Exhausts Poems

A playground of thoughts

Today, my mind is a playground of thoughts.
If one thought exhausts another,
maybe they would cease to exist—
but today, they multiply.
Today, my thoughts have become a burden.

In the chaos of my mind,
I search for new literature,
new words to anchor my restless soul.

I am a writer.
I don’t need food to nourish me,
nor shelter to shield me,
nor breath to survive.
All I need is a copy that never tires,
and a pen that dances on the page.

I am a writer.
I draw shapes from words,
pour ink like a river that never runs dry.
I write with curled fingers and a wet pen,
as if the very act of creation is my lifeblood.

When life feels colorless,
I splash color onto the canvas of each moment.
I walk with the weight of my thoughts,
each step an echo of the writer’s burden.

Today, my thoughts weigh heavy.
But in their pressure,
I continue to search for new literature,
for a voice that might quiet the storm.

A gentle reminder

Nothing can destroy you—
Unless you give it permission to.

The love you deserve will fight,
Will always be  your side,
No matter how difficulties reside.

In your dark, when you're low or high,
Doubts will sink into your skin—
they'll love you, for no reason—
You won’t need to win.

Even when your luminosity exhausts in wide,
They'll reflect warmth and make you shine.

The love you deserve will love you,
Even when you believe you don’t deserve it.

Censored To Oblivion

The half cost of silence
is still overpriced
Each question unspoken
a chasm for vice

When blind to the moment
all vision exhausts
Each voice that is muted 
— its own holocaust 

(Dreamsleep: August, 2024)

holiday traffic

congested roadways 
smokey exhausts pollute air 
all just for free food

Where Are All the Words

They are jeans and sweats; they are what we
forget to wear when we are wearing them.

Patched-up seams are sewn.
Many have been scrubbed and dyed colorless,
some died of poverty on the shallow page,
They are comprehensible only in alterations.

Old words are open graves,
that still pump out sounds,
a few peddle rhymes, dangle pretty chimes
and there’s the damn pity.

It is not 'I' that exhausts the throat of an owl,
it is the new wine. It needs to be put way,
that the dark vine may shine once more.

As for all the yet unwritten words,
they are hung around a hooting neck,
until bone or bough breaks.

THE MYSTIC MAZE

The part-Persian kitty weaves through the puzzle debris
checking out ornate cups
of Grogg. Curious of
these human companions sitting at her table,
daring to move the “chess” pieces
in various shapes. She could use them for better
than time-waste, could nibble
like a tea biscuit.
She’ll not let down her defenses. They must think
she is an ordinary house cat.
She won’t even “meow,” lest they
reach out to attack her fur with long stroke rubs.
But that kid! She can’t escape
the one who puts her to chase
as if she is the mouse, fallen into his trap.
Still, she gets her exercise
hopping over “hot coals,”
again that mystic maze puzzle,
through the legs
of the giant chairs,
“leaping-lizards” downstairs,
on the run, not
on the prowl
til she exhausts the kid.
The kid is her undoing.
Now he is two-fisting a ball,
in the air. She dare
not stare. He will
begin his bull-run again.
Kitty hides in the shadows, but darn,
she hears the pitter-patter of food into her bowl
and she’s thirsty, too.

Song of The Raven No 4: AABB

Seasons bring ... the nights, Machiavelli's
Corvus corax or ravens, hints, rallies
birds of good and evil, biblically,
and birds of a feather, ominously,
fed Elijah; 1 Kings 17: ... good,
left Noah; Genesis 8: ... bad, withstood
words by De La Mare, Pollard, and purely ...,
Poe. Riposte's preface specter writes, surely ...,
"Unblackeneds spot the murder from peaks cross.
Fowl scratched a stilted appendaged, exhausts
for ends, internal haunts recuse it from
rituals such ... be marred guilt and succumb
in absentia accused of their acts.
Black king seeks a pawn, the hour ... ink affects."

Natural Snow Sonnet

It comes from the sky, white, powdery gifts,
upsets may, but gets us vibrating,
we call in from work, get cover for shifts,
no way we are not participating.
The lots are plowed roughly, but well enough,
we see the white streak of trails on the hill,
blast through the snow, there is never too much,
use rock skis so the good ones don’t get killed.
A run that’s boring exhausts us today,
sweating in the air that makes water freeze,
the soft, springy stuff on which we now play
lets us bound joyously through silent trees;
when it doesn’t come, the snow we must make,
but that’s hamburger, the real stuff is steak!

