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The Father Of Light

Silken slivers....

Aside the rolling sea

Falling from the knowing stars

Beyond these swaying trees ~

Shadows playing, now

Beneath their dancing leaves

Twirling toward the waiting ground

Amid this summer's breeze ~


Splashing upon their journeys canvas

Colliding, with the darkened skies

Celestial colours of heavenly wonders

These painting's, before my joyful eyes ~

Turning toward such whispers, now 

Which penetrate the darkened night

Echoes of Angelic splendours

Gliding, atop the timeless tide....

Twinkle twinkle, you silken stars 

Now I know, just who, you are!

Walking toward the waiting shoreline ~

From beneath these swaying trees

Endless lights of brightened wisdom

Amid this summers breeze

Truth, beyound the promised horizon 

Within this place I've seen ~

And heard Angelic voices

Whisper, "Your Light," deep inside of me

"The Father, of All Creation!"....

.............."My Soul"............


Now waltzing upon, "Your Eternal, Sea!" *

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Mesmerizing Butterfly - enamoured soul

Tropical quadra plateau, Amazing bright sunny,
Glided waterfall Carrying happiness in their gunny.
Long nodding flower's joyously plumed,
Everbody waving happily, the herald bloomed.
Eureka, I love this heaven on earth!

Hazy perished hills, houses trenching at the outskirts,
Swaning over to the fluctuating peak of mountains, roosted with struts.
Orchid waftured, Clinging on to the cluster of flowers,
Precipitated rain was about to shower.
Gosh, it Stimulated my soul!

King of beast, sucking the sweet tempting fragranced juices,
Solitary alienate species including Honey bees mused badly abuses.
Fluttered wings, Struggling with them, Leisurely travelling my journey.
Fitnessed physically as if I am in an defensing army.
Situation turned to be  horribly muddle,
Tremendously, I wanted to sort and excitedly cuddle!

Proud to have an Airfoiled wings of mine,
Antennate feature you prissily shine.
Rainbowis passion lying inside me,
Resourcefully mingled with music and dance, happening besides me.
Whoa,People got entranced!

People jeopardize the innate beauty,
Relishingly wanna do my duty.
Actuating my arms, Ventured to fly high.
Intended inspiration wanted to reach the sky.
Weaving the web spiderman thirstily trying me to catch.
Escaping from them I ran, prevented myself from getting snatched.
Ohhh,They had a Hostile faction accord!

Nature's beauty aspiringly propelled me.
Blowing wind, tactily sensisizing my skin,
Blushing cheeks, spilled the bean.
Nocturnal creatures will wake in the dark,
Aerophilically dangling around the shruby bed,before they bark
Stopping by sayonara, continuing my next  stigmatic destiny!

By Madhavi.Suyog.Pagare

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                           It is a terrible thing
                           To be so open: it is as if my heart
                           Put on a face and walked into the world.

                                          Sylvia Plath, Three Women, 1962



Sylvia, ever lucent, ever opaque,
an incongruity, a clever imbalance               
that spins collections her hounds facilitate.  
Failures and fractures she bravely lanced
with noncompliance. Reader, rebuff collars
labeled as forewords, smug introductions, 
for Plath’s voice is tenfold more a scholar 
than those receiving undue benedictions.    
Lofty beggars seek to bookend her words
and that empty space she instinctively refills
with her universe, a mayhem that girds,
unapologetic. Mirror images spill
over margins, searching for identity,
negating preamble, snubbing apathy.   

Negating preamble, snubbing apathy
with language that flickers, catches, combusts,
her volumes of wicks, her lit soliloquies,   
glint behind the stained-glass of trust.
There are those who are not really here,
they wander fault lines then crisscross chasms,
lost pilgrims who easily commandeer
unwary emotions. Some hearts just spasm,                         
pulled by their own nature, their delicacy,
for poetry is a weakness; poets die
between verses. Odes can become elegies.
The thin-skinned hear a snared rabbit cry,
and pray for the moonflower, always closing,
while cursing that page, unmoved and dozing.

While cursing that page, unmoved and dozing,
she corners rigid guides, keeps fingers poised,
synchronicity goes, the flow of typing
disappears, mislaid, that perfect noise
of a carriage return, a sound exclamation.
Joy is inspiration making its way home,
her Olivetti forages like a raven,
gifting found nouns, verbs that glare like chrome,
but love still flits, turns from hoarse requests,
and she longs for more than any man can give
for what snags worn ribbons will not rest,
it emits a strong beat, throbs as it loves.
Bless the bitter of life, all wisdom owing,
curse the open heart, its shadows showing.

Curse the open heart, its shadows showing,
for worldly delights take full advantage
of the wounded, their brokenness growing.
Everyday beauty wrings arteries, dredges
chambers with barbs, a prompt disobedient.
Fact, there’s no folder large enough to hold 
elation’s girth, no ink conveniently
on hand to black out depression. So, scold
the yew, its roots and branches reaching,
then poke at petals for being complacent, 
when all the while a candle is preaching
of give and take, surrender, luminance,
So, carefully archive apprehension,
revealing blue veins to tender lesions.

