blows 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
flailing in the wind are my threadbare clothes
susurrating remains of love are imbibed by the sun
washed and bleached, I flutter free of your thoughts
faded red fabric and fainting scent of a white rose
clutch at the waistline, the fingers wither to bones (one by one)
flailing in the wind are my threadbare clothes
dying moisture in eyes is remainder of remorse
sweet tooth is tamed, of raisins and that wine had won
washed and bleached, I flutter free of your thoughts
lice of memories pierce the ache of this shredding host
gouge the garment, spill of their syrups and scent as undone
flailing in the wind are my threadbare clothes
the froth of promises & oaths, fading with stagnant cold
still sunsets bemoan the threads, as strayed with windswept spun
washed and bleached, I flutter free of your thoughts
yet, dark clouds of mockery might burst open to drench and emboss,
my tatters scorched, when avalanche of death has begun
flailing in the wind are my threadbare clothes
washed and bleached, I flutter free of your thoughts
©Written Frames, 2018
P.S. This is my first attempt at writing Villanelle and I totally enjoyed adapting to its intricate structure. I am one unorganized, undisciplined soul who is inclined to write free verses – raw and natural, however, with this one I absolutely surrendered to the beauty of such poetic form and learning it to add yet an another experience to this artistic venture we are on…..
Hope you enjoy it!
the outrageous red is love and blood,
nevertheless, even the black blooms
if for a rose, so rare to behold,
don’t they all perfume your expectation alike?
don’t we all fancy of only Summer we know
when Winter strikes, colder or just cold?
and so, reckon the wild ambers smoldering,
the sparks hovering over the inglenook, domesticated,
the shine of days, the stars of gloaming nights
all dazzle inside, if that is where we stay
indoors, shimmering with spectra of phosphenes
and a glance of flailing limbs through the garden of poppies….
©Written Frames, 2018
We see what we have seen, we see how we like it to be seen. Imagining, rehearsing, creating stories of a life within a life; such alterations of destiny…..
