Alien eyes gaze from a crystal mist of white,
Beckoning, encompassing, consuming your light.
You're now helplessly suspended in wingless flight,
So, don't look for an exit...there's no exit in sight!
They amble and ramble, then they scramble your mind,
The past becomes present, as you'll presently find.
Once you're prodded and poked, then you're poked from behind,
And all of you thought that...Genghis Khan was unkind!
Then you find yourself back, right back where you started,
You've been prodded and poked, then neatly discarded.
Your mind has been snapped cuz, your brain's been bombarded,
White-eyed and caged with the...mentally departed!
They whisk off to D.C., what else could be sweeter,
"We can't "Peter" around, our ship's on the meter!"
"We just heard that your "Boss," 'snot much of a reader,"
"I can't read either Jack!"..."TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER!"
As I get older
And as I amble and imbibe
The wafting of the aroma of roses
And as I get older
I still rock (just not in a chair)
And I roll with the lingo
Of the younger generation
I think things are sick
I try not to throw shade
I think somethings are fire
I am stupidly blessed
(and I say in my Hampton Orphanage drawl)
One hundred percent
As I get older
I find (as Ben Franklin confessed)
That the God of Heaven
Governs the affairs of mankind
The good, the bad and the ugly
And as I get older
(I said older not old)
I am a work in progress
According to the Lord
And as I head to
The autumn of my life
(The words of my Army buddy
And amateur sage Jack
Echo in my mind)
"People say
I am in my own little world,
That's ok,
at least everyone knows me there."
The brindled drop tine bull
Brings his herd along the fence
He steers the steers and leers at me
His look not quite intense
We ponder life, each his own strife, this old cow boy and me
He clears the gate with one old cow
They amble past the here and now
And take me back to the woods by the creek
And the hedgerow post pile by the birthday tree
And the chicken coop and my first chores
The mem’ries flood
To the water tank and the crawdads there
In Holstine’s pasture, way in the back
Not far from a line of walnut trees
Black and tall against the breeze
Each straight as a sentry at his post
Who walked this land
Bow, rifle, plow in hand
It connects me to the land my feet
Negotiate in the autumn heat
I’ve drifted south, as things seem to go
Yet somehow in my soul I know
I’m tied to the land in a way not seen
By those whose mem’ries aren’t so keen
For the ground they trod when their feet were bare
But my mem’ries warm… and it takes me there
Today in my slower world
I watched a Golden-ringed Dragonfly
dancing in the garden: it rose and
Swooped, nearly touching my hair,
Then off again, teasing in its proximity.
In this new, dawdling world
Where time has become petrified,
I amble, maybe sit for a while,
And stop to watch dragonflies.
Breathing, imbibing my environment.
I feel the sun as it beats onto my face.
My pace is slower, more leisurely somehow.
Gratitude grows strongly, nurtured by
The water of experience, and unhurried
by the passage of time.
Now in the late summer of my life,
The leaves are slowly adopting an autumnal hue.
Edges tinged with amber, yet glorious
In their transformation. Marking the transportation
To fall with the splendor of maturity .
The Golden-ringed dragonfly dances still,
And I celebrate the ability to focus on this moment,
So precious and one of so many previously missed.
He swoops and lands briefly on an autumn leaf
Camouflaged but splendid in his magnificence.
On this radiant moment, a ceiling
of new moon beguiles the park-lane
where the breeze tosses its wings,
lit by a fluorescent in a haze I can't
comprehend--- a whip of angst encircles
my despair unrelenting to the beat
of a warm summer eve so glorious;
and yet, my spirit drowns from pain,
from the absence of love 's loss in ruins--
there is no recourse except tear
my life, amble alone in the stab of dusk;
Till a streetchild's voice blows through
my hardened ear-- soft, soothing--
that my inner tempest releases
a spark...his angelic presence rivering
through fresh mist alive with young eyes
dipped in joy: this waif without a name
offers a mangled grip of blooms, a smile
haunting as it is giving: in freeze of night,
I find one of earth's better angels
amidst this heartburst almost suspended by
time's daring request to snuff my hours!
Today I’m grateful as I travel though my life
as I amble through every day…
how the universe hides little bits of magic
for me to discover along the way.
A
an
ant
anthem
anthill
anthology
am
amoeba
amble
ambush
ambulance
am
A
Breakfast bells ring
In my stomach and
I go downstairs in the
Room where deliciousness
Resides with care and love—
Kitchen,
I stumble slowly
Sinking the moment all in
I take every step
Tap
Tap
Tap
I'm downstairs
My fingers wrapping
Affectionately around
My coffee mug
Which is also my mate,
Coffee, I pour from the french press,
And it goes like a spiral
Down in the mug as a whirlwind.
