let’s draw blood

a028

blood transfusion in a fucked up poem:

eyes meet, hearts melt into puddles of misery,
a guy shot a man, and a man a guy
at midnight when the sky was pistachio-green
and earth slightly shifted beneath their feet.

love is common place – words are the dregs
of tea left in my battered mug, hugs are given up
in arms that rattle like broken windows, and

they dare say,

*“This is not what we came to see…”

.

.

*”This is not what we came to see” is quoted from Brian Patten’s poem The Projectionist’s Nightmare.
Linking it up with Poetry Pantry and With Real Toads.

Image source

Advertisements

amour

evening_a_24_inches_high_x_34_reproduction_oil_painting_68b57a6f

dear

oh Dear –
it’s an evening of amour,
experienced alone, behind the open
windows- a view for the world
abstaining from desire, I disrobe
the words, and let them ablaze
on
the tip
of
my tongue.

dear

oh Dear –
let’s flow, let’s blow, let’s sing,
let’s waltz around in our skins,

*तू स्पर्श है तो मैं एहसास,
लब से जो तू छू ले तो मैं विलाप,
तू पुष्प जो है तो मैं  भँवरा हूँ.

let’s flow, let’s blow, let’s sing,
let loose control.

in dots and dashes,
I sigh, my last word,
in dots and dashes.

dear

oh Dear –

*you are the touch, I am sensation,
you are the kiss, I am that moan,
you are the flower and I, a bumble-bee.

Image source

Linking it up with Poetry Pantry.

A Side Note: One of my favorite poets and bloggers, Oloriel Moonshadow, has recently published her poetry collection. Please check out her book here. It’ll be available on Amazon soon.

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

For the boy within me

 

too afraid to speak,

you must not be helpless,

nor shall I let you become me

because I belong to the same creed

as they have been, who channeled all

the thoughts to cross their mind, in words

branching out of their brain, and well they do

leave my material, beading into a wreath of mute

cicadas as my empathy for your cancer of speechless

tendencies, so chew over some of them to release essence

of the beastly shells, and gulp down all your emotions in poison

of my cheat, so you die

.

Linking it with Sunday Whirl’s Wordle 158.

Image source

Left with me

left with me, an old worn out novel,

he gave me for a reading,

I returned back one of my own

by an oversight, and thus I carry

his fingerprints ingrained in the words,

that whirl their wings inside my head,

vying through my voice, feeding me

with sweetening and tart rudiments

of the narrative,

.

when I glance at the first leaf,

I discover his mother’s forename

penned carefully, it belonged to her

and I trace (whom I’ve never met)

her trail, in smears of her sweat

as she must have turned the pages,

levying her ownership on the print,

that being possessed by me now,

I feel a thief

.

Image source

A simple piece for dVerse Meeting the Bar. I had earlier added a further two lines, but for me, the end this way holds more meaning.

Last Glimpse

tracing torn path of life,

I tickle tired fingers of words,

engrave pictures on my dead skin,

.

a glow then comes upon the sky,

spread over by dusk,

tending to me with a smile,

.

still some clouds lift to

give the last glimpse, of the sun,

so I can hear the voice of her flame

.

The poem comes into being by the rearrangement and slight editing of some of my tweets today. The “sixwords” and micro poetry tweets used are:

tracing the torn path of life #sixwords

hear the voice of candle’s flame #sixwords

only a glimpse of her smile #sixwords

tickling tired fingers of my words #sixwords

the sky had glowed all of a sudden,

even though the dusk was growing,

some clouds had lifted to

give the last glimpse of the sun #micropoetry

Be a part of my disjointed journey through twitter. You can find me at HowAnxious.

.

Image source

I am going to link it up with dVerse OLN and Friday Flash 55.