Best Credulous Poems
Pretending to be the pure an innocent,
a viper the mask hides.
In the absence of those to defending themselves,
the more vigorously it swears.
Those that show too credulous favor to listen,
instead of being careful, to insist on sound validation.
No elixir or spell can cure,
only truly depends on first loving themselves.
7/19/2017
At this very moment coolies screamed, ‘train',
We scampered packing up our bags and bales,
A long-awaited train’s a certain bane,
But this one turned a boon, such were the tales,
An English gentleman hailed our hero
From his carriage and we parted to go
Our diverse ways—to our cattle-class seat,
There was no chance to know who that man was,
Nor yet more light on his tale could be lit,
Indeed, never-ending may prove some pause.
Some truths, some lies of life lie ever so,
Maybe, he took us as credulous fools,
A painful nerve and anxious seldom cools,
Some truths and lies born are never to know,
Perchance the man minted fun at our cost,
And damsels in distress lay buried, lost.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIV parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
Twenty six today, I saw
the luminous silver moon
make it's way through
the familiar sky that
bends above my head.
Each day I grew enthusiastic
and more credulous about
what lies ahead;
Waiting and hoping to remain
content with the one wish
granted.
And thereupon, a shooting star
In it's enthralling spectacle
A fallen seraphim with
broken wings crowding
my innocence upon
that fading star
Making a wish
To blow it away
into smouldering incense
of a new age.
The virtue was being wronged, depicted his woeful tale of prey and innocence.
Gradually people gathered to listen to the poignant rhetoric.
blown away by the felon's aching, awful narration;
pitied the miserable plight, lamented the dejected tales.
There were babbling, the throng silently protested the unfairness, the injustice.
In innuendo, the protagonist raised the pitch of the tragic tale, the foul play.
one day, the aggrieved throng, broke the glasshouse of the pointed swindler of innocence to penalize,
rejoiced, contended, the folk were prattling the nature's law of justice.
The protagonist in awe, applauded the mob for the transgression, for the hold up.
All of a sudden, the cynosure of their eyes,
became bean ideal of rectitude and integrity,
applauded for the moral fortitude, honoured, doted on.
The proclaimed perceived upright hero was silently starring, astounded at the susceptibility of the mob, utterly blind,
subtly entangled in his devious, fabricated, intrigued plot!
The protagonist of the moving tale, removed the mask at the end quietly, with a sardonic laugh;
in triumph to give a puff to the credulous absurdity.
The machiavellian hero, was meticulously eavesdropping, peeping at the gross fooly.
The irony! The demon in disguise, is glorified by mercy of ludicrous asinine.
Lying in an augur's aviary..
Reneging on my virtues,so credulous..
The feying fay being taken to
bury,
I see things called ambigous.
Slowly fading odour of scantity..
In Attica, end of augustan age.
Wings of Azreal, the martinet
deity,
I see these, with espied rage.
Hydaes casting spell every
night..
The abysmal wizard of dark
kinglet.
Between scylla and cherybdis is
my sight..
Seeing through the torment
outlet.
Through that window, with
arriere pensee..
I see me, the ambling ember
Once alive, now frozen modus
vivendi..
Promenading with flowing ichor.
Still with each sunshine..
I see hope blazing through..
A jocund scene,hard to miss.
The changing magniloquent
hue..
Palladium of gamut bliss.....
Grandmother By Saiful Haq:
Skinny Skin Bloomed with Wrinkles,
Overshadowing her dimples,
Staring with Aghast Eyes,
Expressing herself in a fatuous Noise.
Credulous to lavish promises,
Melodramatic to laziness,
Pertinacious in her religious beliefs ,
Punctiliously attending her colleagues.
