(Inspired by "The Persistence Of Time" by Salvador Dali
The bare bough and the brown bench
hold the warped watches like wet satin
with the metal losing its toughness,
the tree forgetting its foliage.
The sunset sky stretches into fluid stillness
where time dissolves into the cyan sea.
The golden cliff rises behind the reverie,
at peace with the quiet crumple of time.
The sleeping creature on the sands
sprawls as a pale brutal form
with the burden of collapsed time.
Memory endures the design of ductile recollection
as the mirage of elastic time
slips through the sands of perpetuity,
losing its rigidity, its mechanical domination.
Surreal vision turns time into absurdity,
yet morphing into fascinating mirror of illusive fluidity,
a metaphor for the triumph of memory over time.
.
‘long hern
mine
slaaap buckle crumple
drop
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The bobber, heavy with promise, dips,
while the writer’s pen lingers~
both waiting for the pull below,
the sudden tension of something alive.
The fisherman watches the water’s skin,
its ripples like unread pages,
while the writer stares at the blankness,
a lake of white where shadows move.
Sometimes the line goes slack.
Sometimes the words won’t bite.
You reel in emptiness
or crumple the page,
but you cast again.
Because beneath the stillness,
in the deep where light doesn’t reach,
something shifts~
a flicker, a flash~
and you know it’s there,
even if you never land it.
*If you enjoyed this poem, you may be interested in its companion memoir vignette posted in Poetry Soup: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/fishing_for_words_13581
crumple and rumple
crinkle it too
dog runs after paper wad
dropping my shoe
not heaven, not purgatory, I do not think I’m in hell
I wrack my brain, wondering about this – an unnamed dimension?
Did I die or am I in a coma? My thoughts are fuzzy.
I had expected to die, but maybe I didn’t?
I try to open my eyes, and discover they are open.
I am on the edge of strangeness, it’s weirdly comfortable here.
I think about contacting my family. Are they in the next room?
Is this a hospital? A funeral home or a morgue?
Suddenly, I recall that I am being cremated.
But it is not hot here. It is strangely cool, not cold, comfortable.
I am aware of others, but can see no one
People are communicating with me telepathically.
Is this new or old?
I am curious now.
Will I open up my eyes and be in excruciating pain?
I know that I wrecked my car; I felt my whole body crumple.
I hear someone yell “mama”.
They are redirected to another person.
How I know this I do not know.
I am in another consciousness, yet it is familiar.
I know only one thing. I come here in between lives.
The revolving season’s ever-changing sensitive facade
dons the new ambiance of hues designed by nature.
Autumn’s fiery foliage bursts with mélange of colors,
shines with the last golden glow as the wilted leaves fall.
The aureate leaves hear the December wind’s whisper
as they crumple with the rhythm of the attuned rustle,
composing the melody of the song of winter wonders
that beguiles me as the mist melts in the sapphire sky.
The defoliated trees shiver in the waves of arctic wind,
following its flow I see you return to me from the cold.
You melt the miasma enveloping my glacial memory,
enter the crypt of old times through the icy door I open.
The polar winds blow with chilled tunes across the clouds,
swans fly singing in the December sky on wings of winter.
The morning mist melts away over the sunrise horizon,
gleaming with joy spectrum of Christmas time in the air.
I feel delighted the warmth of winter sun you raise for me,
from behind the fog I see the ascent of a new dulcet dawn.
As I hold your hands, ecstasy defrosts the memory lane,
my mind wanders in the winter wonderland of December.
Duplicity
Is there a person present beyond the plastic shell?
The AI generation exemplifies artificiality
The same plastic makeup that is prevalent in humans.
Are we people, or are we robots with artificial intelligence?
Devoid of real feeling and emotion, fixated on self.
While our fellow men waste away,
Their calls for support and help lay in vain.
We remain fixated on money, on gadgets on flimsy values
Hypnotised by material things, by disposable whatnots.
Gone are care, compassion, role modelling, and humanity.
Selfishness, greed and egoism have entered our lives
Truth be told, we are not moved or touched by anything!
The God-created human form and being
Sadly replaced by machine learning, by robotics by codes!
We are deaf, we are blind, we are retarded.
We live in a disposable world, a world destined to crumple.
We replace organs, goods, people and entertainment
By computer graphics, AI tools and 3D printing.
Are we using intelligence? Are we using our God-given brain?
Or do we mimic the robots, the AI Gods and the Handbook for Dummies?
