Best Glooms Poems
In the sunny September morning
He went to find the most beautiful roses
For the girl, he loved the most.
He didn't realize that it was fall
Getting beautiful flowers wasn't possible at all
Still, he tried very hard
And then with disappointment, he plucked
A bunch of half dried roses and gasped
He went to her house with couple of thoughts.
Hesitatingly, he knocked the door
She opened and found him kneeled down on floor
With the bunch of pale and dried roses.
He was shocked he thought she would be angry
But she was so happy and in excitement
Her smile was the perfect thing he saw
He realised that her smile was no less than a flower that glooms
He should never search beauty in the whole world,
When he already has the FLOWER THAT ALWAYS BLOOMS
She lays still upon the night in nakedness
Her body unclothed of scent
She strewn them upon night wind's breast
I gather from the firmanent
The delicious sweetness with my nose
Her soft lips beckon, I touch them
Tender with the honey her tongue expose
The stars all blink before her diadem
O but summer turns to fall, and blues come
Like Winter making wreaths of wrinkled grass
The sugarcane overpowers my heart with rum
Odor dripping from the night's dark flask,
But still remember my jasmines white as moon
And soft, so soft her tender blooms
In that tenderness her vanity and my own ruin
Her fragrance calls me when it glooms.
Where I do not exist there is emptiness,
a world with no little girl gathering blooms;
no child born a poet full of awareness,
no dark poems about cemetery tombs.
Not a word written of life and all my glooms,
oh, terrible to think of no consciousness;
and no young woman who painted and hummed tunes.
Oh, what of my mom and dad and my grandma;
no forest walks holding hands with my grandpa !
My true essence floats in an infinite space,
long lush hair floating like a torn tangled dream;
I would have no soft skin, rosy cheeks, pale face,
no husband who had eyes like emerald green.
no verdant views, vaulted trees, vivid sky, place,
floating in a void of clouds I think ... I scream.
On the tomb no baby name engraved in stone;
for my baby boy was never born I moan !
Hummingbirds hover in my hollow chasm,
even a speck in void I can find beauty
oh, a world with no me is hard to fathom,
no complicated, poet often moody.
No writing with imagery and phantasm,
oh my gosh I would never be on soupy.
I ponder existence with no poetry;
no fantasy story, no sweet poesy !
Rural doctors
In quiet towns where roads are few,
Where fields stretch wide and skies are blue,
There walk the healers, brave and true,
The doctors of the rural view.
With bags in hand and hearts of gold,
Through rain and shine, through heat and cold,
They journey far where need is great,
To serve the towns that time forgot.
In simple clinics, makeshift rooms,
They fight disease, dispel the glooms,
With limited, yet mighty, tools,
They stand as pillars, patient schools.
Their knowledge vast, their skills refined,
In every touch, in every mind,
They bring a hope, a healing light,
To places often out of sight.
For every life they gently save,
In every soul they make more brave,
They build a bridge, they pave a way,
For better health with each new day.
In fields where whispers of the past,
Meet modern care that’s built to last,
These rural doctors, strong and kind,
Are heroes in the humblest find.
So let us sing their noble deeds,
Their tireless work to meet our needs,
In rural lands, they stand and serve,
With endless heart and steadfast nerve.
Written Sept 1, 2024
© Dr Upma A. Sharma
Live your life as If you would never
Have a morrow, and make your day the best one ever
Live your life and erase the glooms
That make your life seems black to you, and make it blooms
Just keep it in mind that there’s an inevitable doom
Which won’t allow you to carry the gall
Of life and where you’re going to pall
Live your life which is a boon
That others wish to have, and if you lost it you’ll regret soon
Live your life and all the negative thoughts quell
Sorrow and sadness it’s only going to swell
Life is a seed:
That’s growing according to your deed
So, take the good, fresh fruits and leave the weed
Life is full of bitterness that to sweeten it you need to learn
Thus only happiness you’ll earn
try to avoid being dull
so live your life in lull
Nothing can substitute death
for it is the final destination
and ere you last breath
crystal clear all your abberation.
Rest forever or birth to numb dizziness
at you part, you leave all harms and assaults
people most theist, called quick as bless
is perfused, to save them from life's thunderbolts
Long life of people swing as tombs
where none pay heed to temple and churches
who will pay heed to these pale living glooms
these clowns in whose core only money perches.
Flirt and dirt only thing hatching in heart
and society dwindles with values and morals
each thing lost as perfect human you never wert
lacking basic emphaty but adorned with quarrels.
