Poetry of routine: The Crossing

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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

Ruins of Love

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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!

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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…..