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

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.

3 AM

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a maiden morning ray

is all what it takes

hush a heart, writhing

woeful and ashamed

 

now that I am up, agonized

life treads, turns up gray

night snarls at me,

pardoned with eyes awake

 

blissfully proud and drifted away

in diurnal deeds of forte,

singing songs of merry

of facade, foibles disobeyed

 

©Written Frames, 2018

 

 

 

 

 

What kind of dreams come true?

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oblivious of what we people want

we weave dreams, illusive ones

which we never intend to support

 

we cry for inevitable

one anyway dies, one anyway lives, sooner or later

talons of fate for sure know how to collar

an iota of odds in favor, then eluding dreamer’s eye

in fact, the stage is set with a backdrop of failed trials

 

days and nights abound, we circle around

inquiring about the bull’s eye and what’s such in rage,

by then the passion of bowstring fades; the fancies

found in shoreline art weeping with receding waves,

lines in the palm portraying a different shape

 

we cry, we curse, we criticize,

and we lie to ourselves (Yes, to ourselves!)

forging a false belief, altering a dream within a dream

and, accept the unprecedented as our destiny

as if we humans are obedient kids, know not to rebel

 

I wonder how we surrender

to the upkeep, to the promises, to the luxury, to the assured bright

of future we hold our hope in

unless the promised timeline coincides,

future is what if not tomorrow’s ‘today’s time’?

 

I ponder what kind of dreams come true

or is it the dreamer who has more potential than you?

why do you agree to leave things behind, the things that are dear to you?

and hold on to things you never wish to?

 

the dreamer within is in deep sleep

with saddened beat and smothered heat

lips are bitten with a blemishing smile of a victim

scared and slaved to breathe, we lie there in hope-

to get hunt by fate in any shape, in any form

for the rebel inside us is no more

 

when standing in a desert with deserted hope

wondering what rivers to quest

having no thirst to quench anymore…..?

 

© Written Frames,2018

I am a lie

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I am a lie

told by trembling lips,

or an assured pair of eyes

I soothe the one in need and

implode the others who believe-

believe in truth of your lies

 

I am a lie

a word of hope to condole

that everything will be alright

when things go tough and tight,

hope is what if not a beautiful lie?

 

I am a lie

a skill taught to survive

the malicious truth

upon people scared to accept

rambling in vaporizing rivers of repent

as we rationalize

 

I am a lie

I am addictive and it is not a lie

I am loved and nourished

with me living is a lullaby

a true friend to hold

try me once, and

I will never leave your side

 

©Written Frames, 2018

Make me believe

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a multitude of leaves yellowed and dried

with a finger on lip

a few bit their tongue tip

doomed to be crushed, silently they lie

or am I deaf? No, none of them cried;

seasonally promised of rebirth-

they believed

 

so are we? we are parched and dried,

plucked from our hives, tired of our fights

flown off to faraway lands- barren and bare

no roots to provide refuge and no touch of care

will we ever bloom again?

do we deserve another shower of rain?

 

make me believe we do

I will bloom, I long for you.

 

To believe is not about what you think is right. To believe is to hang on to something you wish to exist.

To believe is to hope.

 

© Written Frames, 2018

ImageSource

Baseline

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a venn diagram of vanity and virtue
the circles intersect in a community
ones character lies there
a portray of predefined traits

we accept what we already are
we admit what we already know
we grow in harvested lands
where wither the butterfly wings in husk now

when favorable,
and favorite is herd of sweetened fruits
nobody bets on a barren land
if first flowers are yet to root

©Written Frames, 2018