Thursday, April 30, 2009
with a facade like smashed orange
ignoring her whimpering
he keeps driving in the wilderness
windows shut tight, it smells of her empty
guts, intermingling with his sweat
is he her savior or her kidnapper
she is in no state to contemplate that
she closes her eyes in that darkness
watching purple light dancing bright
and carries leftover conversations
silently with her very ownself
in the twilight of wakefulness
she is jolted out when he stops
feeding her a piece of dried bread
accompanied by tepid water
'exercising a great restrain,
she feeds on it slowly, savouring each bite
in her hunger nothing has tasted so good'
carries leftover conversations was donated by Deb of stonemoss.org. Do check out Read Write Poem.
To read the first part of road trip, click on trucker's or here!
Which is worse?
Finding a book you love and then hating everything else you try by that author, or
Reading a completely disappointing book by an author that you love?
Worse is a very strong reaction.
The authors I love to read have not disappointed me. Ok, a few books are not upto the mark but no one can churn out good books one after the other. Anything I have read by, say Margaret Atwood is good and same goes for Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. We do compare books of a same author and some are great, a few good and one or two so so. One has to take all those with a pinch of salt.
As I try new authors and read varied genres, it does not matter much to me. However, if a book is bad, there is no reason to shun all others books by that author. I would still give him/her another chance.
As I have lost my other blog, http://readingandmorereading.blogspot.com, I am posting my response here, on my poetry blog. Let's hope, google retrieves it for me. If not, I will start another, right from scratch. I have already initiated the proceedings. WIsh me luck, either way!
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
comparable to sounds
a turbulent ocean makes
in the wake of a storm
pulsating to an unheard beat
my skin quarrels with me
warning me of lost opportunity
INSISTING I BE IN YOUR SERVICE
I DON'T THINK I CAN BE SERVILE
opportunity lost warns me
and my quarrelling skin's
beat pulsates in a manner
unheard of. silent storms wake up
turbulence within me
which make oceans tame
compared to the sounds of
raging blood in my veins
"I move away and see your skin pulsating"
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
can't you read every bud on it, in the angled branches, still so green
you want each word circled, each line underlined with a red marker?
Go, have a bite of The American Sandwich
I saw red
in google bots
READING ROOM LOST
bot, go ogle
in the red sea!
Read the previous post. I lost my blog, Reading Room to I know not what.
Also look out for The NaisaiKu.. Challenge
I posted a message at the help forum at google/blogger.
And when I tried to acess it today in the morning, I found that it has been deleted. Without any prior notice, information or anything of that sort. I lost 650+ posts. That's not all. I lost three years work, all the effort I had put in it. And a massive part of myself. A book blog is intellect's home. I lost all that and more. I don't know if it can be restored. Google has deleted a lot of blogs over the weekend. What I feel is they should have checked first.
I do have a back-up for this blog at wordpress. And I was thinking of getting one for Reading Room but lost it before I could.
Can anyone help me retrieving my blog? I would appreciate it very much.
I will continue posting poetry here, no matter what. And will start from scratch for another book blog, if I can't retrieve it. Massive work but I have to do it.
Monday, April 27, 2009
for once his words made no sense
mine turned to stupfied silence
what exactly was he conveying to me
was he wishing to be set free of me?
then I thought why read too much in it
I might as well say my two penny bit
"ok go, get over that border tonight
but first come have a sumptuous bite"
"don't worry, I will not let anything distill"
hearing that I felt an unknown thrill
all of a sudden I fully comprehended
leaning closer to him, I took his hand.
"I too want to get over the border tonight"
Sunday, April 26, 2009
in our terrace garden
(if I can call it that)
squating on the floor,
she was tending to her precious plants
cutting those to shape,
snipping out the weeds
I could hear her humming
to the oncoming buds
her tenor changed from plant to plant
the love she poured on those
was visible to all and sundry
I and my three brothers
had been brought up in a brisk manner
(I don't remember her singing for us)
here she was with her plants
singing for them to glory
with a twinge of jealousy
I kept watching her
then it dawned on me
we too had been cut and snipped
to shape and to the right size
and her love for us had kept us
all closer and still together
"I got up and squated beside her-
she handed me over the watering-pot
and went on with her humming"
Saturday, April 25, 2009
trying to find shade
it is a hot summer day
(I know this line sucks!)
asphalt reflects the day's heat
my calfs are burning
through my sneakers
I could have stayed in
within the realms of my home
under the whirring air conditioner
(ah! what a cool thought!)
but I needed to jolt myself
from my lethargy
(heat wakes you up alright!)