One never knows, I guess, even this work may be from outer world.
The thing about killing Angels
you have to remember is always go for the kill shot
Most of them can easily take a grenade to the face
Those arch ones usually stay put and watch
Basically on tap with God
Seldomly they will make an appearance
Demons are tricky
Disguise themself basically animal vegetable mineral
One time my electric razor tried to bite a clump from my cheek, huh still makes me smile
He turned towards the boy
His crumple of a face
grimacing
The book boy learn it well
He turned hunched over
Bent and snatched the head from
the prone child at his feet
The sack boy open it
Without the head
We won’t be fed….
The boy pulling a single golden strand from his pocket
the strand warping reality around it
air forming the sack
Please
Just once
Not a three point shot…
Another 3 seconds he chide only infinity to go
At this rate we will be working long after the end
No rhyme or reason just jotting words down
could I put them together for a thought profound
Sometimes it all comes together
sometimes not
Read and read them over
nothing close to plot
Crumple the paper toss in the trash
think it over possible to rehash
Out of the trash smooth to read
wrinkled words mocking me
Then eureka how could I not see
just let them flow and speak to me
No rhyme or reason does it need to be
just random thoughts flow into poetry.
A crumpled thought
Unfolded
Asking questions
I felt their sting
“I came to you”
“you tossed me out”
“why will you not listen”
I watched it struggle
To un-crumple itself
Smooth its rejection
Stiffen its resolve.
My cold coffee
Took its side
Whispered from the cup
“you do that a lot”
“dismiss thought’s thoughts”
An oily film clung to my throat
As I sat
Pondering
A crumpled thought
you crumple to the ground
pain blossoms in your chest
like a poppie blooming
soon it will be the signal of your remembrance
for the color of its petals stains your shirt
you lie there
your vision fading into a haze of grey
your family flashes before your eyes
the last thing you see is them running
the last thing you hear is the cannon go off
boom
your vision fades to darkeness
your dead
you crumple to the ground
pain blossoms n your chest
like a flower in the spring
swaying in the wind
you fall
can't breath
a drowning flower dares to sing
pain is all you feel
winter is coming
you wither like a flower caught in the rain
"The beauty you see in me
--is a reflection of you" :-)
I want you to cut out
a paper heart, of any hue
Doesn't matter if you're a kid,
or went to NYU
This experiment doesn't use
markers, glitter, nor glue
Doesn't need perfect proportions
-- it's fine if it's askew
Now, go ahead and crumple it
into a ball (just do!)
Next, please open up and smooth out
the paper, through and through
Iron it, flatten in a book --
but whatever you do
There will be many remaining
creases within your view
These symbolize harmful words'
memories -- even if true
All the mean, blunt, biting thoughts
folks wish someone else knew
Our rash impulse to hurt peoples' feelings
-- we should subdue
The philosophy "hello human kindness!"
-- let's renew
Our own hearts are like a mirror
showing how others feel, too
[Sunday, April 28, 2024. Inspired by reading "Paper Heart" by Cat Patrick;
adapted to fit the "Mirror Poetry Contest" by Sara Kendrick; deadline 6/8/24]
If I were in school.
I would get my paper.
Crumpling, and tearing.
Compiling, and filing.
My room is covered in paper!
The paper is impatient.
I turn on the fan.
And the room becomes a fluttering mess.
I haven’t been in school in years.
But I still write and tear and crumple.
Even when the school bus passes by, without me.
And I’m still writing, alone.
I guess I’m writing for fun these days.
I guess that’s how we become poets…
With ideas like…
If I were in school.
If all your songs have not yet sang
And all your bells are not yet rang
And your footsteps did not make trails
It's not yet time to rip your sails
If all your winds did not yet blow
And all your lights did not yet glow
And there's a crumple on your sleeve
It's not yet time for you to leave
If your fires did not yet burn
And all your stones did not yet turn
And all your shades are crossed in stripes
The time to fade is not yet ripe
But when your cups are all in gold
And all your tricks have all been sold
And there's a rainbow in your sky
It is the time to say goodbye
8 syllables per line
Format: rhyming couplet
*This came to my mind the other day while feeding my goats. For my mother who is battling stage 3 breast cancer and for myself battling early stage of diabetes and onset of kidney and stomach diseases, confined on the mountains while finding herbal medication while doing online teaching job. And for all who are on the verge of losing their hope to live. Cheer up! The only time we die is when we stop breathing.*
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