An uttered knowing, here within my soul,
My central tone, a hint both mild and pure,
It speaks of roads that bring me to my goal,
And warnings against baits I might endure.
When fears arrive, and twilight starts to creep,
It shows a light upon the righteous way,
Disclosing puzzles that my mind would keep,
And helps me see the mettle for the day.
It's not a scream, nor rumble in the air,
But soft directions in a quiet stream,
A stable knowlegde, ejecting despair,
Reviving my thoughts from a troubled dream.
So I shall attend, hear its artful plea,
This loyal advice, living inside me.
This morning was
quite unlike the last.
Stooping branches held
no breath of song.
No trills, no calls,
no sudden flutter flaps
of wings beating air.
Silence only broken
by the hushed quiver
that's something's wrong.
The wind lifted to
stir the birds awake,
to shake their perches
off their quiet
interlude,
but all to no avail.
For the sprays to kill weeds
and baits to kill
rodent pests as well,
had unintended
well foretold and known
blatant consequences
killing birds as well.
Stung by humans who
believe that nature
exists for their convenience,
and that it is appropriate,
to send innocent bystanders
to hell, to where the birds
fell,
silent.
The Lep, has washed hands of St. Pat’s, does lean
and fiddles in space, against tree, routine.
The pot at the end of sun,
was found a bit late; one won.
Lep’s blind to the coot who handles gold-green.
After his fiddling, is over and done,
Lep gets to a-counting, his coins, for fun.
He scratches his head, and blows
his stack, as he rips his clothes.
On hunt, Lep will go, round up rat, with gun.
Not fair, when the sun has gone down; coot cheats.
Now poor, Lep must find ev’ry coin on streets.
The pot, has been stirred, like bees;
emptied by the rat - he’ll seize.
Lep’s gun (is a cane) - an instrument that beats.
The fool and Lep’s money was found..tick-tock.
“If you found my gold, before snooze of clock,
then all would be fair…it’s not.
If I have a gun, you’re shot.
Instead, you, I cane, outline you with chalk.”
Old coot, parts with gold, awakens dizzy.
He coughs, and he laughs, at the Lep’s tizzy.
Next year, he must beat the clock.
and keep, in pocket, a glock.
For gold, the rat baits; the fiddler’s busy.
“We must feel glad that, for the moment, the kea has been saved to amuse us, surprise us, even annoy us and damage our property, and cheekily remind us that land was not made just for the benefit of the human race.”
– Authors Rod Morris and Hal Smith on the kea
------------------------------------------------
Endemic to New Zealand
Omnivores in harsh alpines
Smart, playful, curious bird
Parrot species endangered Kea
Delightfully curious, clever learner
Lover of new things
Waitaha gave them name
‘Guardians of the mountains’
Flying emeralds, camouflage wild
Ground nesting social lives
Vulnerable to ground predators
Stoats, possums, feral cats
Wires, power lines, cars,
Chocolate, wrappers, plastic, rubbish,
Lead, Timms traps, baits
Wrongfully persecuted Nestor notabilis
Vampires relish the winter sky,
they feed on every mournful cry;
The holiday lonely;
Wanting to be caressed in bed,
or make love on an antique sled;
Snowflakes and peony;
You can’t go buy the gift they seek,
to bite and taste another freak;
Carnivorous copper;
Lips that pull all your insides out,
and feast on every fevered shout;
Such thieves are improper;
Beneath his gaze she will give in
lured by such toxic temptation;
Conundrum I admit;
Beware of a festive mirage
that baits you with it’s entourage;
A strong dopamine hit.
For real love, she eagerly waits,
All she could get were several hates,
Her lips even have many open gates,
That deliberately close lates,
Her eyes have several inbuilt baits,
That still could not find her good mates.
She is actually hell-bent,
That it's true love she really meant,
Even if it's just for a rent,
At least love will be in her tent,
Her beauty needs no lick of paint,
But the voice of love is still faint.
For long she has remained a chaste,
Her face, with a nice beauty paste,
Yet real love, she still wait to taste,
And old age knocks her doors in haste,
She fears fallen for a love heist.
Since there's no true love near her sight.
She's one of the heavenly saints,
Tho' covered with several bad taints:
Her neck is with several tiny dents;
Many of 'em were seen thro' many vents,
And in her heart she has a pain,
That, she will have to forever feign.
“Better to shun the bait than struggle in the snare”
William Blake
With a fragile earth warm, I lure my Labeo rohita.
Minute minnows manage many magical Mackerels.
Shrimps attract snapper, arowana, and tilapia.
Aren't baits also in the form of bread, biscuits, and bagels?
Best cows as baits to lions, fleshy fawns as baits to tigers
Live dogs lure the crocodiles, and greens charm the elephants.
Covets, cravings, wants, wishes, inclinations, and desires
Are poured into the human psyche to find their relevance.
We consume the bait. Baits consume us. Irrationally!
With their colour, form, shape, beauty, and lure, I'm imprisoned.
I enter this trap, this hole, and this grave casually.
