bandana blazing red,
belt cinched tight with purpose,
the squirrel muttered, “I’m rootin’, tootin’,
and absolutely not sharing my trail mix~
bless your heart for askin’.”
He fled beyond eternities, boundless, aching voids.
The walls of time tallied his sins, nameless.
Yet he chose the Sun, a prison ignited.
Fanatic heat, blistered skin carved to stone.
Far above, her glance burned velvet through storms.
Her gravity called softly, furnace-muted,
where light bent to frame her shadowed figure,
a silhouette of celestial grief. She wept.
Pierced by her sorrow, he circled endless days.
Golden chains cinched his wrists like whispers.
He watched, consumed by her form's fierce quiet.
Eyes hollow with wonder; soul quaked, undone.
Then fire cooled, surrender wore as peace.
Her light softened: molten balm, tender pain.
His tears joined hers, falling like volcanic rain.
Time cracked. Eternity shattered. Still, they burned.
Grief rewritten, etched into ash-drawn orbits.
"Witness me," he thought, sun-borne martyr.
Escape became weight. Freedom became her gaze.
Cicadas drone their sun-drunk, tireless hymn
as July swelters, gold and overfull.
the driveway steams, the plastic buckets brim,
and heat, like dye, won't sit still or stay dull.
We cinch the cotton tight in twisted rings,
as if a knot could hold the blazing tide.
but sweat and color are unruly things:
both spread, both stain, both won't be denied.
Cerulean and crimson breach their line,
seep into one another, slow, unplanned,
and thicken into a hue with no design,
no name the rubber bands prepared it for.
The soda ash unlatches what was sealed;
the color doesn't sit, it moves in deep,
past cotton's threshold, till it's not revealed
but lived in, permanent as things we keep.
So heat unstitches winter's careful fold,
loosens what was buttoned, cinched, and pressed,
and turns the plain, repeated days to gold
the way a fever turns a body's rest.
Unwind the bands. Let August find the proof:
a swirl no ruler's hand could have designed,
the driveway's stain, the sun-bleached, faded roof
of summer, fixed now in the changed mind.
There once was a tiny squirrel named Tim
who practiced Tai Chi with great Zen.
He gathered a troupe~
a pint-sized nutty group~
three fluff-tailed apprentices and then…
They donned little leaf-green attire,
stitched snug with twig-threaded fire;
each jacketlet swayed
as their movements displayed
a woodland-born martial desire.
With belts made of braided vine-twine,
they cinched their small uniforms fine;
each buckle was crowned
with an acorn they’d found~
a medallion of mastery’s sign.
They circled in synchronized flow,
soft paws in a forest bungalow;
their medals clicked light
as they moved through the rite~
a jade-tinted tai-chi tableau.
When you left, dreams tripped my hopes forming
bruised knots tightly cinched on my heart.
All truth be known to the heart that listens
all honors given to the soul that knows
When every creature on earth is perched
then humankind will know its church
Upon this blessed land of given birth,
let Mother nature's womb be cinched.
Al had dated many women from France, Spain, England and such.
you have never dated an Irish lassie though? Asked his brother Dutch.
not yet, he admitted, are they different than the ones I have squired?
Dutch said, ”You would have your hands full, now until you get retired.”
Colleen was an Irish beauty, with ginger hair and a verdant eye stare.
Al tried to look away, but the idea of dating her was more than a dare.
Colleen laughed when he approached, acted like he was a Boston dope.
he was soon spending all his hours washing himself with zesty soap.
he wanted to impress Colleen; she was the best he had ever seen.
she had her brothers look him over, Al to them was not quite keen.
this cinched the deal, and the young couple ran to tie the knot.
with a five-year-old, a four-year-old, a two-year-old; they are still very hot!
The carriage arrived at the ball a few minutes fashionably late.
Which was exactly what Fairy Godmother had hoped for.
However, the carriage was empty.
The door opened and no one appeared.
Where is she? F.G. asked the footman.
He did not talk.
Neither did the driver.
Fairy Godmother was not allowed the luxury of this kind of mistake twice.
