Our encounters of life and its struggles
Endowed amidst the peaceable silence,
Crisp leaves veiling life, into a wonder
Night curtly lull, in early calm slumber.
Time will come, smile, welcome with elation,
Then the lion's roar, perched on the loud sound
Influence the tall emerald meadow
Sated power of thunder spring rain flow.
Life is, but a spirit of glory.
A moment, a feeling, an embrace,
We smile, we cry, we win, we lose, we rejoice,
We're awakened, we come, we go, we have a choice.
3/4/2021
Life's Struggles- Any Form - Updated- Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
The President of the United States called last night,
he spoke most curtly, demanding to know her middle name.
She sent him packing with a stinging rebuke.
Her middle name is Gertrude;
that secret she will take to her grave.
Powerful people have always sought her out.
Edison visited in the summer months,
he proposed many times,
but a man that would electrocute an elephant
just to make a fake point
could never have turned her head.
Poor Topsy.
She enjoys the half-light now,
dreams of other voice that had wooed her.
Sometimes she spies little Gertrude
peeking over the foot of her bed,
but she is not at all ready to permit her existence.
Elderly hands cover eyes.
Gertrude has taken on a life of her own
a neglected life but still able to come when called
or to follow behind or hide in the middle
of those other names.
The lady has kept many a romantic secret.
Most of her best erotic memories
she has written down with a fine cursive hand,
she keeps these missives in a carboard box
under her bed.
Perhaps with a tinge of remorse,
upon the box lid, she has printed the legend:
‘For Gertrude when I am gone.’
Slowly swept clean the old footprints-graphs
by the harsh tide, soaring waves and white surfs
On the pavements of the sky monarchy
the miserable odor of the past is flying curtly
Now, it’s the sharp edge of a pandemic year
The end comes but not as an eternal end, it’s a gyre
Dale, hilly mail and mountain of the lost
at the bank of setting down the sun, it’s a ghost
By born free soul wants to fly high, wants freedom
But in the mournful living cage, it faces only doom
Whatever, here we, the human is true authority of this
We have to solve all seen-unseen problems with peace
So, let’s say goodbye this grief-stricken year with a firm conviction
Let's welcome next year to a healthy, eco-friendly world ablution
-19.12.2020 Chattogram
if there was no poetry, my dear,
even kisses and hugs would be confined.
your lips without color,
your cheeks with no pinch,
the cold crass wind that teases on the ship
would cease to exist.
seasickness an existence without words,
the dash on the rocks
would curtly say: he’s dead, with
no forlorn lover’s expression of grief.
the lighthouse absent
no God present
a wasteland of words
no words at all…
1/23/2020
Sponsor: Silent One
If there was no poetry contest
A dynast in the storm-razed
polity will ask-
for a pardon.
By choice there was
no suicide. You will
eat the clouds one day.
Taking the brunt,-
living near the sea of
people, a window goes shut.
Curtly, with
levitation, the wind
twists, one and everybody.
An owl tattoo, will
tell it all. The hurricane
has reached your door.
Aftermath was a
conspiracy of silence.
Every one was speaking of landfall.
Satish Verma
During the pre-evening liturgy
Betwixt a shabby stall
Irate I sit scribing seasoned verses
Silent as an infant in production
Whilst the slaughtering of pacifism
Across the universe ‘tis my soundness
Perforated by the eerie current
‘Twas delivered via the vapors of her breath
Curtly, such graphic memories gnaw the very bones
Of what I had thought to be timeless romance
Though once again I’ve been forsaken
To drink all ‘twas left unsaid and unknown
The eyes behind a head inclined reflect a universe
Of shanty towns and kings in crowns and parties in a hearse,
Of heaping mounds of coffee grounds and pennies in a purse,
Of heart attacks in shoddy shacks, of motion in reverse,
Of reasons why pale kids must die, quite trite and curtly terse,
Of puppet people at the steeple, kneeling down averse,
Of tinkle tones and megaphones with empty words and worse,
Of life’s begin’ in utter sin and other things perverse,
Of lewd taboos and residues contained within the Curse,
While poets blind, in gallows’ rind, carve epitaphs in verse.