a good night kiss

how it is so that smiles are dripping down his chin
and his eyes are capturing rainbows in their delight, oh!
“Annihilation,” the world cried.

he is the abysmal beauty in the hourglass of night, he
stands tall like a crane snatching stars from the sky, oh!
“Annihilation,” the world cried.

how he traces the outline of his cracked lips and digs into
napalm skin, how his saliva coats the lengths of desires, oh!
“Annihilation,” he cried.

he falls down the cliff, and breaks open like dreams; he sings.

.

Linking it up with the prompt titled “the sisters Death and Night ~ Micro Poetry” at With Real Toads.

Advertisements

justice has killed itself, liberty is at its death bed

we say,
justice has
prevailed-

the black and white verse has been drenched
by a solemn red, rigorous and redundant in
its vitality – the heads have been held off – of
opposition, the sirens have eaten us to bones.

the neighing warrior wields a black flag inside
the quarters – purple and pallor – and gets shot
by the crowd of a blind following, lives are on
sale today, get one if you buy four, its 70% off.

and we say
we are at
liberty-

mindless wandering and shameless scurrying,
we read books upside down, watch only the back-
ground, everything else has been wiped off, of
the faces, dead and cumbersome, in day’s off light.

and life goes on, hunched shoulders walk forth,
we carry each others’ blood on each others’ lips

and satiate our thirst of forced will, justice has
prevailed, and we are at liberty, so rampage on.

.

This is Poem # 5 for my 30 Days, 30 Poems Challenge.
Inspired from dVerse MTB where the point of discussion is enjambment.

Image source

Yes, this poem is political in nature. I have written this in solidarity with all the writers and filmmakers and scientists and intellectuals returning the awards given to them by government or government funded organisations, as a mark of protest against the growing intolerance in the country and so to safeguard our rights to dissent and freedom of speech and expression.

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

funny story

it’s kind of a funny story-
how disgruntled life can be,
in short passages, we lose,
find a reimbursed amount
of despair, the ache to let go,
not dragging anymore one day,
a step taken where winds await,

a story told, yet is unknown,
the body counts, owe nothing,
the end doth come without cure

(For Ned Vizzini)

.

It was sad to know about the passing of Galen Haynes, aka G-man. May he rest in peace.
Linking it up with Flash 55 at With Real Toads and Poetry Pantry at PU.
Image source 1, 2

“Life can’t be cured, but it can be managed.”
Ned Vizzini, It’s Kind of a Funny Story

When I’m just a passerby

his head bleeds rivulets of flowers

on the street with few passerby

but there is still naught, not

a worrier, we are all sons of this soil

which has imbued in us the shield

of defense against pain, poverty,

wound and death, we are all idols

of this soil with our open eyes

that see but never could comprehend.

.

we are solemn in our expressions

but only if it could turn into actions

that we have long forgot the story of,

there is pain in every glance, and

that is all there is to it, our hands

clutching our breasts as we pass by,

our eyes squinted with the soil kernels

touched by his blood, fainted of life,

(of alcohol may be) and of lifeless visions.

.

his toes are half hidden beneath a car

(is he just asleep, my eyes ask me,

I have no answer, I pass by: a passerby)

a turbaned man sees through his shield

while speaking on his phone, the lips

next to me tell of the blood I failed

to see or sniff and him being passed out

by alcoholism, those lips wonder if he’d die,

may be he would, we’re all dead, when alive.

.

There is a story to it. May be it is not worth discussion because “what it is” is “what it is”. Words yield power but they do not change things/situations always for that man or for me and for the other passerby.

Image source

watching a movie||an event unfurling in life

leaning towards the laptop screen,

eyes fixated at the ensuing horror,

of the gory scenes of a eunuch,

going after to kill a pious prostitute,

I trembled as my mobile began to ring,

(it was a song by Enrique, I guess),

fingering the touch pad, pausing the scene,

at the view of the stringent struggles,

of the woman in clothes torn, running,

escaping through a tunnel of dead bodies,

(the previous preys of the animal),

I handled the device in my hands to find

an unknown number printed on the screen,

I received the call, my ears quivering,

to know who the person was, on the other side,

it was a classmate and I sighed in relief,

but my expressions changed in an instant,

she was breathing hard, cry of a grievous mutt,

“What… What… Are you alright?”

her voice was drenched in teary sadness,

“HA, she is no more. She is no more…”

(she divulged the name of the deceased),

it was silence; I could hear my heart pounding,

we both were silent in meditation,

hearing the nothingness of the network lines,

“It is okay. Don’t worry. It is okay.”

it was I, who dared to end

the reverent pain of the moment,

“Don’t worry. It is going to be alright.”

(what was going to be alright!?)

after disconnecting the call,

I went back to the movie as

the boisterous burly man-woman,

murdered the captured girl,

who had survived for so long,

I was watching it but I was not,

a part of me died, a new part attached,

I have come to accept her demise,

a lost friend who I doubt was ever my friend,

(it does not matter at all, anymore),

but I am not yet able to believe it

.

* Well, it is a true story… August’ 11.

** Written in consideration of dVerse Meeting the Bar.

Photo source

Tribulation Haiku

women pounding rocks

tribulation of hard life

death-drop down the hill

.

* I have seen the local women of the hilly areas cutting down the mountain rocks in order to make way for building up the road on the hills and the drop down from such an elevation.. its treacherous. But they have no other choice, this is a simple tribulation of their daily life in order to earn a living. For Carpe Diem # 243 Tribulation.