Tunnels cut through a mountain chain,
an unending chain,
a chain that binds;
that twists and turns on itself again,
delivering pain
and darkness that blinds.
At the end of each there is a hope,
a ray of light to which you grope.
When you reach it at tunnel’s end
the next begins as if to portend
the coming of others, unending nights.
The mouth of one the other bites.
As you slip into this endless void
you turn right back trying to avoid
the pitch of blackness and faster than fast,
your wheels turn and pistons thrust,
until the image of the turning wheel
first slows down and then stands still.
It starts again, but spinning back
taking you deeper into the black.
Your whole life becomes this blur,
past, present, future become a slur
and the yearn for eternal rest
becomes a fantasy, a dream at best.
Tunnels cut through a mountain chain,
an unending chain,
a chain that binds,
that twists and turns through another plain
through the living brain
of unsound minds.
the lines of boundaries are set
etched in our minds to not forget
that what we see becomes best bet
that claims the truth as grounded-
yet may become confounded
we look at stars that gleam up high
entrapped by boundaries of sky
but in that darkness, we ask why
these sparkling gems are spinning-
for answers, we were clinging
these modern times have changed our view
of what we thought and what we knew
when science gifted its breakthrough-
space boundaries seem slacking-
our knowledge, now backtracking
with Hubble Telescope, we found
thousands of galaxies abound
we thought were only stars, newfound-
now boundaries, erasing
and endless space embracing.
each galaxy makes up the realm
of points of light that overwhelm
with telescopic eyes at helm
new possibles still brewing
while probables we're viewing-
beauty in this darkness shown-
perhaps we're not alone
Florid banshees recoiled, neck and hankering sneer.
A succinctly exuberant suggestion when selective.
Came on, fell flat with laconic ornamentation.
A miniature jaunt, interment; glove comparted.
Pin-striped foxtails attuned tune maddening clairvoyants.
Precisely predisposed, wine-flavored latten tobaccos.
A wooden-tipped juxtaposition, stilling waisted.
Bygone midge nonguarded, slunk olive drabbing on bayou.
Thicken handkerchief lightly dabbing brow.
Darkness entrapment, fiat practice gymnastics.
Money management, coinage magnet, honored in mathematics.
Backflipping,
Backtracking,
Backpacking.
Super-Soaker moisture, quickie; quickly, socks on prickly.
Sloped incline, inside Mount Saint Helens' Slip 'n Slide.
Every road is closed
backtracking to find a way
to my parents house
A flood of thoughts
I find myself thinking them over
Rather religiously
They get caught up in the flood sometimes
And spill out without a warning sign
And it all rains down in piles
Like an ocean brought to life
And since when is being sober
Just not worth our time?
We're putting in the miles
Without a statement to return with
And we're practicing the lies
In which we'll tell
to blur the line
Between intuition and confusion
Are we making forward progress
To a proper state of mind?
I feel as though we're backtracking
Is this our warning sign?
And it all rains down in piles
Fifty years ago this December, I was taken to the nearby foothills, by the scout leader and his right hand helper, to complete part of the tenderfoot test. It involved successfully tracking the two of them, as I would have studied that part of the scout manual. It included the elements of backtracking, animal print recognition, and other tracking basics. Similar to the childhood game of, "hide and seek", I had to close my eyes and count to a hundred. After the allotted time, I looked around and saw their tracks heading off into the newly snow dusted landscape. Thankful for the white stuff that made it easy to see their footprints, I easily followed along, even through the heavier made backtracking tracks. When the tracks took me under a large evergreen tree, the footprints suddenly ended. I searched carefully every direction, and scratching my head I was completely confused, until I heard their muffled laughter... just above my head!
pictures of Sherlock
show him inspecting the ground
never looking up
date:12/18/19
contest:December Haibun
sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
A goose hydroplanes
on a strip of wet air.
Comic honk,
wings backtracking frantically.
It blunders about directionless
as if bananas
were attached to its feet.
It’s the slick chill
making this happen.
