Bleeding into the night by her red cape

alas! it was her dire desire to drive

my heart, into a bull broken beside

by her red cape, bleeding into the night,

painting sullen soil with fingers that slide

in pools of her vestige, a snide sewage

of cognition of her, her presence saved,

it lingers in the air, her perfume made

from marigolds papered from ashen face,

that turned away from my sight, not to nurse

my wounds stained by steel, of her solemn church

of apathy, of angst, of ache, much worse

than what shows on her portrait in my purse,

a remnant of her, a part with me back,

lumping my love, there ain’t no pain like that

.

A little too late… for dVerse Meeting the Bar, where Mr. Tony Maude commenced the game of Bouts-rimés.

A Happy Valentines’ Day to the love birds. And the rest of you who are just like me, go eat some chocolate. I had a coconut candy instead. 🙂

Image source

Note(16 Feb): I have two new pieces written but I am just not in the mood of editing. Therefore, I am submitting the link of this one for Poetry Pantry. I will be here and there, fleeting from one to place to another, but I will reach you in the end to enrich myself with your words. Have a good day. 🙂

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Walking with her… in her heels

she wakes up drenched in the ocean of dreams,

and hurries off to repair, work on her life’s seams,

brushing rivulets of her hair, she leans into the mirror,

considering self, moving forward near and nearer,

only disturbed by the ring of the peaceful phone,

but deciding whether to attend it or not, it is gone

to leave a silence, that she tastes tingling on her lips,

and finally, she leaves for the streets, swaying her hips,

down the path to the usual location, she waits,

habitually ignoring the trail of car after car that rates,

the size and shape of her and others of her business,

conforming to their needs, their lives of weakness,

one hand points towards her, agreeing her to come,

she notices, complies, and through the door she sits glum,

on the seat reeking of cigarettes and urine of old,

she feels the four wheels move, she is now sold

to the night, forgetful of her heart that refuses to beat,

she falls out, not to see a thing or hear the fall of sleet,

coming to herself, she stands, stumbling, stiffness she feels,

exits a bar, a motel, an apartment in her heels,

carefully counting the bills, walking on into the day,

alone on the path where there are many and many  lay,

but no one really is, but for dreams that await on the single bed,

those false entities have no seams repaired, she has no threads

.

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I started off without any thought but then I was reminded of the insensitivity of some people towards those… whose lives they have not lived and yet they judge. They do not know how it is to be in their shoes. I feel and I can at least try to imagine their lives… and give words to their untold stories. This is a work of fiction but it may well be a real life account… I don’t know.

I appreciate constructive criticism.

I am linking it up with dVerse Meeting the Bar.

We walk along

By Christopher Clark

hand in hand we walk along,

singin’ for all a soul song,

we ramble through woods,

and talk of vagrant moods,

there’s no dwelling for us,

we ain’t got no home, no fuss,

round and round we roam,

look at widely arched domes,

we are nomads of true worth,

being not noble from our birth,

and thus we shall stay as we please,

everyone’s heart, love, we appease,

they ignore us, look disdained,

their bright white collars unstained,

peace is our protest, we shan’t care,

and open up our frivolous fair,

earn a penny or two and some notes,

singin’ from deep within our throats,

hand in hand we walk along,

deeming society, no ill, no wrong,

hand in hand we walk along,

singin’ for all a soul song

.

The Sunday Challenge at Imaginary garden with real toads celebrates the music of Woody Guthrie. What I love the most about his songs are the simplicity of rhymes and the gentle words flowing one after another. Therefore, that has been my inspiration for writing this poem. Please do share your feedback.

This is tagged as the poem for 25 November for NaBloPoMo.

