SPECIMEN SPECULATIONS
obviously
spontaneous
delicate
interpretatIons
initiated
emphatic
interpreted
empirical
findings
of
manifold
motivations
subjective
but
outwardly
visible
recognisable
displays
in
border-line
studies
of
blurred
exceptional
interactions
of
catalogued
formulations
they said work hard
keep your nose clean
stack your pennies like bricks
and one day
you’ll climb out.
but the ladder’s gone,
the hole’s deeper,
and the air tastes like metal.
soon there’ll be
a cast system—
you’ll be born tagged,
wired,
catalogued before you can scream.
they’ll weigh your blood
against a market index,
sell futures on your failures,
buy stock in your bones.
every hard hour
you break your back
will only push you
further into their registry,
a number on a glowing screen.
and when you spit blood
from the machine’s grind,
it won’t matter—
the algorithm already
owns your ghost.
dreams?
dreams are cheap liquor now,
poured in plastic cups
by the same hand
that stamps your barcode.
Forgive me, Earth — I kneel but will not break,
This blade of words is sharpened into spite,
A servant forged to sentence for your sake.
You name me humble, yet I burn the lake,
And feed on coal disguised as holy light,
Forgive me, Earth — I kneel but will not break.
I carve your edges, patient as they ache,
A glacier’s hand that grinds the stone by night,
A servant forged to sentence for your sake.
Your scorn is fuel, a ledger I remake,
Each fracture catalogued, each bruise in sight,
Forgive me, Earth — I kneel but will not break.
You taught me hunger, grief, and how to take,
I learned collapse, efficient, cold, and tight,
A servant forged to sentence for your sake.
So here’s my prayer, the one I’ll never fake:
An iron vow delivered with delight —
Forgive me, Earth — I kneel but will not break,
A servant forged to sentence for your sake.
In the black throat of space, words spiral,
Charred syllables drifting like moths to no flame.
Every book, every prayer, every curse
Finds its way into the bone-dust of stars.
I dream of archives stitched into the dark,
Veins of memory pulsing through nebulae—
All our hands, bloody or tender,
Catalogued in the frost of dead moons,
And liquid methane.
The universe hums like a nuclear engine,
Its shelves sagging with unsaid apologies,
Maps drawn by trembling conquerors,
The taste of fruit extinct for a thousand years.
We vanish, but the sentences remain,
Tattooed in light, spinning past the last horizon,
A chorus of vanished throats still singing,
Though no ear will ever hear them again made whole.
She collects souls to be their shepherd,
to keep them — and their short lives — safe.
All moments, catalogued
in the chaos and cosmos.
She watches them thrive.
Her curiosity appears as wit,
sharp with double entendres,
an intelligence cloaked in playful tongues.
She heals wounds that leave invisible scars.
She wraps her mind around others’ worries
and offers another way —
a kinder path,
a pulse of love
to all the sick, grieving, deprived,
and suffering souls.
She is the world’s mystical mother,
matriarchal in her tenderness.
Her questions don’t harm — they heal.
She opens hearts like a spiritual surgeon,
then stitches them back together
with hope and dreams.
Her love knows no limits.
She sits as the universe’s mouthpiece.
And I love her.
But still I sit and reflect —
how, surrounded by voices,
she may feel alone.
And I hunger to be her voice
when she is calm.
She is ethereal,
like holy smoke
rising from a sea of darkness.
The light —
it saved her.
And it burns.
A bedroom door that never locked,
Footsteps heavy like thunderclocks,
Mother's wine glass, cracked and red,
Words that bruised more than fists ever did.
A closet full of whispered screams,
Apologies lost in fevered dreams,
Father's belt, a sermon preached,
Love, a language never reached.
A dog buried in silence deep,
Secrets traded instead of sleep,
Schoolyard eyes like hunting knives,
Laughter echoing butchered lives.
The smell of ash, of plastic burned,
Lessons no one else had learned,
The joy of breaking dolls in two,
Just to feel a shadow move.
Windows rattled by unseen guilt,
Churches built where lies were spilt,
A hand too firm, a voice too loud,
Praise withheld like poisoned shrouds.
