The big yellow bus has disgorged
it's final school student;
the driver searches empty seats
to find what has been forgotten,
or hidden from prying eyes~
secrets of teenage affairs.
arriving into the city,
fed through tubes
painted all the garish colors of grey
made to smile and sneer
on the same breath
cab ride amid feral pigeons
the spoken word
is alien and spiked with spit
the office is bare
the office workers are not there
wrong day
go away
leaving the city
disgorged into green
eventually.
outside, it was raining
as it was inside
drinks spilling onto the floor
from incessantly topped-up glasses held by
forgetting, gesticulating hands
spittle flying from mouths attached to people
in love with their own voices
their little huddled audiences salivating
over every word or the prospect
of taking their turn as court-holder
the room drooling with
go-to anecdotes and jokes
rehearsed at a hundred parties like this one
disgorged from speech bubbles like fat storm clouds
filling dead air with stories on life support
sudden thunderclaps of laughter
precipitating further precipitation
the floor must have been wet but thankfully
not gleaming like the pavement twelve floors down
the rain let up outside
I slipped out onto the balcony
and between sips of my stale beer
gulped the laundered air
Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru
In buttonhole set daily a red rose new
His charisma couldn’t beguile the neighbor
The dragon disgorged fire in ‘62’s war.
January 24, 2019
(Note : Jawaharlal Nehru (1889-1964) was the first Prime Minister
of independent India. His charismatic leadership initiated the offer
of peaceful coexistence, goodwill and brotherhood to China, but
as a result of Sino-Indian border dispute China attacked India in 1962.)
Each of us is an infant seized
In the moment of labor spent.
We each are Samson, stained, restrained,
Chained between the pillars that confine us.
The womb of the mother god, Wisdom,
She holding us back from our awakening,
But we press outward, downward,
But we force, our desire to emerge,,
To be free of our old abode,
The hold of another's will,
The hold of another's thoughts,
To be free to become more--or less,
To be free of the cord that binds us,
That cord Umbilicus that makes us a part of Her,
Our breath her breath,
Our blood her blood,
Our life her life.
To be severed from the She that finds us
Being disgorged between her thighs,
The holy pillars through which all life
Must pass.
To leave the holy sanctum
At last.
To see with our own eyes,
To hear with our own ears,
To utter our own sounds,
Knowing this: That there is no going back.
Life’s Buses Never Run on Time
Life’s buses never run on time
so I wait, in stoic supplication,
for a god who has no schedule.
Coincidence decides the crossing
of our paths, spontaneous reunion
of faith and practicality disappearing
in the dirt of city streets, nameless
sojourners jostling for “personal”
space, waiting to be disgorged
into those awaiting passage.
Illiterate traffic signals give
us hand signals – WAIT!
WALK – DON’T WALK.
Pavlovian elevators “ding”
signaling those waiting
that the door is about to open.
The waiters fall away
silent contrails left behind
in the slipstream of life’s waiting.
1/24/2016
Submitted to – Becca’s Inspiration “Waiting” – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Craig Cornish
Those mortal gods butchered them like rabid dogs,
And disgracefully hunted them in the pogrom,
Fueled by hateful grumpy grunts of betraying hogs,
As their vomit disgorged at their sacred forum.
Those mortal gods butchered them like condemned demons,
And their precious blood gladly gushed and showered
The homes, the exile, the battle fronts and even the dungeons,
And watered those battle cries of freedom, and they flowered.
And the gods grumbled for granting them the dignified fate
And that though they faced the prison’s noose, they were brave;
Willing to die, that the freedom that flowered, their brothers get,
Not minding the gaping and gluttonous mass grave.
Yes, with courage they faced those butchering morbid lot.
For even their deathly guns did not dissuade them.
They boldly had already embraced the martyrdom’s slot.
And the butchering gods shrunk on their thrones in shame.
The air is shivered; to displacements whim.'
From the Ides of heaven’s sphere
As smote was the skin of a cosmic drum
Throbbing walls of pressure ‘push in’.
Then down as silvered mail, are droplets thrown
Disgorged from Yahweh’s mighty quiver
Descending on, and over all creation
Glistening in sheaves, and slivers;
Igniting the energy of growth, in plant
Grass, rock and tree, a heavy hissing static falls
Across the fells, and far flung seas.
To drop.. and dropping… under and upon'
Darkling pines, also the great lakes waters.
Lozenged globes, reflective, scatter liquid light
In manifold freshening beads, too… carouses
Aloft in choruses; the damp clad whistling breeze.
Laurel leaves pendle and sway in harmony
and glistening mid-hued green, as sun bursts shine to
Kiss the rain, all embellishing; in tenebristic reverie.'
©Joe Maverick 25-2-2013
to know more about this poem click on you know where.."
********^^^^^^^***********^^^^^^^^^*****
Steer
with your
two-wheeler
Drift, vagabond
Stravaig - irenic
Fumes, smoulder not disgorged
Exorbitant petrol-free
Unfettered with shame and remorse
Exemplify warmth, relish, pigeon
For nature's scenery - Earth's sheer point, scheme.
****** "ECO-FRIENDLY VEHICLES" Contest Entry *******
The wind blows clean
scouring in Sakkara, Necropolis of Memphis
gem of Upper Egypt.
The purity of sand and sky
maintained by late rising
in the twentieth century.
The titan walls reach from a sea of silica
crystalline grit of ground quartz
once drowned,
devoured by desert, now disgorged…
the mill of life having preserved
the germ of memory eternal.
Far from the light surge of
incandescent and florescent,
from the leavings of modern man
Sakkara rises again, for such as we to glory in…
Imhotep’s caress of stone, song of sand
Rises, as morning follows night,
Rises like bole of palm
stroking the cheek of Ra.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.