Revealing blue veins to tender lesions
requires much more than a room of one's own,
hours do dissolve, days lack cohesion 
when milk sours and tantrums are thrown.
Solitude is in short supply, loneliness,
however, is overstocked; her mind tugs      
at busy hands for attention, such darkness
contrasts to jammy smiles and sleepy hugs.
Elusive titles whimper each morning,
and short stanzas steep, so desperately,
all the while a manuscript is scorning
her swipes at dry crumbs, cold pots of tea.
A life sheds its months, gallows take delight
as sundials atrophy in the arms of night. 

As sundials atrophy in the arms of night. 
the moon blanches tidepools, suckles sand,
even the face of the clock is pulled too tight
and the new calendar can not understand
that writing is sex, is fresh bread, is air,
that time is a brute, quick fisted, rough,
that weeks come and go without a care
that a marriage vow is never enough
to mend adoration, repossess bliss.  
Words make better lovers, rarely stray,
upon her lips, the impression of a kiss
feels as cold as sheets then melts away.
Paper sops afterbirth, accepts her all:
fossil and seed, shackles and free falls.

Fossil and seed, shackles and free falls,
unlocking visions, defying any cage, 
art resists validity, upsets stone walls  
to scale the scarlet heights of a rampage,
to breach the barricades to euphoria.
She excavates id, bares teeth at ego, 
plays the parts of illusion and phobia
then infuses rhyme with soft indigo. 
Colossus begins to shrivel as Ariel
unmans him, riding hard upon metaphors,
and will remain strong, constant, ethereal. 
but curtailed are epics that still implore  
like the cusp of dream long after you wake

Sylvia, ever lucent, ever opaque.


* For Craig Cornish, whose contest inspired this piece. Thank you, Daddy-O. 

About this poem

This is my first crown of sonnets. It took over 25 hours to write, a full week of me-time! 

These are modern sonnets and the syllable count is extremely loose, intentionally, as it would seem odd to keep things too tight when writing of Sylvia. If anything, I regret not being even looser, altering syllable counts DRAMATICALLY. Also, I used a great deal of slant rhyme for the same reason.

I really wanted to capture Sylvia Plath with this poem, and it was a real struggle. Her language is so precise, and I wanted to do her justice. I had wanted to feel, upon its completion, that Sylvia would have said, "Well, it isn't quite horrible. Not bad for a novice. And there are parts of me there, but only the smallest bits." I do not feel I did this.  I feel like I didn't even TOUCH her mastery of language. But, it is good enough for now.. one day, who knows? 

Oh, Sylvia's typewriter was a Olivetti Lettera 22. It was portable!

| Details | Crown Of Sonnets Poem | |

Jesus Call His Name

When in doubt
Call his name
When in pain
He will take it away

Call his name
When you say a Prayer
If your sad and blue
He is there for you

If you want a hug
He will embrace you
If you want to talk
He will listen

Call his name
If you want answers
If you have doubts
He is the one

Call his name
If you want someone to love
Sing to him
Give him praise

Lend a ear
Give a hand
Help those in need
Call his name

| Details | Crown Of Sonnets Poem | |


I am lost
I can feel no presence
I know of no human or animal that has a measure of significance alike mine
I have a teacher
A teller of all there is to be known of the world
She has bestowed upon me the gifts of a magi
I have sailed deep oceans with noblemen and written great works with worldly scholars
All of this I owe to her, my "teacher"
But through all her wisdom I have heard or seen of no such creature
The one of whose value is as mine
I looked upon the oracle and many great libraries with scriptures overflowing
I still have read or seen of no such monster
I've heard witches speak ancient incantations
and I have sung songs with the sirens
Out of the monsters and spirits that came none of which had a significance as is mine
Upon my dreariness and woeful thought came the final place
A painting of life and death
A tale of heaven and hell at war
The purity of truth blackened by man
 I saw upon them a thing of which is mine
Not upon the dead who will be missed
Nor the skeletons carrying away the dead, the ones with purpose
Not even of the severed limbs and broken bones discarded at random in the field of chaos and confusion
No, I saw my equal upon the shadows
A black being darker than silence
A causer of mischief and misfortune
A wielder of pain and sorrow
My equal is hated by all for all he has done
My equal is upon the wicked and the damned sadly he is to dumb to care
My equal of such tresspasses is a demon
My equal is a man who dressed in black kills and dies and is born again through his ashes of filth
He sees his crimes
It is because of this he wept upon his hands
His hands
The hands stained my children's blood and scared by the scratches of the innocent
But I was wrong
I am not equal to a demon, for these are not the acts of a demon but of man
That is my equal 
My equal is man
My sins are everlasting 
My transgressions are in stone
Man is the cause for the failure of men
Man is the cause for the failure of many!

Posted by Haley Melton at 3:37 AM  
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So cute

And admirable too

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Missing Pieces

Once there was a time. 
A long time ago.

As I was looking for a flat.
Making sure it was right for me.

Just so I could make it my own.
I took a walk through all the cracks 
and cervices.

Way over there, in an out of the way corner . 
That's when I seen it, the writing on the wall.

