that perspires in moments of glee,
I am sea foam, salted with desire,
I am reaching out to become fire,
that pardons none and forgives all
I am giving away to you my soul.

my heart has begun to rhyme,
it’s blossoming with dirt and grime,
there is no penitentiary for lust,
it is the fuel that never combusts,
the journey ends where it begins,
innocence dead, the demons win,
I am lost in wilderness of desire,
I am reaching out to become fire.

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Written in consideration of dVerse Poetics where we are writing octets. I did not follow the syllable structure. I was reading Bilbo’s Last Song (At The Grey Havens) by J.R.R Tolkien, written in three octets. So, I came up with this verse which can be called vulgar in comparison to Tolkien’s verse. But that is what I am. Vulgar. :D
I haven’t been writing much lately but for some empty verses which I scribble on the book that I am reading. I hope that you have not forgot me already.

Image source

Scream

The Scream by Edvard Munch

night sheds its wings-
a silent scream is heard
in dawn’s deep breath

~

pronounced
by the scream of a lost mind-
colors on dusk’s canvas

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Two different images in two unconventionally written haiku, for my prompt at Heeding Haiku With HA, where we are seeking inspiration from the famous piece of art by Edvard Munch, pondering over various interpretations and coming up with our own images to depict what we feel and see. Do come along and share with us this week.

where silence stays

on stilts, I walk through the haze where silence stays,
there’s a trail of blood I follow towards the night, where
words are without sound and only the shrieks are heard,
another one is hunted, another one is sighing in arms
of death which comforts better than the living can do,

a body is found in the swamp of ignorance, indifference,
his lips are sealed with a long needle of fear, a remnant
of a thread hanging by his lower lip, in an eternal wisp
of a smile, I tug at it to open, hear the words of the dead.

I ache to know what is in silence, amid the numbing noise
of an inhumane blow, of a machete, of a piercing bullet.

.

I wrote a piece for the prompt at dVerse last night but careless that I am, I forgot to save it and ended up losing it. It was oddly melancholic for me because I was satisfied with my words for the first time in months. Today, I tried writing again(in long hand to minimize the risk of losing my words yet again) to raise my voice with all others at dVerse Poetics, in favour of freedom of speech and expression, and against all forms of censorship and forced silence. This piece is not a political commentary; just based on the idea of how I feel for those who dare to speak.

Image source: Low Haze at Dusk by Elaine Jones

only tall lines

as I do in the dawn of a dream
grabbing a scene to grieve, to see
the pathos of straight buildings
ready to eat sky, already stroking
the clouds like a cloth against
a rosy cheek, hurting sultry skin.

and every day gets straighter in
my eyes, every curve becomes line
that goes on with no end in sight,
there is nothing that is revealed
in the confounding arms of dusk.

an artist doth sketch the river
of a life, pebbled, pricked, blood-
ied, stabbed, soaking all stories,
like a sponge submerged into
intricacies, that are no longer
there, there are only tall lines.

Image source: Art by Paul Klee

For With Real Toads.