Best Insouciant Poems
i never wonder why i love you
why animals can migrate with no map
why do some moths as well as butterflies
able to choose wings up or down
yet they never vary in their species
the sun rises in the East
the full moon is gravid with romance
birds innately build nests without a blueprint
nary a lesson, born with their own song
all of these things point to a natural order
of what is and meant to be
that which is tried and true
what has worked thru the ages
what most of all endures
when i am holding you
my arms feel filled beyond measure
everything in this world is where it belongs
i love you because i belong with you
as does the evening's song to the nightingale
come morning the lark's duty to sing dawns' glory
the roosters claim upon the rising sun
a mockingbird's mating call fills the darkness
i see the natural order that surrounds my life
i never feel a reason to wonder why
you belong with me and i with you
the Earth and Moon, lip to lip
in a celestial dance, lost in each others' gaze
insouciant to a surrounding universe
it is said that if you never had a question
you will never need an answer
and when i look into your eyes
i never see a why i see every reason
of why i love you
9/18 Kismet
There's a love that's divine
and it's yours and it's mine like the sun
And at the end of the day
we should give thanks and pray
to the One, to the One
Have I told you lately that I love you
Have I told you there is no one else above you
written by Van Morrison
from the song
Have I Told You Lately That I Love You
Sheer lucid waves caress this oyster beach,
an aqua drowse viewed through a saffron lend,
and siren rip tides coax into a breach
as lambent grains of sand insouciant wend
the dunes of torpid eons through the bend
of hourglasses warped like new-blown glass.
In half-remembered mimes soft breezes send,
behind my eyelids as sweet lilts amass,
the plucking of a lyre string as high seagulls pass.
4/6/18
I dream of a beautiful India
Where the roads are neat and clean
Where proper public toilets are built
And the fields are always green
I dream of India free from diseases
Where hygiene is maintained by all
Where people take care about proper sanitation
And realize that clean India is the nation’s call
Till when will the village women strive?
Who will listen to their voices and let them survive?
Yes, we the youth will become the nation’s guide
And we all together will fight for hygiene and sanitary rights
Those who join hands for this noble cause
To them, we all must salute
And for those insouciant people of the nation
I regret calling them as Indians
Gandhiji had said- ‘We are the country’s scavengers’
He himself removed dirt from the streets
I salute Bapu for his thoughts
For a speckless India he had fought
Bapu is our ideal
Swachh Bharat Abhiyan is our goal
with Bapu’s blessings and love
All the hurdles, we can easily overcome
Our actions will be dynamic
Nobody can stop us from heading toward the peak
I am sure the rays of hope won’t fade
All problems of hygiene and sanitation will soon become abate
I look at her and I can see
a woman approaching slowly
the land of old age, her
night-black hair invaded by
lonely grey strands, stragglers
of an approaching army, a
relentless force built over
sixty years, stealing bits of
her beauty, loosening her
skin, lightening her bones.
I now can easily see the old woman
she will become, and while I miss her
light-stepping, insouciant youth
which pulled both heart and body,
at last I can hear love's secret sound
as she draws my soul ever closer.
(May, 2015)
As the second hand ticks away my breaths
a half-clad moon catches my eye.
Was a time when I might've seen
the ghost of half-eaten melon,
but I'm older now, my thoughts less spry.
Dark fear's hobgoblins
were long since relegated
to memory's chuckle drawer;
open windows to warm nights ease my mind.
I must shave and write.
Neither seem as pressing
as the once hormone-inducing prance
in distant starlight,
the hot exhalations of desert air.
Nor do creased page corners
to detective thrillers and t.v.'s prattle
beckon hours with purpose.
I'm the insouciant sentry
at castles in retirement,
the dragon minus annoying fire.
Crows no longer pick eyes of the dead
in picture frames on paneled walls.
My shoes don't guardedly tread
engineered woods of perfection.
Aging brings a basset hound,
graying around the nose,
laying placidly on the rug.
I'll get to tasks eventually.
For now I commune with the moon,
allowing my mind the idyll
of a worn desk in a cluttered room
and the dulcet laze in lyrics of night birds
serenading summer's first hours.
6/19/18
Cider, you,me…in front of an insouciant fire.
Cinnamon cider swirling in cloissone cups.
Life, a perfect sunset in your amber-chocolate eyes, I dearly sought.
Later, to our bed, to peacefully retire.
The calico cat’s tail wound about our feet.
The tartan blanket embellished us in beauty.
Creating wedding plans, a pleasurable duty.
In graciousness, that we so blessed did meet.!
1/27/2023
If passion speaks beyond self-centered will,
if stones may cry aloud because a man
keeps silence, or if whispers wash the mind
as storms in springtime will refresh the earth,
then it is poetry that feeds our hearts.