The closer I came, the more I saw a love spell.
 Although  It was wearing thin from years past. 

 This is how it read: 

 She ask, if she could get back all the missing
 pieces ~  all the pieces she had given away ,
To lovers that didn't stay.

All the parts that had been broken, and betrayed.
All the parts that were left out in the rain.

All the parts that were dropped and kicked around.
It said, she didn't think they wanted them anyway.
All the parts of herself , she felt she lost along the way.
She ask for all the missing pieces  to be returned to her.

If that was ok  ~  Just so she wouldn't fade away.  

7/ 9 / 2011  8pm
Was looking through a 3 ring binder of my old poetry, I found this one . No doubt we all have pages of poems.   

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From Him

I guess I was wrong.
I'm a total fool.
My love for you was so strong.
How could I have ever loved you?

You said he was no one.
You had no idea who he is.
Well it's obvious he's someone.
With him, I knew what you did.

I gave you all my love.
You'll never know how much I cared.
My life just fell apart.
This pain I just can't bare.

I've been through this before.
Though it hadn't been with you.
I never thought you'd do this..
I always thought you would be true.

Now I must live my life without you.
Together we'll never be..
For you've found someone new.
And no longer need me.

12  10   1997  From " his " point of view .

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Touch Of Skin

The sun caresses my skin on this hot summers day. 
It would be wonderful for a slight rain to splash on my 
skin in such a way.

I should love it if a cool breeze came floating by.
 Time seems to be going by slowly these days.

I hear the words whispered from his lips.
 "Don't go all shy on me now".
As his fingertips caress the length of my spine.

We lay naked on the top of the summer meadow.
A kiss on the lips, a kiss on the hips.

I seen the cranes fly, as I moved to his touch.
They flew from the edge of the pond, below us.
As we were spread out on the large quilt.

High on the peak, I with my book of prose.
Him, with his glistening body dripping beads of sweat.

I've come to these's highlands since I could remember.
This place was a staple of my childhood, in fact , this 
mountain hilltop belonged to my grandparents.

His words rolled on the slight movement in the air.
" Be still",   "it was our little game we played". 
As he traced the nap of my neck with his tongue 
And found his way to my lips, our tongues entwined  
like ivy on the forest walls.

We had been friends since the age of twelve.
That's when his parents bought the adjoining land. 

You taste like sweet mountain honey, " all mine".
He knew his touch inflamed my senses, as finger
tips caressed his muscles, as nails pierced his skin.

He knew he drove me crazy, as I drifted into bliss.
Though still fully aware of his every touch, every 
rhythm of our heartbeats kept tempo with our inferno lust.

His every touch reminded me why I kept coming back for 
the summer vacations, besides my grandparents being old.
In fact this would be the last two days of summer pleasure.

I wouldn't want to lose my editing job, back in the city.

I felt his eager body quiver as we moved together in time.
As he pressed his hips against mine, it was all I could do. 
Lovely woman, you are my  summers favorite delight !!!           

Jan. 7, 2013 monday 10pm
I haven't written one like this in about five years. 
Thought I'd give it a try .

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In Praise of All Old Friends

Of all old friends, those we have of old are best;
These the souls we travel with by preference,
Theirs the spirits to whom we grant all deference.
Their hopes are ours, and ours their own; 
All victories shared, from like ambitions grown.
Their years match step with ours,
And show like passage of the hours,
The silent steps of Time with which are lives are sown.
They are moved as we are moved;
Troubled and pleased by like turns of Fate,
We pass through one another's gates
Into the rooms where loyalty is proved
By ties of woven sympathies,
By bonds that no outsider sees.

By bonds that no outsider sees
We tie ourselves to those who share
The pithy heart of all unspoken cares,
The shadows that would dim our days
If no one shared our private ways,
If none there were to let us know
The fitness of the face we dare not show;
The old friend nods and quietly stays
Close by our side when mere acquaintance leaves,
Unashamed to share our darkest inner night;
Awaits with us the slow return of light.
The old friend trusts and faithfully believes
The tales we tell ourselves of joy or sorrow,
Looking back to yesterday and forward to tomorrow.

Looking back to yesterday and forward to tomorrow,
We walk with them through the wilderness of living
Thankful for their prescence and forgiving,
As do we, the flaws that mark our human bounds
Ignoring the discordant note that sounds
From time to time in all the narrative
We build to define our days and give
Form and substance to the constant rounds
Of night to day and day to night,
Our mutual progress towards Eternity,
The approaching dark we do not wish to see
Unless in company with the comforting light
Of well-earned close companionship,
Of sympathetic souls who join us on the trip.

Seeking truths wherein the brave heart delves,
We guide each other through our dwindling days
And face the world, and learn its ways,
Its cruelties and its beauties shared
Both the better for each time we dared 
To question this, our common Lot:
To Be, awhile, and then to Not.
And so we share all we have got
To fill our time, to weave our lives.
Without old friends, the path is drear and long,
Where goes but one to compose the song
To tell of what we were, and how we strived
To rescue Sense from Folly, and all the rest;
Of all friends, those we have of old are best.