lash me by your wind

convergence-of-the-four-winds-michelle-vynConvergence Of The Four Winds by Michelle Vyn

be the wind of lost thought
seeking redemption of ideas

that burn

inside the hollow eyes,

have you ever thought of that pink scarf,
bleached, tattered, zooming through the sky
like a fake smile on your lips?

have you ever heeded the power of a blow
of air on the birthday candles, how it
erases the years lived?

be the wind that you can’t be,
be a smelly fart if need be,
be an ode to nature, or
a quatrain that seeks nothing.

do you know of the neck
that was adorned atop the light
house, where I stood, the wind:
my body, my sheath, my life,

and how it felt to be suspended
with nothing else to spare
but for a breath of air,
hair ruffled,
silences bespoken;

do you know that neck
belonged to me?

I died that second,
and I have been dying
thenceforth.

I am the wind, I am
the power,

and I am invariably caught
in this struggle.

.

Image source
Linking it up with Poets United Midweek Motif.

i am smelling secrets

ETNA PLUS

not that you need to know
but would you like to know a secret?

it’s the curiosity of the unknown that
betrays your smile,

…ha ha…

it’s funny, no?

it was a morning, a dusk at dawn
when he walked alone on the sky
leaving a trail of forlorn vapors,

I knew that it was him, with his
usual tardiness, with ill begotten
terms of endearment, and sly words
whispered beneath the cloak of
midnight.

it was an evening, an enraptured death,
there was the usual sweat in the wind,
and I was walking down the memory lane,
when the wrinkled leaves swept by us,

“Why would you do this to yourself?” he asked,
and I said, “Why… that’s a secret”.

secrets are the aesthetic of our society wherein
the secret lies in the fact that secrets are not kept.

it’s funny, no?

not that you need to know,
would you, would you like to keep a secret
and hold it to your bosom, hide it in the folds
of your desires, because what else would you
hold so dear?

and would you promise to keep it,
by smearing your blood on my lips,
by flipping a coin, by caressing
the calluses on my feet?

there are skeletons in the closet
with a perplexed smile, mold has
taken hold of them and lies grow
instead of skin in its pale sheen.

it’s funny, no?

.
Image source

For Poets United Midweek Motif

acquiesce

 

nature1

when the light spilled out in the open,
I took a pause, my stride halted in that pulse
as they moved ahead,

his curls were visible in the crowd and her
pacified smile,
it was when the dark and light conquered
each other that I knew of those punctured
holes in my chest, I acknowledged my skin
in its composite radiance…

the distance covered itself, and holding hands
became arbitrary to my nature of resistance,

and letting my fingers entangled in her locks,

I saw to it that I would need, I would be human,
I would want to be found.

when the light spilled out in the open,
my heart was wrenched out of my open self,
and my bloodied hands traced the curves
of my laughter as its thunder boomed
against the sky, and the savage sun
spilled more light,
and the wailing winds fell into my eyes.

it was Elpis that rose from that gaping
hole, a new birth of dying, an old ending
to the origin of life,

open –

they saw the light.

.

For Poets United Midweek Motif.

id

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I exist in the voices,
in sounds-

gentle, ricocheting against
the loud bass in the background
and speaking in hushed tones
in corridors where the tiles
are no longer bleached white.

I exist in that TV volume, defined
by the bars that identify the
intensity of my intent,

exist in the grrr grr grinding
of thoughts into an unpalatable
mush, that I got served for
dinner,

I am defined by the water striking
the s(k)in(k) surface, I am that

you no longer pay attention to,

the mundane, I am, the (l)ord-inary.

splash…

I split like a water bubble.

I am not my self(ves).

.

Linking it up with Poets United Midweek Motif.

Image source

Repository

Within the twisted lanes of insanity, there exist such wide and glorious fields of understanding and clarity, which are but a product of a resounding confusion clouding the eyes, shattering the peace of the mind, almost killing normalcy. Almost.

You feel most alive when you are nearest to death. Similarly, you are most sane when you are close to insanity.

tilting sideways
the glorious fields of gold-
like his mind

I remember standing close to a mustard field, inhaling pollen and exhaling my last attempt at keeping myself sane. I had this desire to fish. To capture a fish from somewhere in that river of yellow and gold. The sun burnt my left cheek and I kept on waiting for someone to bring me a fishing rod.

No one ever came. I am still waiting. In some alternative world. I know that I am still waiting there after these four long years. Because I still want that fish in this world. I lost everything because I never captured that fish. And thus, things can never be right.

I caress the burnt mark on my left cheek.

remembering-
calm of mustard fields before
the onslaught of frost

Within the twisted lanes of insanity, I exist. I am a smiling figure atop that beautiful building you see from afar and you miss out on the spectacle as your line of sight changes. You miss out on the spectacle of how that smiling figure takes a leap from that beautiful building, burdening the air with all his weight.

You do feel that weight with every breath you take.

small buds protrude
out of the damp, heavy soil-
the cold wind picks up speed

~

taking in a whiff
of the remnants of warmth-
I feel cold in my bones

.

Inspired from Bjorn’s Haibun Monday prompt at dVerse. I have molded it in my own way.
This is Poem # 2 for my goal/challenge to write and post a poem every day of this month. The painting depicts the wide, sprawling fields of wheat, but somehow, the yellow/gold reminded me of a mustard field sparkling in the winter sunshine.
Image source: View of the Church of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole by Vincent van Gogh.

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.

a moment of detachment

i stopped having tea last month but have had
a lapse only once, I am cutting down on caffeine,
on sugar, on white carbs, on the world I see,

a capricious mood is hanging on my window,
dry flowers stuck to the shade, coloring the sun
that makes its way in, I don’t feel but smell warmth
tingling my nostrils, I sneeze out despair and
set up a guest room for the spring to rest and stay.

flames flicker on my skin, I don’t mind being burnt
by the season that lasts but as long as I close my
dry, lifeless palms, a few rhetoric seconds of delay.

i stopped being stopped for a day, and it felt strange
and yet not in a positive way, the birds shall fly
to the lands new, talk to strangers familiar, I stay.

.

For dVerse Poetics, where we are writing to the art of Danny Gregory.

I am on Instagram. You can find me at mypeculiarself.