At birth it is a soft caress that would
protect and nourish thought in gentleness,
to draw from deep within, a song that prose
could not express, a sigh devoid of art
that art alone may sing,
the singer but an instrument,
and that of conscious awe.
All this, and still demanding to be heard,
for if it were not so, we would not know
or speak of poets; wars might then
be just regretted or dismissed as lost
for lack of strategy; arms would
be taken up for power alone
and men would then survive
in shallow grief, insouciant within,
a tired state of lethargy, where no one
ever cares.
The powers of heavenly places may be thanked,
for muses dwell upon Olympus, not
within the hell of circumstance, or haste,
or juvenile romance--
for there is power indeed when insight travels
where the lofty giants led
and left upon their pages, majesty,
and bled, and wept, and gave us beauty
that device alone could only try to emulate,
and fade away.
~
i don't care if the stars shine tonight
even less the current phase of the moon
and this restaurant could be anywhere
i would not care
you should have understood all of this
because i never looked at the menu
when i ordered
and as the waitress disappeared
into the din of a dining humanity
i was hoping in my depths
what would you notice most
i never took my eyes
away from you
while the universe is insouciant of centers
i found mine
each time creme brulee comes into my life
i live in this moment
Oregon 8/23
Silent in its violence
the sun lays ancient fire-fingers
on the heat-scoured concrete of the promenade:
boxy seafront chalets tilting and creaking at angles,
scorched, salt-stiffened gardens,
sand dunes, a screaming blue sea.
It is so difficult to accept a loss, a deprivation.
Innocence flaps its winding sheet behind me,
its mummy cloth of myth.
As from an isolated moon I see
the first cold breaker rush to engulf me -
an underwater undulance,
undercurrents of menace, of malice.
The sand-strewn strand stretches into infinity,
shimmering with the visions, the voices, the echoes,
the faceless departments of government and society.
I watch the insouciant people around me,
they possess a flatness, like blank paper.
They hump and lug plastic picnic paraphernalia,
ridiculously, all beach grime and blistered backs,
reduced to a red cindery glow.
Ice creams, scooped from the freezers
in trinkety seashore shops,
are clutched in sunburnt hands.
They are spreading striped sunbathing mats,
snide and smiling slyly.
Is it a mirage, a delusion,
dredged from the desert-dry air?
The air snags in my throat: the flat summer stench
of warm wood, sun lotion, billowing cotton -
blank but expansive. The creaking, the flapping.
A strange wind howls and banters in my ear
and the train shrieks through its station,
the station of my brain -
a riddled red abyss, poker-hot.
The sun is sinking -
a disc of fire, a blood clot.
Water floods the ridgy shallows,
eddying into treacherous pits.
The black gun muzzle of my mouth
blasts the oxygen from the air.
My nerves a hive of wires suffering
the scarlet atrocities.
Pokers put out my eyes.
Squeezed by the forceps of agony
I see nothing, there is nothing
but a mirage of wavering dunes closing in
and the sea splintering; a multitude of glass glittering.
A dark blue midnight awning has its portrait,
etched by a a starlit silver lustrous galaxy,
silhouette of black lace frilled clouds,
in somber quietude adrift beneath a vibrant pearl,
amber moon whose gleaming radiance bemused awhile,
at the stark underbelly of flickering candles,
that the urban nocturne spellbound revel in perchance,
sleep pattern held captive by ethereal bliss,
angelic dreams wrapped in opal tincture,
what optic relishes await at early first light,
a colourfast dawn unveils it’s bronze bespoke banner,
heaven bound yellow flare insouciant whim,
red orange burst sky a stirring presage,
for wingspan flight of stone gray plume creature,
natural world usher whose gold throat cadence,
rouses wonderment among the persimmon trees,
tapping into human yearning for awestruck omen,
Kashmir bright velvet hue azimuth a scant gem,
yet sapphire orb twinkles close or distant lure
might embolden dull minds with ardent spark
While the waves lash the shores and splash in soft music
The dishes we serve here in this Golden Grain restaurant
Emanate aroma into the nostrils a pungent sweet exclusive
Have you visited this earlier too or how are you insouciant
A sip of sweetly sour sea food clear soup with tofu in your mouth
While on your hair the wind from the Arabian Sea plays its tickles
As you change your seat for the cool wind coming from the south
Our gracious waiters serve you mouth watering sea food pickles
Tasting the cheesy tuna salad as you share your moments with sea
The boundless sky above invites you to look at its cracked blue art
We are mystified if we will have the listen and sight or have the glee
In Sorpotel with rice, the Goan cuisine we must take to fill our heart
Made of pork in spices coconut vinegar and green chillies
Sorpotel is the essence of Christian gastronomy of Goa
The pungent and little salty flavor will without doubt ease
