Birdcage

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how 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

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

let me be

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why 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

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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

blow out the candle, sweetheart, be it dark

kiss me with your blank verses

when it all fails and fall

 

@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.