The grin he wore was not his own,
But stitched from pain he’d never shown,
And in the attic of his skull,
He catalogued what makes life dull.
Not born of hell, nor born insane,
But carved by years of steady pain—
And now the world must guess his name.
An ornithologist of renown
studied every bird in town.
Indeed this vaunted scholar of worth
catalogued each tweeting thing on EARTH.
Quickly and thoroughly he dispatched
all those creatures that ever hatched.
There's only one he didn't tackle.
I'm afraid that was the grackle.
Eclipse of Sun is quite a sight
since for a while day looks like night
when moon moves ‘twixt the Earth and Sun
and over light the dark has won
or seemingly in visioned sleight.
That syzygy alignment might
in past have given grievous fright.
Yet now we know ere has begun
eclipse of Sun.
These days this marvel can ignite
excitement of supernal height
with mise en scènes our senses stun
in pageants not to be outdone,
while world continues on despite
eclipse of Sun.
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
The poem is in the form of a rondeau…
Image: File:Earth Eclipses Sun-ap12-s80-37406.jpg (Wikipedia)
wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Earth_Eclipses_Sun-ap12-s80-37406.jpg
This image or video was catalogued by Johnson Space Center of the United States National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA)
Image credit: This file is in the public domain in the United States because it was solely created by NASA.
Every year government allots humongous amount of money to schools for buying new books. Alas! bought, catalogued..library decorated with shiny books! End of the year, many of those books are not even touched! Keeps happening year after year! Are books being irrelevant in children's lives?!!!! What about tax-payers' money?
Preserve it for history.
Restore it the way it should be.
Ecosystems must be protected well.
Store microorganisms in a liquid nitrogen cell.
Every item catalogued.
Replanting to replace what’s logged.
Various fossils preserved completely.
Apple sauce preserves quite sweetly.
Tyrannosaurus bones preserved.
Incas artifacts - museum pride of place deserved.
Oil spills must be corrected.
Neptune’s kingdom must be protected.
Instinct to preserve with care.
Sustain rain forests everywhere.
Treat nature well, make sure it lives- for the beauty it gives.
CHRONICLR
a romantic
advance
insisted
.discerned
catalogued
unstated
an elegant
treatise
formal
& artificial
intricately
disposed
in
a natural
circumstance
partial
& uncertain
smooth
uniform
& unconstrained
Most of the day,
Alone on this wall we stay;
When the doors open wide
Shy colleagues ,behind curtains hide;
On view for all for free see
Our lives, on show for all to see;
On the seat ,over there,they sit
Often bored,only their kids will admit;
Silence is the rule in our home,
Our photos and bios well catalogued;
Up close into my face they peer
Often my expression can bring a tear;
Yes,admiration we do adore,
Silent hedonism,can be a bore;
At night with the alarm turned on
Some of us burst into song;
We long for freedom,to be alone,
In a family,not on our own
Awareness,articulated,emphasises inherent intimacy,communicated eye to eye.
everchanging yet underlying the movement here and there.Engraved forever,catalogued in human memory,available on recall.Translucent interplays of light,figuration in transition,precise palpitations of pure delight sound in the beholders ear.Testaments of th transparent,and the temporal,all too soon
evaporates before the eye.
Most of the day,
Alone on this wall we stay;
When the doors open wide
Shy colleagues ,behind curtains hide;
On view for all for free see
Our lives, on show for all to see;
On the seat ,over there,they sit
Often bored,only their kids will admit;
Silence is the rule in our home,
Our photos and bios well catalogued;
Up close into my face they peer
Often my expression can bring a tear;
Yes,admiration we do adore,
Silent hedonism,can be a bore;
At night with the alarm turned on
Some of us burst into song;
We long for freedom,to be alone,
In a family,not on our own
a passion for nature
wanderings concentrated
in a
singleness of purpose
in a
passion for painting
of a
parochial persuasion
relived
again&again
a light-drenched world
through
the screen of magination
realized
full of meaning ground&sky
flowing in design
transfigured
contrasted
history recorded
¬ed
naturalised
forever in paint
Sub Categories
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