The funny thing is,
it’s not even funny,
because a goose that can skid
on an ordinary blacktop
probably won’t make it
into Spring.
laying down
having a hard
time getting up
not sleeping
mind racing
with the noise
of cars chasing
each other around
an oval track
backtracking
fond memories
finding found
dream footage
photos took at
take a look at
perfect timing
in our lives
leaving me
to sigh
to laugh
and smile
Isolation, confined, suffocating,
Life's unbearable silence constricting,
You scream but not a sound escapes,
The struggle is real but no one relates,
Not progressing, but not backtracking,
The stillness violating, movement lacking,
Life's burdens weigh heavy on ones heart,
So much so you beg for yours to depart,
The sunshine dances across the sky,
It's something that always passes me by,
Then the moon rises ablaze in the dark,
It's beauty soon ended by the singing lark,
The brakes of dawn marks a new day,
You pray its less grey than yesterday,
Disappointment lingers in the the air as a foul stench,
I thirst for happiness that I'm unable to quench,
Depression, anxiety, heart ache its all pain,
Dark thoughts lurk inside my insane brain,
Only cold blood pumps through each vein,
Is it to late, am i dead inside, from such pain.
Poetry is good for the soul.
Like antiwords, the absent
truth, walks with you.
It had indented the push.
Profanities are on rise.
Marginal dare has a
bracing truism.
I am working on a thesis.
The candles are out.
Light will come from burning
doors. Smashed windows will harbor
the grudge.
Satish Verma
JM
Does not want to believe he is invincible
Because he knows he is not invincible.
Because no one is invincible.
Gives himself a vision,
Deadline to complete his mission
Forces him to shine
Achieving goals.
Alternatively he may be not saying the truth
and turn into the greatest despot in Maltese history,
or a Pumpkin even !
But so far, of course
he is a winning horse.
SB is a
political pauper;
petty and petulant,
believable ? barely !
Patronising from his protected pulpit
a pathetic politician
morally banckrupt
but not corrupt
a Janus
a weak wimp
Loser,
backtracking and left behind.
Shoreing up a sinking ship
Will be forgotten and forlorn.
Apart from that
h`s no black rat
a great guy.
In the wrong place
At the wrong time
Preparing the way for
the great Messiah
somehow i lost myself
right now i have no feeling
in this moment i lose myself in the façade that includes her
my one true love is waiting for me
i am too much of a coward to tell her that i will not be coming back
our son has had quite the battle with spinal meningitis
last night he called and said his chills were at that level again
i never returned his message for i was too busy indulging on cake with immoral icing
i am only thinking of me and the reflection i see in the mirror
i only think my son will hate me when he is older when i am dreaming
i want to pay my son a visit and surprise him with my cinnamon rolls with the sweet cream stripes that he likes
however guilt is kicking my butt right now, and i am so weak that i cannot even fight back
i find myself backtracking without even knowing it and end up at the she devil's house again
as she straddles me for another ride to self made regret, i blind myself in the temporary ecstasy to get my conscience high and oblivious to a truth that is so obvious
i lose again
Leave something for me to imagine.
A skeleton in a pond
leaps to the moon.
In an air bubble
lies the history of a suspended
name, wasted away on water.
A war is declared on the
family of words, not spoken
to anguish of man.
I thought of my sun
averting a disaster. The sprouts
will not come out of the earth.
An enquiry into the nature of
immanence, leads to starvation.
The body of truth turns into a snake.
The revolution within, shows
a false victory. You start again
from the ugly fingers.
Satish Verma
I was waiting,
the moon dance will start now.
Night was softly purring
near the damp thighs of hills
in happy valley.
Day was wasted
in prowling for silver spoons.
The hushed memories of hot summer
will criss-cross my thoughts,
food of soul, for hungry.
The life finally accepts the defeat
before passions, interned forever.
You keep holding the truth till last breath
and walk away from glory of songs,
reaching nowhere.
I don’t belong to me.
SATISH VERMA
Confused in a way in which with words I cannot speak.
you know that I'm missing you every day of the week.
Our families stare like where insane.
and we would just laugh and tell them to piss of as if we were to tell- -god the same.
We'd Obsess over the smallest of things.
Love, Abuse, Cheating, oh the hate it would bring.
The Habit would build oh the fear it brought.
I can't rid you of my mind I cant fight the voices in my thoughts.
Picking this flower from this field of weeds.
This flower obviously doesn't belong to me.
I know I'm Picking this flower that doesn't belong.
I just know if I had played my cards right, this wouldn't have been so- -wrong.
I was stuck at another fork in the road, two doors staring me down.
Both leading to my destruction...
We both went our separate paths, we failed and fell into corruption.
No backtracking today, those door were locked as we shut those doors
I catch you cheating, you swear you can never love me more than any
but that soon grows old, if its a lie or not, you had sex with plenty.
But now that I've grown stronger, I'll still never let go.
But don't look for me if you cant learn to grow.
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