Best Textual Poems
I wake
cold and uneasy .
Fitful, next to
fate’s anonymity.
The savannah interior
frees me,
from local textual thoughts,
and the worlds addiction.
Refused
the inheritance
of earlier memory.
The girl, a dream of trains and weight returns.
We had histories
You know!
Rain washed lives,
late to change, distant in the burden of experience.
And I think I called
her,
but in burnt mornings
the words scrabble for numerical sense.
Always my superior,
I couldn’t arrange
for my sentence
to compete.
Not when your up against a champ!
I lull,
back to Solomon’s song,
the morning of sleep
and dark water.
I believe,
my phantom body,
has fooled me again,
and recite………….
I can’t remember to forget you
Your breath,
now silent from my lips,
issues instruction
to sentient
others.
And you partially
recall
my own
jumbled style,
fresh, with your cinnamon scent.
The art
of remembering
is never to forget,
you
in the night of the triptych song.
Drawn
on the canvas,
of vivid
fuschia coloured memory.
I am, textual in purpose.
This
neural faith
shows little compassion,
and
saves only the tactile of images.
I’m not a Teenager,
I’m Human,
Sometimes,
Parents think I’m an alien,
Strange language,
Textual misdemeanours,
Designed to confuse, bemuse,
Abhorrent behaviour,
Perpetual beautification,
It’s just a phase.
Maybe.
Impeccant,
of non-textual matters
one’s covered flesh,
and hidden embrasure’
as diffusate primer
slips life’s veil, and
in agitated pontlevis,
cleaves the universe’ reason…
“Egads! What sorcery is this?”
Holy heart failure, Batman!
“Beavis and Butthead”,
on Soteriology!
or merely, this word wizard’
celebrity; slap my knee,
and pass the shinola please
would you then consider the following:
palliate your lesser selves, or else
where silence seethes, your spirit will
bleed asunderp; and in the depths of space
and time you will forget your moment’ cill
so divaricating your soul, until
that whisper of your assibilate voice
remains in memory’s forever
as that sound of death’s last hissing
And now to secularize
your quarters out per se,
a knotted rope and stallions four
two palms, a cup and nothing
more than, one’s perceived illation
with rigorous and self-righteousness’
precipitancy, my will so locates your
remaining sang-froid serendipitously
and in humaneness casts, this lifeline
out to thee for free for you to grasp,
of each person placed above all things
as nature sings concretism’ simplistic rhythmic
wringing “stream of consciousness”,
a-flowing upon thought’s eternal thaw while
Descartes’ “Substance Dualism” does so
battle, against Plato’ “universalia ante res”
supernal then, is an ideal’s whim, or Ids whine
within one’s thought’s stokehold, as axis bold
or love’s bestow, fires the flesh to render
that pondering patch of thinking’s wrath
awaiting that awakening moment’s bewhisker
in essence, life’s xenium given in kind
as is the universe’s night skies splendor
passing that lending thought, behind a silent chador
visualize the context and intent within
a compelling and perplexing write to win
an idea’s kneel before that “mercy seat”
this particular and incomplete entelechy bleeds
of questions asked and left unanswered continuously
of generations after generations in weeping
conscience wistfully fawning in defeat
and admitting, to a lowly ponderings musings.
SECLUSION
observed
patterns
transcribed
in
creativeness
&the
reception
in paradoxes
o
literal
originality
quality
fragmented
with
mandatory
fidelity
inwith
the
existence
to
preserve
a
willingness
undertaken
in
textual
alternate
deviation
TRIBUTE TO SHAKESPEARE ( APRIL 23 BIRTHDAY)
O! Bard of Avon
You are second to none
Never went to university
But popularised universally
Reigned the Elizabethan age
With unbeatable craze
Caught the pulse of audience
With your textual themes
What a creative plots designed
How beautifully you portrays the characters
Your works still alive & updated
Which reflects old & new world
You are a source to critics
With your plots & sonnets
Undoubtedly you are irreplaceable
Words aren't enough to praise you
The world is indebted to your contribution
With ever lasting impression & passion
We cherish & Share your memories
To the next era with pleasure
Long Live !! Long Live Shakespeare.
Penned by
Arun Kumar swarna
PGT ENGLISH
Except the grace by which I'm saved
Jesus,
Make my life a real prayer to you,
As I'm crawling, begging, pleading & passing through...
Perhaps, we in our society have bit off?
Far more then we can actually chew;
Yet who knew in full view/
A parade filled with wasps falter to fly on through nor to stick like glue;
No questions anymore just to settle for what is new/
~
We have been sliding back into an evil abyss with sin;
Shattered dreams in its timeless appease/
We then choose to water down your saving message/
Except the grace by which I'm saved,
~
In your Holy word you cause such a heavy tidal wave so behave...!
Yet you have given mankind free will some cheap thrill,
Instead many just settle for the lie that claims I am what I do;
In place of lobster brisque they end with burger on fry/
~
That is no lie!
Again through hearts that are very closed to cause harm sound the alarm!
Today more then ever we need to face the music & sound the alarm;
In pulsating textual fervor just don't ever call me late for dinner,
The vibe can go further,
With faith as a child one can get a little wild;
~
Except the grace by which I'm saved!