Her supervisors appeared from the ether.
First you let Snow White run off with a dwarf,
And now you have lost Cinderella.
What kind of a reenactment are you running here?
At least she got Red Riding Hood home safe, said Pinocchio.
His nose grew a foot in seconds.
That cinched the deal.
They revoked Fairy Godmother’s license.
You came tiptoeing into the fortress that I build,
Broke the shackles that cinched my soul, with your shimmering eyes.
Disintegrated the iron chains that I wore,
with the warmth of your smile and the fondness in your heart.
Liberating caged birdie, which I held on.
Au naturel I am now.
Looking at life yet again with a child like glee.
Buddy, berserk I wish to go,
with the news of your departure.
Wish I could hide you from all,
Keeping you all for myself.
But I have to let you go
To explore new frontiers,
And make new friends.
Fly my friend, fly
I would not hold you back,
though my heart bleeds
And my soul cries.
A space in my crimson hollow you would always have,
Silently, wishing you more smiles,
and more happiness where ever you go.
©Chitra Arun
Nov 2022
I put a saddle on the wind
and rode it through the storm
The bridle placed, the buckle cinched,
the reins, my soul reborn
Inside each stirrup passion spurs,
the present close at hand
Behind whose mane I charge within
—in search of who I am
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)
the taught red skin wrapped her wrist like a ribbon;
dim and so trimmed with disease.
all bruised from a blood-let cephalic incision;
she's thinned out and gnashing her teeth.
departed in sin, packing cyst into vision;
the brim is now flavored with grease.
knee waning ceases along with derision;
nodes flare and impair with a seize
the solemn defend what is friend to infliction-
a pick to their interlude fevered condition-
it's pierced with precision all cinched by collision;
efficient it crimps where she bleeds.
a lachrymose feed into feral rescission;
omniscient it pins down the seams
What is fear; something outward or within?
Strangely serene; how darkness holds all still.
Fight or flight? On either, truth will transcend.
Of life, love, and lust; risks rewarded thrill.
A feeling? A thought? Or just a notion?
A primevally hardwired cautiousness?
All and naught. A truly raw emotion.
Too fear, is at the root of consciousness.
Null fear; would there be any joy in love?
The valuation in that lost and gained
makes no difference in the light thereof.
Through fear; life and it’s meaning are sustained.
Fear is rooted alongside the being;
cinched, behold all that’s worthy of seeing.
8-20-2021
Dilated pupil captures a partner with her submission
Above sadness, eyes sea sunk in upset unquenchable
Desperation lodged in lagoon swims to 2021 surface
Air refilling deflated lungs floats a Goldi locked trophy
Drawn from decaying pages of housewife magazines
Overtly womanly hip to waist ratio cinched on display
Empathy white tidal wave, compassion washes angst
Surrogate heart fed off rise fall arousal bursts buttons
Nostalgia learns Stu's language, sucking word marrow
Omens of history trip a mirrored future, path predicted
Sorrow entangled sheet furrows, wrath burrowed deep
Trauma not lost thru lustful aggressor swamp syphon
Welcome fragrant frail pale spurs a sturdy demeanour
Enveloped open emotions compel his chest responds
Lechery leaves detail aside, abides with blind present
Longing to cast away loneliness, romance sails rough
8th February
Dictated by Wharf air (after warfare)
DADA DOES NOST WELL
I can’t put myself out there
Emotionally, you know
The heart is really the most fragile thing
Like a fine china cup
Outside, where it’s cold and windy
And hateful and unwholesome
Spiteful and too bright
I don’t want to be chipped more than I’ve healed
I’m in this cupboard
Safe.
So my heart is Anxious. Anticipating. Angry that no one has come
Calm. Controlled. Cinched in place
I’ve succeeded in keeping hell out
But now heaven can’t come in
I put a saddle on the wind,
and rode it through the storm
The bridle placed, the buckle cinched,
the reins, my horse reborn
Inside each stirrup passion spurs,
the present now in hand
Behind whose mane I charge within
—in search of who I am
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)
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