No pressure, greater than
That from within
It awakens something within you
Picturing the future
Detecting and reflecting your setbacks
Playing back your competence.
No pleasure nourishing
And memorable than
Those you gave yourself
Doing whatever you like
Buying whatever you like
Without bothering or depending on anyone.
People decorate lies
Then disfigure the truth
No companion
Greater than
The one built on/with
Trust, loyalty and respect.
Love and harmony their everyday life.
Pond's water captures
the morning shadow
Similar desires teem
in our heads
We love strolling along
the banks of ponds
Prosaic ducks disfigure
the green images
----------------------
24 June 2025
mother
here no longer
but forever judged
you were everything
the self-sacrificing
source of all love and comfort
and all rage and rejection
you made me
and i am somehow part of you
and i was your mirror
showing what you did not want to see
weakness, neediness
the object of your shame and self-loathing
now
(just like me)
instead of producing a bouquet of roses
I disfigure this ode to motherhood
If there is an intriguing smile!
Why unravel a mystery
that can disfigure pure beauty?
That is one thing about rigor:
It can Intact Man disfigure;
Like a cell phone reconfigure
The Stout left A Sorry Figure…
You won’t yourself in public show;
Not a new thing in you did grow;
Slaving at a task “Your New Foe”
Hours taking to turn a toe!
It’s a big stab from stretched rigor:
It leaves not the same one’s Vigor:
I used to know a strong Igor,
Not dead before stripped of vigor…
Some men it’d enveloped in dust.
Good pipes now struggling with rust;
You don’t energy drink dismiss
Nor caffeine you can handle miss.
each one with their death
because nothing tells me about you
the voice that inflects
or tells me about you the look you have
and its meaning
if we only know how to avoid the abysses
and deviate through falsely safe routes
as we travel like fast missiles in the sky
carrying deadly loads pretending to be eternal
without thinking about the cruelty of time
and how much we disfigure reality with dreams
that seem sugary but that are nothing more
than a poison
nuclear bomb
ready to annihilate us forever.
Can you image an exploded hall
That retained every bombed wall?
A from–a–tree–top fall
That didn’t disfigure The Tall?
A loud pathetic yelp
That wasn’t a call for help?
Overnight, a murderer losing his skill
To brutishly kill?
Getting into a million dollar bet
While one wasn’t near set?
And can one presume a reign
That recorded no pain?
A man ruled a Veritable Sage
Who hadn’t come of age?
A powerful claim to a brain
One had failed to train?
A truly idiotic doll
That didn’t out the tongue loll?
She stepped on Mars,
Wondering, from there, if she could see the stars.
Lovingly kissed its soil.
Her desire to explore began to boil.
The Red Planet welcomed her with a red carpet.
To the strange noises around, she is not a puppet.
She's clear about why she was there
She shall traverse the land to find out the life's trace.
She is a woman with super abilities
Her Mars mission is set to survey life's possibilities
She shall sojourn there for quite sometime
Takes us all to stay there for a lifetime.
She wants from us, a little assurance
that we shall not cause to its peace any disturbance.
She assures, she tries her best to set up a livable hamlet
Only if we don't disfigure it, like we did to our mother planet.
OH! boys ...
oh girls ...!
Why don't we preserve our friendship forever!
Why don't we retain
the purity of our
Children's hearts ..?
Why do we must lose
our innocences?
Before we were childish
and so friends ...!
Remember when
we were flowers in
birthplace ...! !
We were so close
of the creative spirit ...!
We were in the labs,
so close to the superior!
Why the abyssal distances
human values that
did they disfigure ...?
Oh girls!
oh boys,
why are we so alone ...?
Why do we assort
the friendship that there was
in us ...!?
Teardrop to the mortal bones,
climbs of sympathy to the immortal soul,
tormented by desires and anchored by divine wings.
its pieces scattered, scars and memories unfaded.
perceived, the Godly demeanour undoubted.
enigma, toiling to disfigure this nature.
beautiful portrays, the gentle soul of the Painter,
toiling to reveal this nature.
the preamble to the exit
what a questionable nature.
teeth grinding and shiver, the fusion of uncertainty and hope
what a waste of a beautiful life.
Weeds grow thick in his mind.
Light can’t enter in.
Wild thoughts need pruning.
A cobra creeps.
Drugs disfigure sense.
A virgin walks through the weeds to pick a fallen coconut panting on the canal ripples.
The cobra winds her calf, creeps upward, and wounds.
She shrieks in vain.
Her dad lies in an arrack bottle, and her mother in the corridor of insanity.
She sinks down in the diabolic darkness.
Scratches from the thorns of lust lie scattered on her body.
All men aren’t men.
A cobra in human shape is highly hazardous.
First appeared in The Literary Hatchet.
Impecunious news hunters on Oxford Avenue
Craned over newspapers spread on the floor
To gather ammunition about who knew
The last gossip about a politician shown the door
By hacks in his political party for consorting with the sworn enemy
Sent to Coventry in corridors of power
Or which celebrity a court of law ordered to pay an alimony
Or who among supporters of Venomous Vipers FC sent a rose flower
To a big carrot’s girlfriend, raising the temperature in her home
Where her incensed husband puffing and huffing threatened to disfigure the alleged culprit
Whom he accused of destabilizing the genome
Insisting the culprit he would ill-treat
As news hunters speculated on merits and demerits of the law of the jungle
The aggrieved husband contemplated inflicting on the innocent man
News hunters felt didn’t deserve the bungle
The husband riding a rickety van planned as a ban
That would serve his wife right as she could no longer go to the market
To buy beef, cabbage, tomato
Even if she wasn’t involved in any racket
To sell or buy at low prices an Irish potato.
Crossing lines of all the classes
We all come up with the same excuse
concealing eyes behind dark glasses
the lies we tell to hide abuse
What wicked thoughts must control
the splintered fragments of one's mind
scars disfigure a gentle soul
deep impressions are left behind
Echoing though shattered ears
silent screams within the crying
whispered secrets behind the tears
why must it end with someone dying?
The sorrow caused by this cruel hand
the disturbing images that remain
God, help me stop this horrid man
God, help me stop inflicting pain
God, help me stop
God, help me!
Frayed Bell Ropes
Time
did not
disfigure her
nor disillusionment
disarm the strike of clapper’s tears
shed in the agony of renewed peace.
fraying bell ropes forgotten joy
calling
home
6/4/2017
submitted to – New Form – The BELL – Poetry Contest
Photos bomb social media.
While
Terrorists destroy livelihoods.
War rages from within.
Crashing rathe upon distant strangers; us...
Pictures reveal this through social networking.
A quite distant war becomes real—too extents.
Photo bombs drop atop crooked faces.
Suicide bombs disfigure and gravely injure a far out man and a groovy woman.
However,
These groves are not so far out.
Closer to home than the television thinks—
Maybe more problematic than depicted and possibly more galactic than photoshopped.
What is their left to do with this distant war?
Sir War, her majesty, governor of terror like substance—ruler of all.
King War . . .
Master War . . .
Will you bow your heads to such ungodly deity?
Or
Will you fight for your mental pictures of believed righteousness?
Let's take this down to size and ask me (the writer) what he would do.
I would photobomb every picture possible until everyone around me cannot help but to smile and laugh.
One thing I know for sure I would not do is...
Never would I ever bow down to Master War.
May 29, 2017
Contest: Form P
Sponsor: Broken Wings
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