And then it goes gently down my throat
When I kiss my mellow mug mindfully.
Then my toast jumps out of the toaster
Like an acrobat,
Acutely lays on the placid plate
Waiting for me to reward it
With strawberries, cherries,
Or balmy butter or merry mulberries,
Or sometimes just like Winnie
I eat it with humble honey.
Afterwards, the backyard awaits me,
I amble amply,
Scatter some bread for my buddies—
Birds and squirrels,
While the wind greets me,
And they all gather round
When I read my poems,
Keeping them spellbound.
I wish your heart had not been broken, your spirit crushed, so much unspoken.
One day, I’ll walk again by your side.
We’ll amble through the countryside.
To watch the fish jump in the stream.
To hear the wind whisper through the trees.
As the cuckoo announces the start of spring.
I know that sound will make your heart sing.
And then you’ll fish the old lagoon.
Strum your guitar and sing a favourite tune.
is it Friday already; my pill box says so
how many Fridays have fallen
into my palm. my nickname
is Friday, and I pop
my morning pills, interminably
mindful of ginkgo-biloba
and the rest; pillage
of my youth. left
for the book sale; to drop
off books and pick up more
from the library floor. ancient
you must think. watch me
amble row to row; I’m not
a Spring chicken; I’m wintering
in the sun; wandering; wondering
if pills are squandered on me.
oh yes, one more thing
I have to…ahem…go
Two figures in a meadow of years
crowns with lilacs are their memories
moments of beauty but also tears
Now, but ghosts, they amble silently
Often they walked here in younger days
in life, they journeyed, his hand with hers
Searching for the sun in a grey malaise
a summer rain couldn't wash their tears
They like to stroll here 'neath pastel skies
among leaves dappled with days they knew
memories' sadness still finds their eyes
and blossoms reflect each goodbye hue
Ghosts of long ago often leave hints
that are best seen under lapis skies,
in shadows or midst lavender scents
Perhaps this truth Vincent realized
Kentia palms catch a breeze
And sway gently in their rows;
This verdant sanctuary
Comforts me like the psalms.
I amble slowly between them -
My head tapped by the fronds.
I feel the warmth of the sun;
The fresh air fills my lungs.
A kintsugi pot rests on pebbles -
Beautiful but defiant.
Gold sealed up the fissures -
Reminding me of who I am.
On the feathers of the flowery heart
I try to ignite the candle of spring
I try to seize the light of a silent sigh
I try to embrace the untold language
I try to kiss the burning cold moon
On the petals of withered tears
I amble for the great poetic stream
I search for a grave rhythmic verse
I merge into the erotic seed of nature
I dive into the sober inlet of the Triveni
On the glittering ink of the gypsy time
Reviving elixir has inflamed into venom
Ethereal feelings nestle in the lazy mind
Scratched time sprouts the root of past
Not defeated but I lost in the dumb town
In the lane of mirage life is time’s clown
©Mahtab Bangale
08th January, 2025
Chattogram
Into the fog I fell,
amidst the bone chilling cold,
caterwauled by silence -
eerily the end
of the year, dismal.
With the call of a forefinger,
I float through the mist,
silence switches
to a whisper,
rays appear through the haze.
Into the cradle I amble,
dizzy from 2024 strange happenings.
Lemons and apples fill the trees,
bright, juicy, bountiful, and
plenipotentiary fruit
of a Happy New Year.
Here’s where it gets weird:
we must take care
to love and serve
and the trees will prosper.
Love, joy, peace
patience, kindness, goodness,
gentleness, faithfulness, self-control* -
the kind of fruit that will produce
good results
for years to come.
The Whos in Whoville give praise.
The pennypinching Grinch** gives in.
Bells ring and voices raised.
Cheers, hopeful and kinetic.
*Fruit of the Spirit, bible reference
**Whos, Whoville, Grinch - Dr. Seuss book references
Sadly I breathe misery
From all that’s happened to me
It’s difficult to forget
What’s played in the minds cassette.
I amble along in fog
Can’t glimpse the sun for the smog
Or grass of green, it’s unseen
If only it was a dream.
But then a nightmare it’d be
A dream I’d not wish to see
It’s no kind of paradise
What lies there before my eyes.
I rise up in the morning
Praying no mist is forming
So that my vision is clear
From dawn until stars appear.
Rarely I sleep through the night
Demons hound my head with fright
I wish I could find some peace
So that my worries would cease.
To inhale joy I must do
Whenever I’m down and blue
There’ll be an answer for me
Till then I’ll breathe misery.
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