Splinter in finger
Hurting hot unhappy red
Needle probe nightmare
Infants begin
with closed fists—
white and red,
like the sun
about to rise.
They grow,
thumb resting in their mouth,
fingers curling around
the saree’s edge of the mother,
the sacred thread of the father—
building a small,
secure world.
A few months later,
with tiny movements,
gentle manners,
they reach for toys—
holding them close,
day and night,
whispering in their own language,
never alone.
A soft toy becomes a world.
Sometimes it is a spoon,
a cup,
a tumbler—
clutched for years
as a secret friend.
Sometimes a locket,
a ring,
a bracelet—
shining with unseen magic.
And now,
Doraemon walks beside them,
on TV,
on mobiles,
everywhere they go.
These bonds,
woven with innocence,
give strength,
bring laughter,
carry a quiet promise—
that joy will stay,
and life will be kind.
If it is written, so be it,
but who'll admit
to writing what was writ
when the fan is hit?
And, if, having inscribed,
the finger does proceed,
whose digit was it
when the words were decreed?
Yet, carved in stone,
or etched on glass,
who'll confess to pouring such concrete
when it comes to pass?
He was deeply worried,
A problem lay within,
Buried in the depths of his heart,
Countless slaves in his possession.
He wanted to control
All of them, he needed
A unique identity for each.
Suddenly, he struck upon
The idea of a fingerprint.
It's criminal what women'll do
to keep a man down on the farm
shed false tears strategy I fear
pull the wool turn on the charm
smiling all the while
trap him wrap him twist him
round her little finger
and insist it seems
should he linger longer than
appropriate she deems
for him to appreciate
'til he's tongue-tied up in knots
with all those forget-me-nots
keeping her the centre of his attention
not to mention the apple of his eye
starting with Eve it's now a far cry
from his ambition ever coming to fruition
should he cave in and comply
When you point your finger of judgement at others
There are three fingers pointing back at you
Look inward first before pointing that finger!
Going solo is no fun
when you are the only one
playing alone on your own
so show me your saxophone
and you may hold my trombone
then if I feel the need
I'll finger your keys
to vibrate the reed
'til my slide retracts
as we're a match made in heaven
quite the catch in fact
a musical marriage
and that's not all
we'll make beautiful music
yes we'll have us a ball
and altho' yours is woodwind
I have the itch to make a pass
so here's my pitch
you can kiss my brass
haiku : protea
~N A T I O N AL flower~
hoary pinky Proteus
** sticKy **
f
i
N
g
e
R
I’m told the pen’s mighty and outwits the sword
but my finger is stronger and won’t be ignored.
It pokes and it swipes and it rants in a roast
then it quickly DELETEs to disguise my last post.
Though swords, they can cut, and pens, they can shame
the press of a button initiates flame.
All humor aside, I’ll admit it’s a crime
when I set fire to gasoline, dressed up in rhyme.
So, I’ll UPLOAD with caution and hold taut my lip
and think before shooting my words from the hip…
and I’ll walk-off responses so quick to offend,
keeping fingers off buttons like RE-ply and SEND.
Blame
Everyone likes to point fingers and
Make sure someone else is
Always at fault, but that can be a
Lame excuse when the finger pointers share the
Blame.
.
hern majora
whilst
i held mine
placidity
Banjo
if you want to bruise your ego
try to learn the 5-string banjo
I’m trying to learn Scruggs style
and it definitely is a real trial
three fingered right-handed rolls
is a complete shock to my soul
getting the timing down
so, I don’t sound like a clown
somewhere old Earl is having a laugh
at every time I make a gaffe
if ever I get on stage to play
I would suggest everyone should pray
Your hands are silent executioners, each finger a hungry guillotine,
Let them glide over me slowly, like penance flowing as a slow river,
Let them cut every last fragment of restraint that still binds us,
This is not seduction, but a butchery of desires hidden beneath the skin.
I want your breath to be a burning pyre in the deep night,
Your mouth to become a tombstone, a sign of eternal silences,
Your hips to be the event that extinguishes worlds and creates chaos.
When I unravel beneath you, let it be a cataclysm of the senses,
Not a silent confession, but an explosion of worlds shattering within us.
You say I should/
Pay for my crimes/
But, I'm innocent/
You won't be satisfied/
Till you put/
A bullet in my head/
You call me *****/
Because of my conviction/
But, I don't stoop/
To that level/
I never done that/
But, you won't stop/
Even after my body/
Lays in the ground/
You will always/
Have a reason/
To find fault with me/
You call yourself/
A... Christian/
But, your love for Jesus/
I do not see/
All you ever share/
Is your hate towards me/
opens his mouth, crimson tongue of seduction,
velvet blanket, petals by, as I delve,
a plunderer of pleasure, my lips, a ship of delight,
charting the uncharted waters of his terrain.
guess you could say we're having a real 'cutthroat' relationship - I'm making the final edit....with a scalpel.
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