keeping up with timelines of loss —
the cold-handed warmth
of a touch, where the waist meets
the censure of modesty —
small-sectioned, covered
half-inched skins, neat-folded
and soft-edged,
curved, light-bearing,
pinched between the nails,
silver-glinted.
the early nights (touch) take something
from all of us.
.
© Anmol Arora 2018
Image source (A Munch-Gogh Parody)
For dVerse Quadrille # 67
a touch was sought and received, whence
fingers gouged out the remnants of cold
in the warmth of these props of decency,
hidden – the thumb traces the existence, index
paves the way for further exploration, the middle
is the spine holding the act together,
the little is cushioned, nuzzling its cheek against
its counterpart, the ring wonders what it would entail –
probing and prodding the story of our times, it looks
for answers where there are even more questions. verses
are spoken and heard, there are certain bits of activity
to bring forth those much needed bits of dizziness.
such is the nostalgia for the untouched touch – of lips against lips,
of tongue against the skin.
such is the nostalgia for an unanswered answer – of murmurs within
the ears, of words left undone.
I peek through my naked thoughts and find a glimmer of
hope, nostalgic of an unbridled news item –
yesterday, she read the fate off of my palm,
today, he caressed those solemn lines,
tomorrow, I want to make them both last.
.
Linking this hopeless reverie with Poets United. I hope you all are having a good Sunday.
Mine seems to be pretty dubious of its own existence.
and it is bestiality that sucks
blood from my passion,
pin me down by your gaze, subdued,
I cry out, bite my spirit into chunks
of my broken armor, burn me alive
this instant, plunge my back with
the sword of impudence, against
my wish, but my wish is held true
in the recesses of this panorama
where nothing is seen, and everything
is naked.
punch my chest to make me numb,
your nails piercing me through
and through, till nothing is left
unterritorized. I’m no longer alive.
dead, I am, to the shadows that fall
on your naked back, I plunge my hatred
inside you with a power of resurgence,
of
this treachery of an evening, that lives
beyond the realm of an everlasting night.
let me be the trickster, let me
be the one to wrench open your arms
and embrace you with my lethal dance.
let me wrestle around the sky where
the sun has been plundered, disgraced.
let me eat the flavorless fruit
of this mockery of life, of passion.
let this night line my shores again.
let this night never touch me again.
.
The year before last, I took up a challenge to write and publish 30 poems in 30 days of November. And I finished it. This year, I am going to try and imitate it. This is Poem # 1.
Linking it up with Poets United Poetry Pantry.
The moon peered down at me through the haze, while I stool silent, lost in the reverent atmosphere. The sound of the waves was enriching and it filled my soul with a longing. And it seemed the tears would make an appearance but it wasn’t so. Their time hadn’t yet come because my longing wasn’t yet acknowledged by my soul. It was just a fleeting balloon away from the reach of my touch. But then the haze parted and the moon beam descended on me and I could see my flesh in the dark and I knew I was a breathing creature, not merely a conscious flying away in the oblivion. I recognized my longing and then those tears, I loathed and loved at the same time, spilled out but there were just a few of them. May be it was just meant to be so.
a piercing moon beam
all the past wounds torn open
realizing tears flow
curtains put aside
the conscious stirs to wake up
joyous morning rays
~
touch of joy on skin
walking along aimlessly
rhythm of foot steps
* For Carpe Diem # 240.
* The first Right2Write Prompt is open for submissions. Do participate..
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