all set in place and position

pen-pencil- cutting down, building up
measures in the case of live streaming —

the ceiling comes way too low and
brushes against my head, a speck
of dust on my stooped shoulders,
a particular movement of the tongue
held against the unvarnished lips,

as the thought takes
the form and shape
and size and surety
of words —

piercing sounds within the skull,
talking to myself,

my low desk lower in its intimacy,
my balcony door uncertain of its certainty,
the floor and cushion bearing the weight
of my spaced legs, thighs afloat in
their own ceremony of discomfort —

the click-clacking lights pander to
my need for a gas-light expression,
a silent explosion, a runaway poem,

or the jostling of sounds and storms on
a new page of an old notebook (received
for there are other things to be given)

as hand-woven, fingerpainted pictures
emerge, inch by inch/pixel by pixel,

and a poem becomes its own poetry
in 300 seconds, 35 minutes, 3.5 hours,
3 days and a matter of a sacrifice
of all that it creates — a side-effect
of death for things that take birth
in any case.

.

© Anmol Arora 2018

Image source (by Diane Liberty)
For With Real Toads’ Don’t Touch My Meez. Also linking it up with the Poetry Pantry at PU.

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the undertaking that a poem is

Good Morning by Shelby McQuilkin

who saw that slithering liaison in the bushes?
it creeps forth as the moonlit sky grows dubious
of the possibility of its own virtue,
slyly, the sun peeks from the edges of a sight’s view,

a cuckolding cockerel rises and crows, an arrival
of a distant beam breaking the sweat of a dark cloud,
and a nice plumage hovers in the air
brightened by the prospect of that tantalizing warmth,

the stomach heaves, the chest sinks, and the velvet
dimension vibrates with that noise yet again,
there’s movement, there’s a curtain swaying
desperate now to be flung apart, and show the scene

of this instant, this momentary lapse of that beastly
no-man, clawing across the white that pervades
on my page, small prints emerge, the purity fades
and from nothingness, a poem springs forth, clinging

to the nature’s call, go on, go on, ask again, see again,
die again, but for a word that memorizes the soul,
and there’s light, and there’s lethargy in the voice
of that fiend, perhaps it’s the end with a final dot.

.

Linking it up with Weekend Mini Challenge at With Real Toads and Poets United.

Listening Haiku

a low voice calling

vanish away finding it

listen to heart’s beat

~

dissolving in breeze

inhale life with every breath

listen nature’s words

~

coo of nightingale

wind halts to listen to it

pull open thy heart

* For Carpe Diem # 245 Listening.

Blue Dreams

Blue dreams of tranquility,

sounds of fluttering wings,

views of setting suns,

the battered hope of reemergence 

 

the need of resurgence,

ending this life of puns,

finding a way that brings,

the night of solace, motility

 

I dream blue dreams

and my insufferable pain gleams.

 

P.s.- Another piece in the poetic form, I created.. Other poems like this- Blue Thing, Red Lust, Violet Juice. Rules- (i) Three stanzas, rhyming scheme being- ABCD/DCBA/EE, (ii) Description of some strong emotion and (iii)Prominence of a color.