We wait…

7/12/71 it is heard, the siren of the night

.

we rush back into our burrows,

hollow compartments dug into the streets,

and sometimes an unclassified basement

made, in the otherwise grounded houses,

a little light lamp is all we have as

we wait, waiting to know what

is conspiring, pondering over

the question, whether there is

going to be a war in our region,

I have clenched my mother’s saree,

it is plain cotton, no embroidery,

as she has her eyes shut, and her hands folded,

invoking the blessings of gods to keep them safe,

and to hurry the sun-lord to rise,

and make it seem right in the brightness of day,

the men gossip their trades, still important

to be discussed, and sometimes I could catch

their hesitation, of talking about

the war, spreading through every border,

marked by silence, more shrill than

the temple bell… kids cry, as the illumination

of the lamp dims, due to lack of kerosene,

and we wait… we wait in our bunker,

shadowed by our unaware selves

 .

we are waiting in quarters in candle lights,

waiting for the order from high command,

pondering whether we would also face the war,

a new package has arrived of artilleries, there

is a rumour, that the enemy would try to seize

the territory nearby soon, but we have to wait

and think, muse within our minds, I wonder

what my new born is doing back at home,

she would be nursing him… may be and

that brings a smile across my eyes,

I should, I must write a letter but what

would I write, my mind is frozen,

it is getting cold and colder, December

winds are piercing… ruddy thorns into

the skin and, that has made me thinking

of those hiding in the city, below the ground,

unknowing, blind to the action-less night,

may be there would occur nothing, and may be

things will be normal soon, I can hear my

comrades scratching their unshaven face,

and that gives me an itch in my coarse beard,

and I wait as others are waiting, the siren has

ceased its solemn tune, and someone switches

on the light… flickers and then is switched on,

.

and we wait…

 .

years have passed, calendars have changed,

there was that war of 65 and 71 and also of 99,

and I wonder how many more wars would be waged,

there has been trouble at the borders this year,

the cease fire was compromised and I wait… wait,

with a hope that it would not happen again,

and just think of the stories told to me… and

in this black room, at this moment, I reflect

her expression as she had shared her tale, while

chewing over her tongue, the bell for the period had rung

.

A little explanation required for the ending… the tale of girl told from the beginning is inspired from the experiences shared by one of my teachers about 8 years back. She had told of her war story, of the underground compartments and that has paved the way for the poem… so the end marks the time when she had narrated it to her students. The wars are real but the narration is fictional… rather I would consider it imaginary because I have imagined the setting during the war of 1971 because of course, I was not even born then. If you are confused about something or if you have any questions, please do ask.

I was thinking of writing something about it but then, I was also inspired by dVerse Poetics prompt of Calendars today. I haven’t used the theme explicitly but of course, the time and calendar has a lot to do with it.

This is tagged as the post for 24 November for NaBloPoMo.

And before I forget, I wrote a guest post for Yeah Write, dated 23 November, which you can read here.

*The date in the first line is written in the format of dd/mm/yyyy.

Image source

In time

Forest Terminal, oil on canvas, 122x182cm, 2007, by Mike Worrall

solitary standing on a cross way,

time ticking… tick, tick, tick, ticking,

every trice, a misery, a perplexed

epiphany, figure out, surmise, comprehend,

swift, swifter, amid the railway tracks,

trains coming, but distant, somewhere

concealed in the haze, voices of which

permeating, in the pores of air,

signal- red and green, one halting over,

the other not meant, to be attained,

tick, tick, ticking, still ticking,

solitary standing, on a cross way,

undulating assertions within,

shouting out the names of locations,

of times, past and future, of truths

and lies, of decisions and indecisions,

of memories, forgotten and alive,

move on, moving on, comprehend,

to board or not, the destinations

impassive, they do not care,

shrouded in a black apparel,

to discover the ways to endure it all,

time ticking, ticking, gone,

still standing, statued, entombed

in the instance of that moment,

stagnant, eroding pole of life,

no more ticking, but standing,

bewildered, unknowing, stopped

in the parallels of time, the time gone by,

standing still, at the cross way, ceased in time

.

The Sunday challenge features paintings by Mike Worrall at Imaginary garden with real toads. This poem is written, inspiring from the painting,  Forest Terminal.

I am tagging it as the post for 11 November for NaBloPoMo.