The Companion

grey-haired woman stays alone but for one,

a companion of sorts, a strange being,

who rouses her daily with rising sun,

 .

with a breakfast of milk, butter and bun,

she begins her practice, old songs she sings,

grey-haired woman stays alone but for one,

.

never seen, a mystery known to none,

rumoured to be a demon with black wings,

who rouses her daily with rising sun,

.

she lives a life of a recluse, a nun

in her drab white blouse, and silver earrings,

grey-haired woman stays alone, but for one,

.

who resembles her long lost love, her son,

to sights of his radiant face, she clings,

who rouses her daily with rising sun,

.

resonates one dawn, the shout of a gun,

people come, check the house, finding nothing,

grey-haired woman stayed alone but for one,

who took her with him with the rising sun

.

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This is tagged as the poem for 19 November for NaBloPoMo. Also linking it up with the Trifecta Writing Challenge, where the word prompt suggests using the word companion as some one employed to live with and serve another or one that is closely connected with something similar.

Hiding in garage

there is something hiding in the garage,

the clustered space dominated by car,

delusion of something true, like mirage,

.

shielding this present time, by a barrage

from the bombardments, of objects bizarre,

which are something hiding in the garage,

.

enclosing nasal holes, this entourage

of spicy scents of Arabian bazaar,

delusion of something true, like mirage,

.

flowering like an old lady’s corsage,

from somewhere appears, an image of tsar

who is somebody hiding in garage,

.

steam wafts, like from a parlour of massage,

mist, fog, haze, I can smell smoke of cigar,

delusion of something true, like mirage,

.

it is but quite a wide ranging montage,

my eyes clouded in the twinkle of stars,

I am somebody hiding in garage,

a delusion of something, like mirage

.

This is tagged as the poem for 18 November for NaBloPoMo.

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On the bank

on the bank, of the shallow crimson lake

where the footprints of past appear at night,

the sands cry blood tears with him, for his sake,

.

forlorn blossoms grow there, for him to take,

to let them flow in waters, in his sight

on the bank of the shallow crimson lake,

.

where, her existence, he would carve, and make

his pain glow in the long day’s last light,

sands crying blood tears beneath him, for his sake,

.

the monotonous routine, he can’t break,

his wild saggy face seems to him just right,

on the bank, of the shallow crimson lake,

.

he crawls, leaving his trail, of a weak snake,

tired of loss and living, he can not fight

sands crying blood tears, beneath him, for his sake,

.

he capitulates, no longer forsake

emptiness of darkness, so very quiet

on the bank, of the shallow crimson lake,

where sands cry blood tears, with him, for his sake

.

This is tagged as the poem for 17 November for NaBloPoMo.

And I am also linking it up with Poetry Pantry # 176.

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Her thirst

her grapnels incise my flesh

the grume squirts out,

my grin evaporates,

I bear the sting of her,

ripping myself for her,

she gradually stoops down to look,

at the affected area, and suck through,

while I squirm in bouts of pleasure and

pain, desire and disdain, to stop her,

to her thirst, I abstain

.

For G-Man’s Friday Flash 55.

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I am tagging it as the post for 16 November for NaBloPoMo. Please do share you feedback.

She… My desire… My illusion

drawing her figure, on canvas of my mind, I lost the rest of her

she sat straight while I stared at her, and when she noticed, I looked away

writing her premise on my wrist with finger quill, I breathed her in

she stood up to leave, twirling her curls; I followed motion of her feet

yearning for her to look back at me, I gulped in rapid drinks of air

she was gone, leaving a trail behind, of her lilac, orange perfume

reclining on the couch, I surmised the baffling curves of her stature

she didn’t appear again, it was the very last I had seen of her

cradling the memory of her image, I hide behind the red drape

she was some one I had desired, but never accepted, it wasn’t love

silencing sound of her laughter, I manipulate myself to sleep

she is somewhere thriving in fine arts, suturing me to random past

reminiscing, I grieve to grudge her, shriek to spite her, dream to daunt her

she reflected a beautiful picture of what could have been crafted

I couldn’t sleep when I had her; I can’t after I had deserted her

she was hoping to be the pivotal pain of my hurtful hard heart

I had an idea, what she was, who she was, she was never been

she was rupturing the nerves of my thought; she wanted me to want her

I didn’t, she was exasperated, she left, she went far, she was gone

she left a trail before which I bowed, the sands of which I kissed for long

I change sides, changing sides, here and there, right and left, I am destitute

she took revenge, I let her go, she let me become a living dead

now Erato winks at my stimulated prudence, I embrace her

but she is an illusion, I have my arms crossed over my shoulders

.

The prompt today at dVerse is to write American Sentences. It is a poetic form created by Allen Ginsberg. The sentences above could be read separately(the reason why I didn’t put punctuation at the end of each one of them) or otherwise together as a single poem.

This is tagged as the poem for 15 November for NaBloPoMo. I have written 15 poems by far this month… to check them all out, just drag your cursor to the drop-down menu above, Home, beneath which you would find the category by the name of Poetry and within which there is the category of NaBloPoMo.

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