I leave the auction sick, my mettle frayed
A ghost, I fear, in oil clutched near my side
No doubt, a ghost for which I've dearly paid!
How best to next proceed, I must decide
The painting I have bought portrays a man
laid out upon a bed as if he sleeps
A woman stands beside the low divan
Offhand, I'd guess a mistress that he keeps
I recognize the bloke who's laying prone
A classless dog and local alley cat
His past and family folk remain unknown
but those with whom he spoke called him "Merat"
I peer more closely at the racy scene;
Beside Merat, a pool of crimson red
The woman's face is cool, if not serene,
quite out of place, considering the bed!
I take my time in staring at the girl,
and make an observation I can't bear
my hands begin to shake, the air to swirl,
for that's my naked wife who's painted there!
As I trudge home, it's hell that fills my head
and passing by a doorsill with a bin,
I tell myself it's I who will be dead
if I don't shove the dreadful painting in
My mind is blank as I bypass the stairs
and free from fear of my assassin wife,
I steer my thoughts past murder and affairs,
then pull her near and thank her for my life
Stuck in a burrow dug in fallow land of dismissal,
l don’t know what in notion foundation of thing
humans with insight think as art of living,
conspicuous within sanctuary of soul.
Survival fight throws sordid living into dark abyss,
rupturing frail scaffold of my transitory tomorrow,
shards thrown in ruins of dismal instants,
I can’t run away from sucking chasm.
Failing to find way of flight I try to light lamp of aim,
and light up ambiguous last strip of dark path,
survival instinct within gloomy nook of my mind
prompts to crawl calmly to doorsill of coming days.
As vivacious today surmounts spasm of agony,
turning living spirit into a flash in dark night,
and at dawn into chromatic rays of rising sun,
limits of blissful soul surpass bounds of infinity.
_______________
January 14, 2023
Letter omitted : E
Contest : Lipogram
Sponsored by : Emile Pinet
Behind the door,
Lay your shattered tears in seafloor,
Pardon my betrayal outdoor,
My heart wandered away indoor,
Through the trap door,
Never let this guy indoor,
She recalled his spoor,
Washing the floor,
Broken doorknobs,
A love stopped to a hidden doorsill,
He laments in the dooryard.
Doorways dispersed the doorstops...
Crying her heart, a home withoutdoors,
Dead as a doornail...
I dreamed a dream
My home's closing door slammed
To sound of silent regrets
And slowly you slipped to oblivion
My hope is the deserted room
With crumbled petals from broken vase strewn
Dust accumulated
Has enveloped my once
Glowing face
Sobbing tears of unsaid words
Are hanging in sorrows' frame
Silhouettes of yesterdays
Breathing last on torn plasters of wall
Dark has unpacked bags in my room
And raindrops have forever forgotten my doorsill
For they fail to recall
Our duets that we sung
Holding them plentiful in our palms
My bottom has fallen further to immeasurable distance
And my roofs have curled their arms
I tried and tried
But without shackles my chained limbs
Failed to hold on
My beams have met their destiny
They are part of archaic stories
My dream is somewhere stuck in wooden clock
It's hours hand
Easy prey of termites
Lost existence
18/02/2019
on doorsill I’m in
waiting breath,
waiting sight,
waiting sigh
they've gone at wink
wink-less day-
reminds it,
draws silhouette
album of souvenir
brings the pages of-
the withered paddy field,
the yellow fallen maple leaves,
dried up tears
skeleton of Phantom IV
crawling outside
cockroach flies away
the ant go away line by line
sun is already setting down
there is no more horizon
on doorsill I’m alone
-January 31, 2019 Chattogram
Down those cliffs above the sea,
There are stones who stand unfree
And in the sky there is a moon,
Not to be free anytime soon.
Hence, I stand in the door sill,
Feeling nothing, yet tranquil.
Left in pains of martyr’s height,
Seeing nothing, but the light.
Broken in this vile doorsill,
Having nothing but this will,
To finally find freedom to get in,
To glance my eyes in the within.
And so I stand in the door sill,
Felling warmth and a great chill.
And I should turn around to leave,
But if I go, I’d go to grieve.
Let me in,
To what’s within.
Stepping forward from the sill,
On which loyally stood I so Still.
A pristine ambit
Unlocks forepart to commence
Restored life events
Ameriolate happenings
Metamorphose forever
Here the sun shines soft and warm—
Caressing all in vales and on hill—
It gives a glow to every inherent form—
And reveals for every eye a thrill.
Of here they never get their fill—
For this is Bliss, an endless treasure—
Where our dream is the Lord’s will—
And God rules by His divine pleasure.
The garden is a lush, green platform—
Big blooms with the fluffiness of chenille—
Songbirds’ music raise a storm—
Their feathered robes fill the bill.
Wings spread they fly away at freewill—
Along the curvy course of the river—
They seek the Lord’s grace with skill—
And God rules by His divine pleasure.
The dream cottage, fancy for the norm—
With a stone paved path to the doorsill—
A neat little shelter from the storm—
Has a spice garden for basil and dill.
And there’s a gazebo for time to kill--
For when gardenwork calls for leisure—
Or even for the blessing of a drizzle—
And God rules by His divine pleasure.
To some this vision may instill—
A yearning for the bliss in nature—
But the Lord is sovereign still—
And God rules by His divine pleasure.
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