I am walking all alone
pelting from the ridges
and valleys of that thing
we all know as our mind
(some times I doubt we do
but I got to stick with convention)
not getting into the heavy
philosophy or semantics
I ought to be direct
asking you how to
follow you to the end
of the Universe
and much, much beyond
"hot asphalt may help me run to you
(and a triple sundae wouldn't come amiss)"
Friday, April 24, 2009
...............just lets talk about the moon, that one which was so round
the moon has been cut into two, .......................isn't it what it is supposed to be
who took away the larger piece?.......................why does it even have different pieces
with two corners, the leftover.......................... can a round object have corners
one tries to hold itself close. ............................. even if it is celestial
one can see a few stars intruding,..................... when they have no business to do so
they have escaped from the sun ....................... aren't they suns themselves?
and now try to hide encircled ...........................and I always thought they were faraway
deep within the receding moon. ....................... to bother the moon
like a mother, it holds them- ............................like a father it scolds them
also punishes them by pushing out,...................making them play rugged games
a few protest scratchings it, .............................few sratch marks are what they show
leaving it marked forever. ...............................some in the surface some too deep
it gets bloated, its belly gets filled ..................... all that play makes moon hungry
like powdered sugar ........................................ and it reaches out for the jar of sugar
it rains in the universe for a while .................... dissolving it into cosmic rain
before renewing, rising again ........................... drinks it rising to the occasion
while it does, it gurgles so, ............................... its stomach growls protesting
listen up carefully you will know ......................that sugar is something to avoid
someone churns it up from nothing .................. universe too has certain norms
the moon is not a trifle or a plaything ............... it too caters to healthy eating
...........................................why don't we let it be
Do check out Saturday Scribes for twinned poems. Both are supposed to stand on their own and yet read like one poem. I have posted my maiden effort here, raw and unedited. Have I succeeded? Please do let me know.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
I had been marking those all night
those squiggles did not make sense
my head ached with tormented symbols
undecipherable, unknown to all
wasn't this a torture
trying to read through utter nonsense
one who said teaching was noble profession
forgot the evaluation part of it
( it was deliberate, I think)
now my calling is to write poetry
about you, about me, about anything
that pisses me massive
those written words send out missives
to those regions in our minds hitherto unknown
(Here I am trying to be important, you know)
I try to dissolve everything that surrounds me
letting it permeate all corners of my mind
sometimes it sticks on the walls
(and why shouldn't it?)
"at this rate, going from teaching to poetry,
I will end up as a shoemaker,
or I might just end up as a rambler
only talk and talk, and do nothing"
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Grab five of your favorite poetry books. Open to a random page in each,
copy a phrase or a word that catches your eye, use them in a poem.
feeling certain spirits hovering, I let
Them unwrap me hand and foot
tied was I to what, I am yet to find out
Now I see, now I don't- a glow in front of me
A healthy fleck is floating across my vision
gyrating on its own steam of oath
I let myself indulge in her thoughts
unknown to her, she behaves like an
young heiress of a naked dream
strange is her behaviour towards me
is it amnesia or is it deceit
She can't remember herself as that person
who did cartwheels at the drop of a hat
and let my dogs lick her hands
now her features show her ignorance
she simply steers clear of me
and she walks with her hands in her dress
maybe she is feeling her own femaleness
"I am left there all alone with my visions, so bereft"
Lines taken from:
Them unwrap me hand and foot from Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath
A healthy fleck is floating across my vision from afternoon memory by Gary Soto
young heiress of a naked dream from Ballad by Sonia Sanchez
She can't remember herself as that person from Myth of Innocence by Louise Gluck
and she walks with her hands in her dress from Eating poetry by Mark Strand
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
with meticulous care he squeezes the tube,
watching the shaving cream touch the bristles.
reverently he rubs it on his face,
almost with an orgasmic passion.
shaving for the first time,
he is rendering tribute to his coming of age.
