Birdcage
Standardhow feeble one may be
to be a captive in someone’s heart
tone a curtsy with their toes curling
and play a puppet as the fingers strum
the dreamy chords of their discretion
or unfettered may one be
free to flout or flout so free
like antibodies breaking the jam
can I stay without a command
now habituated, and play my part?
©Written Frames, 2020
Weathered
Standardhow long shall we hold onto the flowers
once were silken, now crisp?
shall we carry it along, make it home
when houses are changed?
what the forgotten corner will do
voice the vanity of your proud days?
what dissent the potpourri shall bear
oft it muffles at the cries of joy
of fresh bouquets
arriving
now and then
© Written Frames, 2020
Poetry of Routine : Finding loophole
Standardblood in my veins races in a loop
on infinity petals of a knot
a knot in muscle, a knot in tongue
feeding contortions of silence,
a caged hamster runs
to please, be pleased
now faltering for a breath
with binaries of extremes
the ends never meeting
to love, now unloved
I am a spinning spindle, beseeching
a preemption with the hand grazing
brooding over its fuzzy logic
let me hear myself say ‘what if’
I pine for a palpitation
a sigh, a smile or a shriek
identity of a throb from a tamed beat
it escapes me like that of barren lands
them who know naught of welcoming
never shall they grieve the frozen
never shall they thaw
©Written Frames, 2019
First in the series can be read here : Poetry of routine: The Crossing
let me be
Standardwhy don’t you look at me?
do you see demons in me?
and the demons of hurt ego you hide
you hide, is that what you want to be?
why don’t you talk to me?
is it the rattle and ring of words I may say, or my voice shrewd?
I am drilling holes in your gut and tongue
bittering your taste, mocking your permeating anger
why don’t you pick on me?
thrash me breathless with your slurring speech
your skin swamped with hot-spills of blood,
perforations with my name engraved oozing of it
talk to me, talk to me, talk to me
have I noticed before your clasped lips;
passively humming a song – let me be
trodden like an autumn leave, betrayed
let me be, let me be, let me be
catapulted on the shore naked
let me be, let me be, let me be
tell me
where does your moon-eclipsed eyes settle?
even the void in your smile matters
do not look away, hold me naive in your view
and know your name breathing on my tongue
resonating in my lungs, begging to stay
will you kiss me if I pucker my lips now?
will you poison my senses with sweet love?
birds in my heart still leave their nest
echo of conch shells summoning my respect
furtive glances capture you afar and worthy
I behest, smiling to my own a mercy
let me be, let me be, let me be
a seeker and you darling, why leave me thirsty?
©Written Frames, 2019
Poetry of routine: The Crossing
Standardblows of routine, mourned
dent in chest and ache of lemons
squeezed to drink, to refill
honking horns, vrooming
breath savoring the phase of wait
men stewing under their noses
galloping gait, impatient
kicking the pebbles and people marching
the paradox of them coming to leave
a busy crossing, a musing
curlicues of civilization on interrogative hooks
moving, though not looking back for once
©Written Frames, 2019
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