Torpidly trekking with a wooden stick,
Very Prone to being sick,
Showering her blessings diligently,
Is the patriotic head of Our family.
credulous at times
or so it seems i am
as i peer outwards
through speckled windows
beyond the splatter of rain
from dawn's misty skies
the crimson edges of the horizon
seems distorted from view
as the sun peeks through
newly budding maples
that line the path
of these empty streets
where only silence lingers
on the corners
of every lawn
it seems not long ago
one could hear laughter
of children gathering
as dogs curiously walked by
but now it's only a memory
of faded days
as if winter
still hung in the air
i see the robins
frolicking from branches
as if embracing the warmth
of another day
risen without noise
a full moon
still rests on the edges
of this sky
that seems clearer
as if a fog has lifted
from everywhere
but my mind
my erstwhile dreams
hide behind closed curtains
of this worrisome mind
in these troubled times
i can almost hear the roar
of the ocean's ebb and flow
as i close my eyes
beneath these salted mists
that fall from within
as I seek the aperçu
of understanding
as unknowledgeable as i am
looking from the inside out
"my heart still feels those times
spent in the warmth"
April 5, 2020
Poetic Line Contest
Sponsored by Silent One
end line credit Eve Roper
My heart still feels those times spent in the warmth - from the poem 'What the eye sees the heart cannot forget.
I often think of the game of life
And just how wicked it all can be
We know that it’s often rife with strife
And often so much strife to see
There are many ways to play the game
And many different ways to be a winner
I’ve seen a man cheat to obtain fame
And one destroyed by this evil sinner
By a magic man practicing a flim-flam
A trusting man is sure to be taken
A credulous soul unaware of the scam
Will unknowingly be mistaken
So when it comes to making money quick
Or getting to the top with ease
Don’t rely on the short cut gimmick
Be on the up and up. Will you? Please?
How pitiful of me
To carry your heart
In my own
When I know it beats
A somber tone
How credulous of you
To speak to heavens
So lovingly about us
Urging for my return
As footsteps we heard
Walked past each other
And not a hint of love
Exchanged a look
Perhaps it's best
How clueless we are--
Unprepared to mend
Two broken hearts
December 19, 2018
Placed first in contest #530 by Brian Strand
DEVIL AMONG US or just MANY FACES
Hebrew described Satan as adversary,
Not a sole individual that you should worry.
But they walk among us.
They talk among us.
Never noticed? I doubt it;
As they drop their despicable bomb among us.
Never faced one? It’s skeptical,
Check out the mirror; they born among us.
In our era, it's people with many faces preying on disgust.
Let you out to dry scathe or rust.
A face that you thought you can trust upon,
Turned out to be loathsome with a prosaic face on.
Nowadays Satan suits up to a comic character.
You don't know what cynicism you come across at the end of your vector.
Nocuous it is, being credulous on your side,
don’t trust me? Try yourself as long as you can abide.
So what to do? Just wondering never resolves,
A face to develop a character to evolve.
Make your heart an invincible fortress,
Bearing plushy reflection, discreet your clouds of distress.
And every time the verdicts on you;
With a grin on face see if it comply, else eschew.
Just like everyone else around in demise,
Go on conceal your face, not even devil can recognize.
- Prateek Shukla
His love indescribable
His presence overwhelming
A child longing to meet its father
Its cry so unbearable
Mangling to the heart; melancholy
A bondage unbreakable
Apart from being crestfallen by the cruel world,
the child croons to its father to hear its cries,
to save it from the cruel world and its temptations.
World has taught its people to misconstrue everything
World which continues to create cross-patched people,
so acrid and easily credulous
Affectation people
desperate to receive miracles, wealth, see signs and wonders;
trapped in our own world, self-centered.
Credulous people we become
easily deluded by the cunning.
Set apart we must become
like servants awaiting their master,
like new born babies opening their eyes for the first time
like the shepherd's sheep
like masterpieces of the master
The Choctaw
never taught me what the
Choctaw would’ve taught me.
The Australopithecine never taught me what
the Australopithecine would’ve taught me of.
The Memories, these Memories,
our Memories are fading songs in
an echoeless cave.
The listeners have tired,
moved on.
The choir sang, regardless...
...for a time.
And, in time, the silence overcame
the joys of recalling and the calling out
was no longer met with the
Response.
The ochre greened-over,
the iron dust fell from frost and
puddled dryly on the floor.
Summer winds, hot and desiccating,
soon scoured the walls and ushered out
the swirling cinnamon sand.
The drums beat to mineral-rich cave-dew,
on occasion. A sometime rain that formed cones.