The American Sandwich created by Andy Sewina
Write a piece of flash fiction in just three American Sentences. Allen Ginsberg's American Sentence has seventeen syllables. Your task is to use as few words as possible to fill the sandwich.
in front of the mirror,
he sees himself unfolding
ALMOST A MAN NOW
flashes of his future unfolds-
mirrored within him
And go join the NaisaiKu Challenge...
Monday, April 20, 2009
I am checking my spelling
in that tattered lexicon
(yes, when one writes one has to)
when the night manager rings me up
"they are here"
my blood rises up to my ears,
I collect all the papers
throw them into the fire-
feeling so free after so long.
I had been seeking freedom-
from or for what purpose?
(it feels so meaningless now,
but it is not the time to ponder)
I look out of the window
see them hurrying towards me.
scared I trip and fall
landing on my face.
when they arrive there
I am out cold, clutching
scrapes of burnt paper.
someone pokes me with a gun
opening my eyes I see disinterest
they are in no hurry to shoot me.
(but how am to know that?)
words of what I had written
run past me like some prayer.
I hear a gunshot and a scream
they look beyond me
and run into that direction.
taking a cue
(we all need to do that)
I run out from the back exit.
catching my breath
I find myself deep in trash.
wading through it,
I walk out into the street
forcing myself to do it slowly.
if I run, I might not be so lucky
they would shoot me dead
(don't we all know
how the secret police work?)
"now I am so free,
so very free not to seek
that purposeless freedom"
Sunday, April 19, 2009
The blue grass on the mountains grew upside down, if that is possible. if you spread chocolate on the ground and run tankers over it, goats will stop bleating and stare at you. You see they are not too fond of garlic and the amount of hummus you ate this afternoon should be enough to distract them. However, you'll have to act quickly and exhale in their direction. This may be your last chance to escape, you'll have to work fast. Get all your papers ready. If you wish we can forge everything and that would be faster. But of course you know it will cost you. She had not done anything illegal and the very idea thrilled her. She got out of the situation by the skin of her teeth. "I can't go on thinking like this anymore!" she cried into her cell phone. The sound echoed around the cavernous space sending a short sharp shock to the bolt in his neck.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By gautami and Brian on 18/04/09
Where had he landed up, he thought? Who asked him to come to this God forsaken place? It was so hot, humid and to boot it, there was dust and flies everywhere. And then he saw the most exquisite woman who never the less was not his type. He preferred hard drinking, hard loving woman and not someone who was dressed in the latest fashions. But then she glanced his way and smiled. A smile that every man yearns for and dreads, as it can snare, trap or filled with love forever. He was no different. He fell for it hook, line and sinker. And felt her claws on his back, her fangs on his neck, so delicious. Closing his eyes he savoured the oiled fingers sliding over his back and down his spine. This had been the strangest evening of his life, but he had no complaints so far. The piercing tone of the alarm jolted him out of his dream: No fair!
Now your turn to come and play...!!!
those furtive glances
over the plates of food
fingers meeting over slices of onions
tiny bites from each other plates
interchanging wine glasses
lingering over dessert
coffee tasted never so good
(I am a tea person!)
here I was dreaming it all, rose-hued.
in a moment all turned bitter
in one word, you turned to be a cad
wanting me to pay for the food
"to think I wanted to go dutch!"
After I particapted in a 24 Hour Read-a-thon, I am too zapped to write anything good. This is what I offer today.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
attaching itself to you
you soften to it, letting it wrap you
tentacle of wonder surround us
I peep with one eye
and see you do the same
mystical scent permeates my skin
slipping over yours
taste of you tempts me to explore
so much more and more
exquisite limbs hold us both
grounded on the earth even though
we are in the seventh heaven
"when our inner essence speak
do we need any language?"
Friday, April 17, 2009
I found FrankenStory on a book bloggers website. Come write a story with me. Help spread the word. Feel free to publish the story we write on your blogs.
My email: gautami.tripathy[at]gmail.com
Let's have some fun, folks! Please leave a comment here if you are playing!
she welcomes you into her hearth,
her lopsided smiles takes you in
her castle rustles in the night
with darkened but cosy corners
she strums her guitar for you
sound of ocean intrudes from outside
her oven is ready for casseroles
and pot bubbles over with aromatic spices
all the while enticed by her warmth
you wish for the food to be served now
a refreshing drink is handed over to you
which you relish, finishing it fast
in that gleaming and steaming cauldron
your bones dance with your liver
swirling with eggshells and apples
detachedly you think about your heart
"missing it is not, she sucks on it delicately
sitting on top of invisible fence of her deceit"
Thursday, April 16, 2009
this mausoleum built of pristine stone
I don't need it to shroud my rotting bone
nor do I wish for pyramids as a shrine
which too will crumble to dust with time
spread me on the earth, let me scatter away
let me grow under your feet night and day
soil thrives forever, so does the sky
those so called unliving truly never die
"why then our mortal body wishes for eternity?"
