Couched Poems

Samsara - May 7

Now quiet, settled, easy, leisurely
through life’s affairs,—say, couched in everyday—
and sipping being’s sweetest, freshest ray;
Sunshine!, Sunshine! ‘midst winter’s coldest glee! 

Now troubled, disjointed, uneasily
fumbling, scrambling through dumb frowning time.—Gray-
-haired night’s murk weighs down gay light’s mirth filled play...—
tumbling through summer’s scorching cruelty!

An inescapable alternation
of gloom and cheer,(to be—and—not to be),
wheeling circles and cycles—infernal,—
recur, relapse, return through all creation.;
Remember, though pain’s but temporary,
vacuous suffering is eternal.

Before the brow grows cold

lazy bones, bound in poverty’s grip
in a garden, where hesitation weeds grow~
filled with s t r a n g l e d  d e l i c a c i e s…
      a recipe of wisdom, never tasted
   couched like a fly in an endless stupor…
abandoned in a ship, lost in the doldrums~
in a dark tunnel, where
        echoes slowly f a d i n g
     doomed to sail a sinking ship with no lifeboat

yet your arms can still push a boulder uphill~
   so put your shoulder to the wheel...
     never stop, reach the mountain's peak
sharpen the saw, dig for gold, tame white horses~
       while sweat streams down your brow

for once you're interred in a grave
       with nothing to illuminate the darkness 
 mountain of your strength will only enrich the grains of sand...
   and fork in the road will give you no direction to choose 
    you'll just be lost in the maze...
       like a deer in a headlight
 as confused as a dog watching a magic trick

Some Where - Apr 12

Toppled by a bottle, collapsed upon
her painful past, asleep—but well awake!—,
unmoving, but for her mind stirred aquake,
the girl is yawning before her black dawn.

Alone, couched by a burning blanket drawn
over a conscience guilty at the stake,
slipping into the sly hands of the snake,
she sees not clearly the sickening con

which lures her slowly to her deathly state.
Unknowingly, she’s dozing, edging deeper
into the dreamrealm, into the hazy
murk of the promised land. 
					Her name was Daisy—
until, unexpected, said the reaper,
“Poor thing… if only you could now change fate.”

My Truths

"I feel truth is relatively subjective. My truth need not be your truth. When I hold onto what I believe is truthful, I am honest though another may suspect the verity of my truth"~ By Poet

                        I am a rough stone rugged,
            misshapen and unhewn, hard, asymmetrical, raw and jagged.
If chopped and cut fine, can become a sculpted marvel.
I am neither a genius nor a prodigy or mastermind,
                        an ordinary woman who can love
and forgive, never letting dark deceit show its ugly head. 
Always wishing not to let the truth crumble before lies.
      As I try to show a little piece of myself,
            I must admit, I have said small lies,
                        that I couched in honesty's guise.
Now I have earned wisdom to amend my lopsided vision,
            to see my faults and rectify them by all means;
      leave every pretense and be honest
                        admit mistakes, feel genuinely sorry and never repeat.

Raindrops Dripping To The Ground

Feeling miserable, 
And upset with my actions. 
Feeling like I am in a boat load, 
Of trouble.
I look out my window, 
And see, 
Raindrops, 
Drip, drip, dripping,
Slowly, 
On to the lush green grass.

It’s like the weather can read my mind, 
And sense my emotions.
I long to be outside, 
Feeling the raindrops 
Drip, drip, dripping,
Onto me.
But I am too miserable to move, 
And stay curled up on the couched,
Wrapped in blankets with a cup of coffee,
Wishing I could turn back time,
And start things over. 

Soon like the raindrops 
Dripping to the ground 
Tears start to drip, drip, drip 
down my face 
And still 
I sit their staring out the window 
at the raindrops 
Drip, drip, dripping 
slowly to the ground

Fireplace

Couched in the season,
by a fireplace ablaze.
The winter with it's snowy soft edges,
tasted bittersweet
-since I reminisced once more
of just how pleasing it was
in the golden summer days,
when I felt a lovers heat
-her soft gentle fingers
upon the nape of my neck.
Hesitating, and lingering
-then she gave me a peck.
Yes upon my lips a kiss.
Oh yes, how I reminisce.

Summer's Up-Splashed Voice

Summer; its refreshing voice of
Up-splashed gaiety.
Afar; yet in hearing, clearer
Finds one drawn nearer!

Suburban windows everywhere
Let all they can in
Of what afloat, with orange scent
Gives a boost to this;
That which , couched, lure for drowsy bliss
Heats; deeper within!

The Agreement

Let there be an understanding
I am not your keeper

Whatever star you follow
that is your way
probably not mine

We can share a campfire
an idea
or the couched prayers
of our bodies

but let us agree
not to claim to know
if this untethered gathering 
of certain opinions
is not the end, nor the beginning
or the middle
of anything important
whatsoever.

A Bind At Dusk

glad 
in crux 
near the gloom
that light nudge me
when it gets anxious 
concerns that might leak out 
my burrows are firmly couched 
not a fiend nor a darling star
they thrust as the night sky gained their sight. 
yet, both sorts score their way to my shoulder.

