Poetry of Routine : Finding loophole

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blood 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

do not make a poet smile

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scrawl not the forced rhymes

scattered dots of chaos be aligned,

full of fancy words so mellifluous,

do not make a poet smile

 

poets are easy to fall in

poets are easy to fall with

melange of metaphors of changing times,

be it pain or its lessening or love

 

row the boat in shallow waters may be

the wood, the oars though unavailing

curse not the treacherous oceans then

but lament the boat why not it moving

 

grooving a trail in muck-mush of steps

dragging the rising weight of sunsets

blew out the candle, sweetheart, be it dark

kiss with me the poetry of unrhymed I embarked,

 

unabashedly.

 

@Written Frames, 2019
I wish not to believe in existence of easy paths, but to survive if ever scathed.

one of them

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gushing wind and the cold night

no soul, no shadow by my side

it is deep and deadly dark inside

shuddering my self-pride,

spewing symptoms of inner blight

tears buffer in the eyes

pleading me guilty

crushing my assumed might

 

I think of the great good men

the hypocrites, all passing by

in their languid moves of pretense

betraying me with my knowledge

of who am I, but not one of them?

 

“Who are you?”

Do you ask yourself? I do.

 

Do I get my answers?

No. I choose not to.

 

in the dark, I see no one to blame onto

in its sheer silence, I hear no one to my rescue

distraction doesn’t come to me

I am hungry, I am starving, I am mortified

yet so reluctant to feed myself, I decry

having only my ego, my pride on the menu

by no means such hunger-pangs I shall abide

 

I sleep on it.

 

©Written Frames, 2019

The skill of escape is mastered by us all.

Redemption

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I write, I erase

a legit affair with backspace,

what harrows this heart-

expanding excavation,

meanderings of a graveled maze

 

midst of green fields and clear sky

a breeze so gentle brushing my hair aside

just as lips curve in a sweet smile,

a sudden twitch in my right eye

wake up! wake up!

horrendous clouds are magnified

 

it shines, it blurs and then it rains

what is living without mistakes?

despair in love,

or agony of loss,

regret of choices went wrong;

unable to weigh in words, how to portray?

strayed emotions do haunt, if not conveyed 

 

key down and key up

key down and key up

a stream of letters flow by

amidst the chaotic silence and click-cries

skeptical of the story, how to tell?

stage of scrabble is set to rationalize

will I be then excused- a happening passerby?

 

ink is smeared, drafts finalized

grains scatter, pages prowl into a pile

sinful summer strips with autumnal prying

treaded to roots, winter shivers of withdrawal arise

in blooming cups of spring, I seek ablution

I am changing like seasons

and, mother nature is my alibi

 

 

Truth is the acceptance of its existence. It lies on the demarcation of acknowledgement from ignorance. Ignorance is bliss and acknowledgment of truth is where the awakening begins.

©Written Frames, 2019

 

 

Irony

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often do I look up,

behold beyond my vision and height

teetering trail of hallucinated,

heedless of the feet stiffened

walk of the terrestrial trammeled by traps

notice not the blood and bruise, such a façade

for a fantast willing to assess the skies

vigilant to the wings, I’m meant to fly

 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 

like a child

with a virtuous visual of everything

feasible is all, not timid to overthink

flapping the limbs, cape of certainty flutters

leaps forward with a swing, and slips

the fall of the persistent, dust off the cheeks

ready to leap, back to his feet

thus pitied, the mother’s rush to rescue

she signals to the scraped knees

 

now he weeps,

dousing the hiccups of dreaming…

 

©Written Frames, 2018

 

The more we claim to be rational and wise, the more we are calculative of the fall; reluctant to attempt for once more…..

Prints

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graffiti of time, so layered with grime

lost is her luster, accustomed eyes’ crime

 

scatter some white, the powder on her rind

cloak of cellophane tape to wrap and bind

 

stiff is the nude, her transparency chastised

scrape off, such scarred impressions she hide

 

testimony of love, lust and of dying stars

fingerprints of lost lovers, the skin so marred

 

embossed in such doleful memoir is her skin

the recital of handprints she was cradled in

 

gather the latent, dust off these remains

off memory, off complaint, so free of stains

 

weep, weep, let her weep all she needs

scrub it off, wipe it off, score her skin till it bleeds

 

behold her blank wall, o the artists enthralled

an exotic art awaits her to cherish and own

 

she deserves

 

© Written Frames, 2018

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