Picture Courtsey: Ashish Gorde of Eureka Express
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
she watched her
her baby gurgling, holding
on to the sides of the tub
splashing water all over her
both allured by each other's smile
lost in the world of their own
when the doorbell rang
it intruded between the moment
baby, I do have to go
but only for a minute or two
that is what the mother said,
before standing up
no, she did not
leave her baby unwatched
after seventeen years
vivid images of her baby
runs through her mind
" that baby who was lost from her in a split moment"
Someone I know, lost her 16-month-old daughter seventeen years back. She drowned in a bathtub. The mother had asked her sister-in-law to watch the baby for a few minutes. Now both live in regret.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
hunger took hold of me
I clutched at my vacuumed belly
as if to hold off the pangs
trucker refused to stop
in that wilderness lost to all but me
when I set out in that bus
with unknown people
looking out for an adventure
little did I know I would end up with
an unkempt foul mouthed trucker
plans going haywire
we were ambushed
all killed and I was left for dead
how did come I onto this stinky truck
if you called it a truck, but for the chassis
he looked askance, offered me oily nuts
smelling of motor grease. hungry that I was
I ate a handful, my stomach heaving
I retched all over him.
without batting an eye
he stopped and cleaned us both
I was so grateful like a rag doll
dignity had lost its meaning
I rolled over and slept in my own stink
no longer it bothered me
again hunger took hold of me
I clutched at my vacuumed belly
as if to hold on to the pangs
"let hell break loose, I don't care anymore"
I travel on dusty roads
uneven jagged edges trip me over
MY BLACK-EYED BLOODY FACE
trips you over, uneven jagged edges
stretch your never-ending tirade
I run back to dusty roads
Go join The NaisaiKu Challenge?
Monday, April 13, 2009
I have added my own lines to The Dictators by Pablo Neruda as per suggestion in Poefusion.. The bold lines are mine. Do let me know if this works. Do write your own poem similar way taking one poem of one of your favourite poets. Have fun writing it! And leave a link here if you do, so that I visit you.
An odor has remained among the sugarcane:
fermenting unevenly in the heat
a mixture of blood and body, a penetrating
piercing thought about a rose
petal that brings nausea.
I don't know where else to look
Between the coconut palms the graves are full
of women, and children too not spared, consisting
of ruined bones, of speechless death-rattles.
Even now in the midst of dancing death
The delicate dictator is talking
softly into his satellite phone, attired
with top hats, gold braid, and collars.
He surveys around critically examining
The tiny palace gleams like a watch
What he sees satisfies him, but why not.
and the rapid laughs with gloves on
touching the gold panelled walls, his men
cross the corridors at times
looking out at the half alive people
and join the dead voices
in a crescendo of singing
and the blue mouths freshly buried
turn even bluer by the insults
The weeping cannot be seen, like a plant
which wilts under the harsh sun
whose seeds fall endlessly on the earth,
trampled by thousand feet
whose large blind leaves grow even without light.
Have we learnt anything at all from history?
Hatred has grown scale on scale,
from end this world to the other
blow on blow, in the ghastly water of the swamp,
nothing can make it right, when wounds are raw
with a snout full of ooze and silence
as long as fear is there, dictators will play on that
Sunday, April 12, 2009
leading to the dry river,
dust rose in thick clouds.
a great crescendo of drumming
and screaming rasping horns
seemingly mounted upto the sky
rose out of the misted dust
causing birds to rise
from the distant inlets of the marsh
to watch some sort of dance
near that river, brown and slow
as it was. black and full and fast
green and gentle, it seemed to flow
all of a sudden. a woman from that
mottled crowd fell on her knees-
touching the water reverently
with the tips of her old fingers,
felt a shock, a strange power flow into her
river had returned to give life again.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
I flipped the card over and over again,
writer's workhop, that too about women-
with my portfolio, I arrived at the workshop,
prepared to listen to the topic of discussion
It could be anything:
the nubile heroine's journey,
the ambiguous power of vamps
to evil stepmothers,
and the sheer pleasure of being a woman
told creatively in a wealth of fantastic stories.