We first met coasting the blurred lines
of the information superhighway. We
exchanged polite words and respectful
kindness, though we seldom saw or heard
each other.
I am the old man of touch and eye contact,
you are the princess of text and illusions.
I adapt to your hot realms, to your affinity
for glittering screens because past and future,
old and young are but shadows cast
over the now.
Once I learned the rules, I believed in you.
You are alive and fragrant within the text
you deliver each moment of each day.
In the photos you send, in the stories you share,
you thrive and brighten my journey!
Social Media Princess,
my apps erect you through your words,
like the heroine I love in my favorite novel,
the perfect Eidolon in my dreams.
You return, making your offerings
again, and again. I somehow hear your
whispering words soothing my
solitary hungry heart. I somehow awaken
to your textual passion and kindness,
to my love and longing for you.
Tired Babylon
poor tattered remnants of great babylon
through poets works walls left battered and worn
she stands a sign of glory all long gone
so used the land is once again forlorn
the erudite temple is all that stands
whose textual beauty is all but dry
the desert realm left far more arid lands
but in these words shan't ever say goodbye
a new paradise needs to soon be found
still fabled ruins haunt each poets mind
forcing the over used into the ground
originals so rarely get enshrined
the legends and centuries do sing
leaving great babylon the reigning king
(A linguistic experience)
Was there any argument that justified
the existence of the word-disease?
something more was said of this
at the beginning of the completion of the understanding
who disputed any logos establishing the new negative balance
on the influence of the word on the general condition
of the illiterate impatient patient?
scary demon-letters!
they run through the phrasal labyrinth
and the fat of leftover vowels
it smears the verbal walls and there is no law
that limits the limit of the limitless
sick phonemes accept any pain
there is no medicine and there is no leaflet insert
it is all unpredictability
I've been using gerunds around
like when who doesn't know
or not knowing in all a textual body
goes astray to where they call where...
structures of our existence
rankle like fire spewed by a volcano
figurative patterns extruded by natures way
elements of destruction thought beautiful
mesmerize in formed flight...pathways labeled
“fixed” doesn’t matter where...up close
and personal through barriers of sight
textual wisdom reminders washed away by the
flow of existence slowly and surely making its way
stars pinpointed reflect glowing embers
sonic blasts never heard by anyone except trees
one tree falling, one hand clapping never more to
be heard across eternities of the ages.
revolutions
in the ear
reiterations
of textual
slapstick
mimesis
mimicry
complicit
in verbal gestures
occupying
verbal spaces
accessing
language
shapes
spaces...
scents
of secrets
lingering...
...lingering
In The Zone
whispers...
through the dark deranged portals you evoke fear
filled with angelic fervor on it's textual base
yet we dig much deep then ever before
cries in the dark will light the spark of what we need to know
still we stand idle as the average novice introduces its spell
along again then the sadness evokes a newer feeling
dwindling through the vain extraction of the never world
we visually see a flash then a new day approaches
on the lawn two lovers having passionate sex
the screams of vile extreme explodes throughout
perhaps this is the place where Nero tread
yet again I sit alone in my house now huddled in the corner
the twilight sun has tainted my inner vision
the howls of Satanic laughter gives a piercing shriek through
a candle was lit by the edge of my bed
One can remain lax in the quietness of the moment
yet again the setting of the sun
a new day has begun as we embark on the moment
Does death hurt you the most or is it fear
You can equate logic through a firm grasp of the hand
whispers again...
then a faint cry,
we construct living pyramids to honor the dead
A stroke of luck an the impulse ensues
onto so much more but for what
are we grasping for straws what are we searching for ?
quietness again this time I'm in the zone
as if zombie creatures with viscous long fangs that bite
dripping blood off side we run away to hide
no one questions anymore no one has a voice
alone one last time yet feelings of grandeur awake
to the message of hope that spills from the sky
a challenge to be free is a question of time
eyes with spots digging holes in a pool of blood
Satan laughing again spreads his wings
Suddenly I awake but to what ?
The End of Herstories
It used to be called senility
now Alzheimer’s, or dementia
but in Agatha’s case I’d choose
primary progressive aphasia
in which her language capabilities
slowly and progressively became
impaired as the author of more
than eighty novels lost the ability
to swim in the Alphabet Soup.
Postmortem textual analysis
suggests her vocabulary decreased
by fifteen to thirty percent.
And was her last mystery
“Elephants Can Remember”
an explanation or
a cry for help?
out of the particular
a birds wing
a waterfall
some things beyond
the ordinary
of moments past
drama of the season
atmosphere in the soul
sharp outlines
softness of vision
a philosophy of nature
spontaneous pleasure
in
an overflow of feeling
portents of proportions
vistas glimpsed
in elements&symbols
dramatic dreams
made real
by
discerning
eyes
natural beauty
sudden
& shaped
from eye to brush
unconstrained picturesque
in sublime raptures
particular places
poetical portraits
with pleasing effects
romantic feelings
beyond
the everyday
topography &textual detail
in light
& movement
ambitions so complex
washed
in colour&feeling
reflections in water
purposed in passing
a mass in shadow
solemn grandeur
masterly executed
of
sentiments