A Religious Affair

Turrets are turning,
behind the tanks
exhausts are farting death clouds,
barrels, like angry dicks,
are hot, erect and spurting,
buildings erupt, climaxing
on TV screens.

On both sides of these yonder hill
where the redline bleeds,
blank-eyed children,
play their video games,
while trying to overhear
a merciful God at His prayers.

The Boys

They crawl in a line 
along the esplanade 
between beachfront mansions
and the bay's indifference, 
windows down, elbows out,
hands tapping on doors in time
to the doof doof base
pulverizing air and eardrums
inside their metal sanctums
of pure testosterone.

Throbbing engines ease them
along the street, slow 
and deliberate as if to give 
pedestrians time to admire
and take in such potency.
An occasional pump 
on the pedal sends a roar
rasping out of twin exhausts
and stutters a squeal
of tyres announcing to the locals
and all gathered, the "boys"
are here.

Marooned in another era,
they seem oblivious 
to the derision flung at them
as they pass, misinterpreting 
a smirk for an approving smile,
the shake of a head a gesture 
of wonder rather than a judgment 
on how silly they look.
Their egos blaze like the sun
reflected in polished chrome.

When satisfied 
they've given onlookers their fill
of metallic ****, they hang a left,
plant their foot 
and in a wake of tyre smoke 
and deafening noise, rocket off
back to their own private planet, 
time frozen somewhere 
in the exhaust filled clouds 
on the far side of their minds.

Sans Thought Who Are We

It's useful to have a short attention
span, since it allows us to pause thought flow
in the gap where exhausts its suggestion,
wherein lingering in the afterglow,
in the void of emptiness, heart's mellow.
To dwell in this gap is an art that's learnt,
after we have been time and again burnt
by raging fires we had created
and although we wish our past stupor weren't,
all’s well now; we're no longer sedated.

15-January-2023

Musing On a Muse

She swarms me like a dancing queen and leads me on, 
Waltzing my wits, exerts and exhausts me by dawn. 

Filled with frenetic vibrancy she overflows, 
Then suddenly ducks in on me striking a pose. 

She slips away the timid veil of the dark skies, 
Stirring the best of me while coyly in disguise.

Her magic, in collaboration with my mind, 
Enchantingly leaves a tangible trace behind. 

I'd bow to wispy muse but cannot truly pin 
What shapes my craft and sharpens my quill from within. 

January 1, 2023

Masculine Freedom

The fixedness of certain things exhausts-
like my own shadow, this old tree and the sun.
I climb out of my dream,
Put on my clothes
And do not turn back.
I still carry the scent of you though-
The warming aroma of spices,
Juniper and citrus.
I sense in me a rare smell of masculine freedom.
Behind, I feel your eyes blaze intensely,
I do not halt. I walk. Not the brisk early morning walk,
but the lethargic walk, drowsily stretching after a sleep,
the last sleep before waking in which dreams appear.
I still feel your shoulders, 
my lips pressed against them in my dream.
We stood like two bodies dissolved in a song.
I must remove you, the last strains of you
that’s somewhere within me as close as breath
but I will hold on to your last whisper,
one last thing you whispered into my neck-
“You’re reborn. You’re never the same again!”

Thunder the Poor Plagued

Thunder the poor plagued,
the tread thread barest.
Thunder the crow black priests
beaks clattering, hands anointed
with broken oaths.
Thunder also the mean streets
and all the mean sisters of hope forgot.
Thunder under a seashell dark,
for a flea picked residue 
is the image of love,
God bedecked in the vesture of the ragged,
a derelict in a derelict park.
Thunder in the unmade bed
where sweat exhausts an arid skin.
Thunder all headless silences
That hammer hard upon the breast.
Thunder the naked man
under the coffin lid of this moment
and the next. Thunder until words
riddle and warp, being all things left
after the clap and roar.

Life In Normal Morning Movements

In here, I lion of
toothless  in cane,
  just eye and
not much anymore...
I peek at life...
Outside, life
 Just races,
knocks,
exhausts
  kills itself...
the street is urban
jungle
and life a real beast... !

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