Your fatigue and more so if you take chunks of chilly soya
To which delight you will employ your perception is
A challenge as your eyes are amazed at the sight of
Seagulls in front of the restaurant leaving the breeze
Have become scavengers in their wing-spread hops
There is the all time favourite basil leaf spread lovely
Pizza dough of Phoenix with a crisp but chewy crust
Made by our chef himself who learned his art at Italy
Sweet salty pizza margheritta of ours take you must
Bebinca you all have to take in its full seven saffron layers
Get the personification of Goan spirit in this unique dessert
While listening to and looking at the splashy music players
Nonetheless your taste buds seek the sweet food for a flirt
Golden Grain is a golden moment in the golden sea beach
Do step in and taste the food with waves within your reach
_____________________________________________________
9/9/2016
For My imaginary restaurant - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
"Bildungsroman"
childish things
become children
the sweetness
leaves them
when the dream
in reality leaves them
to walk hand in hand
with the nightmare
of what becomes
us as adults
protagonists are
sometimes heroes
sometimes villains
inside us all dwells
a versatile shadow
we save ourselves
by extracting
the unwanted
familial
in our marrow
antagonists
challenge the
villain in our heroes
we are torn in two
walking down
the middle path
a territorial line
safe and blunt
drawn from
the grey of
sharp black being
and null white seeing
dull dotted lines
wanting erasure
signatures
we are footprints
walking out
all our contracts
time stipulated, then
broken
for better or
worse
driven to Bildungsroman
a complacent district
insouciant
no longer kicking
and screaming
tokens passed
between malleable
lips, minds slipping
softly
marshmallow
into the long kiss
good night
children again,
dreaming
becomes us
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"A Dream About You" / Airshade, Dreamscape
https://youtu.be/lt0_ql7duDg
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bildungsroman
I constantly search for it
but it's enigmatical elusive,
hidden in a Mona Lisa smile.
Should I arm myself against self inflicted pains?
Camouflage my feelings with insouciant emotions?
For all my cirrhosis equivocal endeavors,
I manage only to forge a jealous rift,
until fragile truths bring sullen tears.
For God is love, and love is truth.
Had I misused it?
Is that why I can't find it now?
Yet they say that love is beautiful.
Where does true beauty lie?
All I find is veiled secrets,
thinly disguised behind mirthful masks
frivolously worn on carefree Valentine days.
Should in dire despair give up?
Monotonous keyboards clicking
Redundant clocks ticking
Phones ringing, elevator doors swinging
Coffee pots brewing, vending machines spewing
Insouciant workers, carefree shirkers loitering
Clerks, secretaries previewing, managers reviewing
Visitors on stairs, in lobby chairs, lines queuing
Fate's dissonant chords o'er content hordes teeming
From Crescent's waning moon, spell of doom flinging
Across availing sky, a wailing strain is stringing
A portentous raven o'er torrentous swells winging
To his charted course, a venal force with guile clinging
Feral beast an imminent peril to prey quickly bringing
On the ethereal cusp perching, for crown jewel searching
Swooping down with force, beams from foundation divorce
Death's shadow in dust o'er screaming remnants streaming
Night's, palling darkness Day's ordained glint stalling
The lean old men in my vicinity
wake to find themselves a day older
then turn away from the mirror to reflect
on their miserable circumstance.
Then they masque their decay with cologne,
snap on their one-piece spandex sportswear
and wheel off to meet their ancient colleagues for tea.
Along the way they blast glances at a car
that dares to edge past with its foul exhaustion
until at last, snapping locks onto spoked wheels,
the knights errant mingle at tea, glorious
in their molded aerodynamic helmets.
They are one for all, and all for themselves,
and their speed dials connect to the bank, the spa,
the athletic wear store, the restaurant, and the escort service,
for after their sweat grey romp across town,
they whirl into the finest hotels by the harbor where they strip, shower,
wrap their wrinkles in snow white terry towel shrouds,
and await the knock of their Tuesday morning girl.
From their Victorian styled suites with golden phones for service
they call their brokers and shuffle stocks in their decks till
check-out time. They glare at an insouciant desk clerk
whose obeisance has not been forthcoming and, quickly insulted,
call the general manager and have her job, as promised.
Long, long is the bicycle ride home that stops them for the evening.
wife the third proffers white wine in fluted crystal, laments her
feverish responsibilities as a Matron of the Arts (ignored, of course
by the lean old men who slide into their pyjama suits
and slumber by the fire while Rachmaninoff plays his Second.)
They will die—just not today,
for tomorrow is still their fat child,
waiting to be eaten.