AKASH SANGWAN
As the tree is in its prime
the golden leaves, bliss sublime
one day they fall and glide away
leaving the tree with deep dismay
the shivering tree it scolds within
the breath of winter now begins
it swiftfully and harshly engulfs the tree
some broken branches, and some break free
The cold it ends the light it sends
heat and joy fills all the ends
the broken tree it once again blooms
Stronger than ever, breaks free from the glooms
As the tree is in its prime
The grass green leaves, bliss sublime
No more sad love poems
But what can I write then
I’ve had no happiness
So how can I write a happy one?
All I have to write about
Is lies
Broken promises
Shattered hearts
Scared souls
and that stupid face that glooms in my mind.
You tell me to write a happy love poem
I’ll try
Can I lie
Is that alright?
Because isn’t that what love is about
...Lies?
THOU I WALK THROUGH THE VALLEY OF DEATH, I FEAR NO EVIL
Stricken but not stripped
Cursed but never coursed
Shot and never block
Stomped but stopped
Broke but never fell
Slapped to be crushed
And drag down in hell
So you stand there to take a laugh…
Drowning in a pool
To swim I never knew
To scream is like to call for more
Darkness to crave in like Mr Croc
Wiggling and shaking his tale towards me
To consume me as his night meal as he is good at
Fog creeps in
Thick clouds floods in
Lightning making a scar
The sun hides out
Trees glooms on
While the moon shines off
The wolfs may haul
To the tear that cries out
For the blood that splits out
As the sharks and scavengers approaches
Only to see the face… face drop,
But they, not knowing
Not knowing that from within
Deep inside at the core
There in the heart that blobs
Lit a candle
Though smelted down to no form
The top of it shines a flame
Joyfully sings and dances
Like a new born baby seeing his mom coming
And knowing that rich treasures of milk is to be served
The flame,
That glows in the night
Like a lighthouse at the seashore
That could be seen by sailors from afar
And giving them hope
That there is life nearby
And the sailing and wriggling is about to be over
Because there is rest
The light,
The light a sign of life
Life to be alive
Alive and has defeated
Defeated and knocked him out
Because the light never gives up
And though he can take his best shot
Draining all he has and all he could he wont
And he will never
Never as he wishes to turn off
Turn off the light
Because it was lit from above
And thou I walk through the valley of death, I fear no evil
Author Neo Masetlane
In utter exhaustion, the streetlamps bow their heads
As rats and bats below head to their beds.
The grill in the street exhales a plume, a sigh;
As the streetlights flicker and die,
One by one, in a row, with limp heads,
Soon to show -
A reflection of sun, an orange crown,
As the city sheds its old night gown
Of smog and of mist swept deftly away,
By a morning breeze, and parked trees sway
To the rhythm of life, the resuming of flow,
The horn-hooted strife soon to grow
From the rumble of streets, like carpeted rooms
As brighter light dispels the remnants of glooms
I know not the paint of your face nor the slang of your name
I know not the acoustic of your voice nor the creed before your knees
I know not the double of helixes taut beneath your skin
Nor do I know the furnace that keeps you earthen
But...
I know the hoofs in the sound of your heart
I know the miles in your stride
I know the walk you walk, the step you step.
I know the despairing blue of the waters you sail
The sea is songful and your sails spatter malevolence
Trauma picks her strings in the orchestral chime of your haggard vessel
Your efforts are a ripple that dies before lying head at shore
Canaries, squirrels and all; sip from the succulence of your effort
Your fruit rots, and falls devoid of ripe.
Your will is wilting; your gravity is shredding,
and worms of serene are dragging their bellies out of your field.
Your heart is a soulless harbour of tears; bereft of laughter
Where ships of despair lay anchor upon the lifeless hazel sands
And those of hope toddle away
The trolls living in caves of your cochlea whisper to you
And make believe the world can go on without you
Your heart is a tuber that pockets sugar, blood and vitriol
And fear glooms throughout its girth
Shuttlecocks fly, stars burn, flowers bloom, honeybees dance, birds sing, but humans---smile
Yet your lips are a two ply elastic, numb to stretch, plyed to wretch.
The waters of choice breathe and fins of hopelessness cast shadow upon the mollies of happiness
Choose life, choose happiness, choose to be human---live---smile
Your heart is muscle but a muzzle
Unstoppable, a thousand swords not
Iron your fist; leather your palm and let fingers kiss caress unto the trigger
Load your glock---cock; choose to be human---live
Should the wells of ammunition run barren---RELOAD!