Ghana

GHANA!!!

The blood sacrificed for our sake is being betrayed 
The landlors can't benefit from their own rich resources 
We starve on the green space whiles we await manna from the sky 
The hope couched in the star is gradually losing its black pigment. ..

Wake up Mother Ghana!!!

Happy Independence Day Mother Ghana!!!
It is your birthday!!!
I know you expected some panegyric spiced with literary devices on this day 
But sorry , though it might be uncouth,  I had to hit you with the truth 
I still love you regardless  Mother!!!
Your history is as rich as your culture 
You have an enviable home and people 
You instill discipline and abhor evil 
No wonder your compound is always peaceful 
I love you Mother!!!!

A Prayer That Turns Plea

When prayers turn to pleas couched in a veil, 
And pujas, covert pleas for His pardon, 
When Bandagis beg— a bargain for a bail, 
Worships aim for a vaunted place in sun; 
When sacrifices seek choicest of fruits, 
Charities search for a place in heaven, 
Gifts get given to gain matching return, 
Pilgrimage a pass-time, no search for roots. 
 
Bless me Lord still, let my hopes breathe alive, 
I pray thee that in peaceful sleep I rest— 
Assured in luxury-laden a nest, 
I pray that honey sweeten my beehive, 
  And as ye keep well-supplied my huge store, 
  I swear to love thee, if so, all the more. 
____________________________________________ 
This sonnet is sung rather tongue-in-cheek and is a light satire on prayers that be veiled pleas for wanting something or the other and are not rendered as thanks-giving to God, as all prayers should be. 
Sonnets | 17.11.08 |

Nature's Rage

This is a long extended night,
   The stars all hibernate,
The blustery gusts revolve around
   The dreams which suffocate. 

Now the torrents lash my door,
   And now they slam the shade,
'Be couched right here, and do not move',
   The whispers promptly bade.

Out there I glanced, the wild tree pranced,
   She swayed her tipsy stem,
All drenched and dark, the leafy arc
   Seems like her death-gown's hem.

Is that mere downpour, or a sign,
   An omen of the time?
The thunders clash with louder splash,
   Upon the lakebed slime.

My window pane is stabbed by rain,
   One thousand spears en masse,
They prick the eaves, pummel the leaves
   To the level of the grass.

The flickering lamp will die at once,
   It does not cease to pour,
A marble sculpture drowns beneath
   The water on the floor.

That which gives life can take it too,
   Lo there it heaves its head,
The shrine's bemused, the priest presumed
   A curse on holy bread.

It has to cease within no time,
   The devil's thunder roars,
The gale allays his evil play
   Withdraws his wondrous force.


28th September, 2021

Alone In the Wood

I was walking lonely in the magical wood, 
Ah!then I was in my pensive mood 
And watching the calm and cool surrounding, 
The way of the wood seemed to be never ending. 

Having seen a stranger, the birds started to flee,-
But I observed the scene in glee.
The squirrels were scampering on the ground, 
Perhaps they were also afraid of hearing a stranger's sound. 

In that wood, I wished for sometimes to dawdle ;
Because there was no wicked person to make swindle. 
Suddenly, I watched the yonder hill 
And tried to reach there with great zeal. 

Gradually the view disappeared infront of my eyes;
Oh!it was a dream, which was broken after sunrise. 
I was couched on bed; and watched the sun's beam
And also wished of having such a beautiful dream.

Stories To Live By

STORIES TO LIVE BY

Oh! tell me tales that lift the spirit, energise the soul
Inspire a faith that gives the strength to drive toward a goal

Let not the story of the nation be a book of shame
That current generations may seek solace couched in blame

Though there may be dark chapters of our history beset
With episodes of evil we now view with deep regret

True annals yet tell stories of bold quests by those of daring
Who ventured forth with courage, thought of self-preserve foreswearing

To conquer craggy peak, cross frozen continent and sea
And some of grace faced tyranny, risked life to set us free

Let victimhood and pointed accusation not prevail
Nor guilt and self abasement write a gloomy new folktale

As every day a page is turned to quicken and advance
Our lives, should we not be the author of our own romance

Then one day hence we may recount in parable or fable
A legend that all may embrace to hearten and enable

Every Transfer Letter

Either sooner or later,
Every transfer letter
Would a chained worker unfetter,
Him moving from an old camp 
To a new station dry or damp,
This validating with a stamp, 
The reason for it not voicing 
But its taking of effect noising
Him reminding of Diligence,
As The company’s still  trusted Agent,
The message flashed across:
His relocation’s a gain: not a  loss,
A new salubrious air to be breathed
In a new scene hating knives are still sheathed
The language of Transfer Letters!
The carefully couched by our Linguistic Betters:
Always as plain as a pikestaff
And straight like a ramrod 
Not anything stating by a half;
To seekers of alterations, a cord:
“You are to report to branch B within one week,
Further instructions at your new station seek”.

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