I struggled all through my life as though fate had commissioned
The piece of butter and cheese, with bread and fish relishes
Which being, I do not know, enjoys each of these dishes?
Have a fixed goal and pursue hard
Do not get from it diverted at all
Then only our aim can be attained
Non-stop attempt is a true winner
The World may ridicule by laughing
Throwing lots of serious criticisms
This must not upset our dreams
We must aim with determination
The World will not help us in any way
Even though it may throw stones at us
If we act numbering the stone hurled
We can never at all fulfill our desires
If we give heed to the advice of all
Our hope will suffer disintegration
We can never fulfill our great tasks
We may fall a prey for their baits
Think clearly having lofty thoughts
Stretch your golden imagination
Use hope and faith as your wings
Try and win great laurels rightly.
See, I'm not surprised
I kind of expected her to speak your language.
I know, you know, I once did too.
I can't write since you left,
You know, it was hard hearing her
Say all that, like a cherry on top.
Speaking of cherries,
Do you remember the taste of my lips?
Or does 'fruity' still make you nauseous?
Do I regret coming out to you?
Didn't you say you don't know her that well?
But does she know about me?
You didn't tell her, did you?
All of it? I know, I didn't either.
She reminded me of myself.
You sure do have a type!
You know, I know a person,
He likes fishing a lot.
So what he does, after catching the fishes
And having them on his hook for a while,
He lets them go, and the fishes bleed.
But at least, he doesn't kill them!
Right?
You see, he doesn't eat fish.
They aren't his preferred species-
(You know what I mean-)
Well, thanks to you, now I know two of you.
Give her a tight hug from me,
Soon, your abandonment issues will slap her away.
Let her know when her time's up,
Together we'll postmortem your baits-
On the autumnal dew
The delighted legs of Sun are walking
Through the mild coldness of breeze
The morning grassy leaves are dancing
On the joyful wings of sky birds
My heart of life is struggling
Yellow sighs of time is mending the unreachable horizon
Wave of tsunami is scathing the parched land of newborn
Solar eclipse is coming to the dungeon of Hades
Emptiness of living vessel is bidding with top baits
©Mahtab Bangalee
Chattogram
06/11/2022
Down the docks beside the bay
There lives a very jolly fisherman
He wears a hat and long red boots
And loves his boat ‘The Mary-Ann’
He lifts the anchor and sets sail
Each day whether rain or shine
Riding the waves out on the sea
He baits and casts his line
He whistles while he’s working
He is such a jolly chappie
He has a great big secret
That makes him very happy
The reason that he wants fish
Is because he has on board
A very special first mate
Who loves a seafood hoard
The first mates name is Stan
He has whiskers and brown fur
He meows and claws the decking
And sleeps with a noisy purr
The jolly fisherman has lots of fun
Fishing with his best friend Stan -
So have you guessed who Stan is?
He is ships cat on ‘The Mary-Ann’ !
21 August 2022
A Jolly Fisherman Poetry Contest
Sponsor Julia Ward
I live on the borderline
but never in a place that's mine
nowhere ever left to shine
i'm never perfectly fine.
Unpredictable
for everything, indictable
you really think my existence is condemnable?
i think you're full of bull.
anyone who wants can take me
they can try to break me
they'll shake me, try to wake me
but in the end they forsake me.
if there's a god he hates me
he knows my sins await me
with promises he baits me
he takes my hand and checkmates me
take my sanity
cleanse me of humanity
strip off all my vanity
you're left with profanity.
I'm never really fine
there's nowhere left to shine
never in a place that's mine
because i'm stuck on the borderline.
We will write
For every thousand ton of ore
There is a nugget,
And so we will write like miners,
Breathing the dust of our darkness,
Filling our veins and lungs
With the choke of our lives.
As words are milk to suckled piglets,
We write with starvation and hunger,
Hoping to balance inequities,
Satiate an endless thirst for peace.
Past lives will crash and updrafts of multitudes
Will be born and born again.
Christians in a hurricane of rain aimed at
the ruin of Roe v. Wade,
And we will write.
Our Lantern is Hope, Our Plea a Silent Sea
Of Restoration.
Through the mist of shallow ears, into
The Droning Deafness of Controversy
We will write.
Words that speak the language of Mind.
An Internal Braille that rolls over tongues
With the coarseness and taste of strife
Luring all gentler souls to a softer life
We write in story, prose and poem
It does not matter if our words are never heard
Or read
From the moment we give them birth,
They are dead.
We also know that death is not an end
The line continues beneath the water
The lure is at the tip
It baits a new beginning
Something will end - something will begin
And we will write
Inside a box does not fit even half of what I have found
and this is over.
Right now that the days are longer
I have proposed myself fewer tasks than in the whole year,
still the baits are in the water
like everything sweet.
I don't know what to expect from here
I don't know if there is something to wait for.
Living comes slow to absorb it
the last time is serene,
like my soul.
I'll keep looking with bridge eyes
because I've always believed that something was missing:
today the years say it,
heart was missing.
The walls have fallen as slowly as necessary.
quavering of love
as cavern of cancer baits
its worm of pity
11/6/2020
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