so much in there to speak about woman-
her charishma, her power through the years
can you believe it, they were talking
about a heroine whose only talent rested
on her ability to sleep.
sleeping beauty waiting for her prince
is a non-entity for me. what is she
but a emotionally stranded heroine
whose awakening from death induced sleep
depends on a Prince's kiss. I would call him
a simpleton who had no vision
could he not leave her alone
and find someone better, a matured personality
who would have suited more to his wordly demeanor
sleeping for two decades tenaciously holding to life
is but a scary thought. waking her up by breath
of a kiss, he must have been curious. maybe I ought
to salute to the spirits of both, for leaving a fairy tale
for us. and a hope to live happily ever after.
Photo Credits: http://www.illusionsgallery.com/Sleeping-Beauty-Spence-L.jpg
Friday, April 10, 2009
He’d walked much of that day and the day before,
always on the lookout for the mining camp,
the lonely settler, and the small towns with their weddings and wakes.
He had left home many years since,
left the green of his own country
to wander across the sun-bleached West,
the dry flat roads of the plains,
and the dark rugged mountains.
But no matter where he traveled,
stranger though he was,
he was never at a loss for words, for he needed none.
The music of his fiddle spoke for him,
and it was welcomed wherever he went.
Doors opened at its sound,
a place was made by a campfire,
and food and drink appeared.
it was a free life,
one that chased forward like the sprinkle of notes,
each connected for an instant but not remaining.
He sat down to rest in the shade.
He leaned his back companionably
against the rocks and took off his hat.
He closed his eyes and rested,
feeling his limbs sink into the yielding grass.
It was peaceful after a day’s walk.
But he didn’t rest long.
The wind that tugged at his hair brought with it sounds.
He opened his eyes and cocked his head to the wind.
There it was again—a sharp shrill call.
A bark, he guessed, imagining the coyotes
taking their pleasure like himself in the unexpected grass.
No, he thought, uncertain now
as the wind brought the sound closer.
Not a bark, but the harsh cawing of crows,
their raucous voices rising from the hidden basin of the canyon.
He stood up and, shouldering his pack and fiddle,
walked deeper into the canyon.
The road twisted and turned
through the high-walled corridors
until at last the canyon opened into a wide grassy field.
Spread across the field were crows,
fanning their black wings over the grass.
He stopped, awed at the sight of so many,
their necks thrown back as they called to one another.
The swirling flocks settled themselves uneasily,
stalking through the long grass,
their heads reared to catch the sunlight.
And with a common cry,
they shook their feathers,
beaks breaking and limbs stretching
until they had shaped themselves
into the semblance of human form.
He felt the earth tremble through his feet
as he approached the court of crows.
The whistled wind was hushed beneath their loud cries,
and the crickets were silent between the rocks.
He bowed his head,
the sounds of their rising arguments clashing in his ears.
They did not listen to each other,
but each voice shouted more loudly
until they merged into a single cacophony of sound.
he took out his fiddle
and tucked it under his chin.
He rested the bow over the strings
and waited a moment more to hear
what the wind would bring him.
A tune came from listening,
knowing what was already playing
in the hearts of those gathered.
He thought he could well guess
at the tunes a crow might wish —
with the harsh rasps of the double-stops.
All around him the waiting court burst into noise,
the shrill cawing
and harsh scraping of their voices
breaking the spell that held their forms.
Their cloaks flapped wildly,
lifting the dust from between the bladed grass,
and in the swirling clouds,
they gave themselves over to flight.
He held his hand over his face
to protect it from the seething dust,
glimpsing in the turquoise sky
the black veins of their parting.
And then the winds quieted,
the dust was exhaled back to the earth,
and the sky shone clear again.
This found poem was formed taking a few random passages from King of Crows, a short story from The Journal of Mythic Arts: Archived fiction. Do click on the story to read it online in its entirity.