Fit to screen the thumbnail and see the bigger picture
Sieve out the coarse of your options and remain with a universe more
Choose happiness, choose life, choose to be human---smile
Walk away from the frozen harbour of tears---live on
And catch up with the fleet of hope
Hidden betwixt bloom-petals bees and beetles play,
Sculptured, like scorpions, black clouds often collect;
Cool moisture vaporous breeze on air perfume spray,
Sky, in schoolboy costumes, colors-brushes select.
Pregnant with drops, heavy-laden clouds, Torrents pour,
Creaks and cracks break soon like streams and rivulets vast;
Bullfrogs, in snake holes, seeking mates, like lions roar,
Knaves! They slip into the mouths of snakes as break-fast.
Parrots in green silks, amidst leaves play with the rooks,
Branches, dripping crystal blood, wave-like live phantoms;
Lightning, piercing cloudy caverns, light up all nooks,
The drama of nature - performed with cool tantrums.
Though glooms of monsoon resemble crucifixion,
Monsoon, in true conception, is resurrection.
(Amidst floods, the monsoon in India is a season to relish and cherish. Every scene of monsoon can give themes for many poems).
30 July 2021
Literature is herself a clown.
Without this coming first,
no great art is made
except glooms of ***** authors
peddling like traders of a trade.
The second needed
is the dying of the tedious
sigh,
the writer must drown in happiness
and be filled in joy.
What covers will stay
and what empties will become
an empty road stand,
no beauty or use per say.
And last,the writer needs to master
the ideas of the whirling clock,
the deep jokes in ordinary lines,
and the skills of hung
heads,swinging apart their blood;
executed for what is done,
the writer executes the book
and the book,the image stays.
...To get back
get back, else
the Grand Probation
fails...
We suffer hale
'cause
We suffer, hail to
a mobiused Morlde`
of looped
Perpetuity
The wakesleeping
of
Self'sexcesses,
moral absurdtities
redolent of seay,
Hawaii football,
Golf Clubs'
cervid cudgels,
'bout covers
the
covert bases...
Dolmened
"...for nothing but Humanity"
(ainsi a-t-on beau),
said Beckett '38,
'neath a Billennium of atrabiliousnesses,
glooms interrred in
sorrows' ignorance
ignorance's sorrow, &
Entropy disavowed...
We,
the Sons 'n Daughters fraught,
of Fossils' legacies, unbellowed
It Can't Happen Here!, sayeth
Saul's Seer, but
Whom recalls Sinclair's '35, now
a viscous internecine?
Shoot!,
are We answerable
to
"We suffer
'cause
We suffer," only
by
Massing for Weapons' Destruction?
Aye? Nay?
Of a rusting, Mammoth Morlde`
which neither
Lives-Loves
by
Higher Law?
H.e.m.
12.1.MMii.
(Revised...)
Strips of pale silken scarf
On the soft crimson light
Spreading from land to sea
After the blackness of night
Amid sighing moonstone of seeded saturn
A crow is crowing to break up the pattern.
Kanya Kumari high monarch’s maid
High colour in her cheeks of sunset
And a foamed white set in her face;
Her father departed for the Kailash parbat
To find the fair maiden a suitable match
And found Shiva there meditating
Which the heavens chose as her consort.
The gods became nervously worried
That in case the pretty maiden married
Who will kill Raku the demon?
With his jostling gestures at large
Sowing the dreaded terrors in all
Because the maiden full of beechen blooms
Could cast a spell of beauty over demon alone
And kill him without any weapons thrown.
The marriage was then fixed
For some hour of the midnight
And Shiva waited in his dark cavern
For the auspicious time to arrive.
But gods took shape of a cockerel
Which darted and crowed at midnight
With calls awash Shiva became agitated
And cursed himself for being overslept, vegetated
As the morning has come, he has betrayed the maiden
Sorrowful he left forever, under the clouds gloom laden.
Kanya Kumari waited for her consort
But alas the hour of midnight gone
In her despair she plucked some flowers
And threw it into the sea over the bowers.
Though the horizons are red
After the bloods of the midnight
The maiden still waits there, forever
Keeping vigils over every path in sight.
Kanya Kumari is the goddess of hope
Of drenched patterns, of agitated lore
In elevated hope that ever suspires
She waits forever amid despairs and mires
But glooms are hindered by her bright desires.