They stretched with weatherings; sometimes taut,
sometimes loose. Their stories lost, nothing taught.
In time, their skins followed their long-lost bones into
the buried burned and carved, now-broken empty bones
Home. The silent tumulting earth. The cold overlay of the
Singeing Beneath. The singing stalled. The echoes bounced for a time from
voice to ear to wall to child to child to wall to stone to dust.
The stars never taught me what
the stars might then have taught me.
The dreams and dancings, the tremulous and then-credulous
tremolos, the inspirations of ululations, the song-stories of
peoples, of healings, of wilds, of ways...now silent.
This silence, in this echoless cave,
is the most wanting, most missing,
Sound.
Sound I’ve ever heard.
The cave never taught me.
The music never taught me.
The drum never taught me.
The dance never taught me.
The cave never taught me.
The fire is out, the embers lost.
The handprint remains on a wet wall in a dim corner in an out-of-the-way
scree-field crevasse just past the Cree field impasse.
The teachers are gone.
The ancestors quiet.
The cave never taught me.
The silence may
yet.
Arriving from unknown somewhere
He set up clinic in the market square
Declared he could cure any disease
Using herbal drugs of plants and trees
Townsfolk being credulous
Soon to his shop began to rush
Diabetics, rheumatics, asthmatics flooded
None over his degree brooded
A few weeks later, afloat was this rumor
He cures for he rightly detects the humor
Realizing that every client is a prospective fan
He talked in technical terms even with laymen
He would expose his victims to numerous medical terms
Also trade-names, contents, firms, diseases and germs
Just to exhibit erudition and sound philosophy
Without occasion he embarked on learned topics
Often dwelt on sedatives and epilepsy
Or discoursed at length on tumor and biopsy
Then in a torrent of rodomontade would relate
Histories of cases cured with specific names and date
Discourses full of references to Ayurvedic treatises
Madhav, Charak, Susrut and other varieties
To prove his point he recited aloud original excerpts
As a result ,he soon won the epithet: "expert of experts"
"Discourteous ingrates! They even do not thank
Though I give 'em new life" exclaimed the mountebank.
Always eager to spar against allopathy
At the slightest provocation he would lecture on allopathic hazards
Or would lament on untidy hospitals and unhygienic wards
Boldly averring: "To hide anything from patients is a deadly sin"
Within no time he became a celebrity
His tricks worked and brought him publicity
After a year DHO came to see him in person
And sought his counsel for his sick son
A minister's car at his doorstep halted
Just to enhance libido and weakness treated
He gave the minister powerful mercury dust
Which triggered his vigor and inflamed his lust
Then to CM's ears reached his fragrant fame
Who called him secretly telling him not to declare name
MPs in turn heard of this rare phenomenon
And turned up to consult him one by one
Director drug control came to seek his advice
For chronic dysentery and perennial bronchitis
At length PM had to send him his compliments
For service to nation and" particular "patients
The whole world acknowledged him as master of his craft
But a person knew his truth in his own staff
His compounder knew his master was a fake
But he swallowed the secret for heaven's sake
Women are seldom powerful
They have endless courage
Can control their rage
And still stay wonderful
Women can be full of common sense
They can control the whole family
Encourage their husband sincerely
And her children with great conscience
Women can be beautiful
They may wear rags
Move around like stags
And always stay colorful
Women are seldom talkative
They cannot stop bragging
Truly and pitifully annoying
Others who are secretive
Women are sometimes credulous
They think that a man is a gem
Do not want to see the real “him”
A situation becoming ambiguous
Women can be awfully evil
They can be very envious
Cannot stop from being malicious
Until they are knocked out with thrill
Trust--
There's none
anymore!
Not here, not now,
It's an old fable
long tucked away in books,
Oh, in sermons and scriptures,
Mythology and fairytales;
A treasure rare and precious as gems--
A figment of our imagination!
Trust but thyself and to thyself be true,
Yet indulge not in thine own conceit,
Mistrust no man without just cause
nor credulous without proof,
Stay not far from reason
nor close to folly…
Trust’s hard to find,
But when found
Let not
go!
Abdul Malik, 10/2/15
~Trashed #3, Sponsor, Broken Wings