Posted it for NaPoWriMo #10: Thrift store prompt in RWP.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
I come to the end
I pause and say it again
liking the sound of it
it spins with happiness
loving my attention
children love it too
as much as they love zoo
when our Z dances,
zebra forms in the wake
foot tap with a zing
and circles zoom in, zoom out
"Z might be last letter-
in jazzy, it is in the middle"
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
lotus-posed I sit on a chair
the cool harmattan breeze that comes through every opening in the house flirts with me
I wish to know its ploy in its wake
the sun is setting in the sky and the shadows form a shade around me
I am now like melting snow, tilting towards the puddle of memory
the sun fades away giving in to darkness by the time I close my eyes
I crash to the ground with a loud bang, and a cloud of dust rises in my stead
all night I roll from one end of the floor to the other
in the dawning light I run out to nowhere
stunning exit, wouldn't you call it?
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Monday, April 06, 2009
in my card album
I do not recognise many-
has become a past-time-
what else should I do?
my minds tells me-
I tear up pages
contain my whole life-
like that graffiti
was a way with me-
you were jealous
jealousy got you
nowhere, but broke us-
did you ever care?
in that card album
I do not recognise many-
I throw away yours
Sunday, April 05, 2009
which you had scotch-taped
so crudely after I tore it up in anger once-
I see the photographs haphazardly placed
a few taped so badly that it doesn't seem
quite so right to be there
yet I find a order in there
I learned early your way of working
and in someway or the other
I have followed the same path
with thoughts running faster than light
there never was any other way
when like you, my anger gets in midst
I stop, blanking out everything
closing myself in, listening to the
sane voices inside my head
and yours too, which never fail
to comfort me in my anguish
another torn photo stares up at me
you holding me, you rebel daughter
looking morosely at nothing
yet you beseechingly smile at the camera
your hand absently soothing me
I close the album, calmed as of now
Lately I have been thinking of my father. He has been gone for almost seven years and I still miss him.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
womanhood is celebrated-
which genesis ignored
~The Red Tent by Anita Diamant/1997
We have been lost to each other for so long. My name means nothing to you. My memory is dust.
Title: The Red Tent
Author: Anita Diamant
The Red Tent is a story told in the voice of Dinah, daughter of Jacob and Leah. Jacob had twelve sons but only one daughter. Dinah was loved by all her four mothers: Leah, Rachel, Zilpah and Bilhah. She had different equations with all of them. All the four told her about themselves and their experiences, right from her childhood. She was not left out of anything.
The Red Tent represents the tent belonging exculsively to women, who go there once a month for about three days to menstruate, where they deliver their children, where they tell stories and sing. The differences between the women is left outside and inside the tent they experience spirituality, which is not separate from the physical world. For them, everything is holy, dreams show the future. The bodily rhythms of the women is attuned to the rhythm of the Earth and they feel so much near to spiritual insights. Prophecy, interpretation of dreams, clairvoyance are not something to laugh about but to experience. Inside that red tent, women are very powerful.
Men are not aware of what happens in there, going about in their crude ways. They don't understand the spiritual aspect of it.
Told from Dinah's point of view, she fell in love with a Shechemite. And her brothers did not like it. They said she was raped and had to be avenged. Hungering for power, her brothers Simeon and Levi attacked the Shechemites while they were recovering from circumcision which the Jacobites had ordered for all the Shechemites as part of the bride price. This treachery forced Dinah to curse her brothers and she escaped to Egypt with her mother-in-law. After giving birth to a son in this new place, she becomes a midwife, that skill she had learnt from one of her mothers, Rachel.
The Red Tent speaks of the power of Woman, even those who don't have a voice. With good prose, Diamant makes it feasible. It might be a work of fiction but if Dinah had been given a voice in the Bible, she would told it this way. The Red Tent celebrates woman. They way they ought to be, should be.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Thursday, April 02, 2009
rolling in the stinking mud
IF ONLY PIGS COULD FLY
stinking mud stuck to their coats-
dirt would fall from the pigs
Writing stupid verses is ok, once in a while. Go join The NaisaiKu Challenge
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
shades too hurts my eyes
from that french window
afternoon sun stares at me
glaring at it I stare back
and look down blindingly
bending I scratch at my itchy foot
falling sloppily on my side
my side table topples over
spilling varied things on the floor
I right myself, getting up awkwardly
my left sole crushes the flowers
which you had plucked in spring
for me, for us, to celebrate us
as bright as those daffodils
open and welcoming,
pervading into our senses
but now dried and dead
'if only I had that knack
to glare proudly like the sun
and force down your stare'