the vintage typewriter waits,
its keys resting beneath a page
that resists becoming ordinary lines
from that subdued expanse,
a mountain rises,
a cabin folded into stillness,
a blue stream slipping through
the distance the page imagines.
small white birds drift above the picture,
as though the typewriter has released
fragments of a dream instead of words.
they hover like thoughts rising
from inside the mind,
tiny wings carrying them
toward whatever waits beyond.
the light from the desk lamp
falls across the picture,
a gentle benediction~
remind me that creation begins
when machinery yields
to imagination.
the page becomes a world,
and the world becomes a doorway
through which the writer steps,
carrying only the brightness
that first rose from the keys.
Humans dream with infinite desire,
yet earth is bound in finite stone.
Scarcity reclaims what hope imagines,
and struggle rises to make it known.
Toughness builds a fleeting joy,
resilience sparks the fire of will.
But surrender waits at every corner,
a silent whisper, standing still.
Power is seized to bridge the gap
between longing and nature’s law.
Yet crowns dissolve in empty hands,
and truth of death is what we saw.
Life flickers — a fragile flame,
a gift once given, then reclaimed.
At times a blessing from the skies,
at times a chain that binds and drains.
And in this journey, I met a woman,
her presence carved into my fate.
But time was never on our side,
so love was left to hesitate.
Sometimes I curse the gods for this,
for burdens placed upon my breath.
Yet sometimes I thank them quietly
for beauty born inside of death.
Even gods in ancient texts
are swallowed by the mortal line.
For beauty lives in impermanence,
and love survives by what must die.
And still one life cannot contain
the endless weight of what we are…
dim
sun set
need water
thirst with hunger
void stomach rumbles
mind imagines hot meal
with camomile tea and cake
headache fatigue with muscle cramps
I curl into a cold ball of flesh
savoury nutritious meal appears
chilli beans rice almonds raisins
filling stomach warms marrow
hunger satiated
drinking orange juice
thirst is now quenched
time to rest
undress
dream
It's worth being thankful,
That I am hale and healthy;
Such touch my heart's depth.
It's never insane
To celebrate occasion...
That marks a new start.
It is whatever
Your sure decision views right,
Makes happiness last.
It's sometimes of God
To remove our lives' dangers;
Such protecting love!
You can't be happy,
Unless unhappiness strikes...
To value its grade.
My heart imagines...
How else would it have happened,
If not by His grace?
Now, it comes a day,
Mercy will always be speak...
Gratitude's leading role.
Time does not change --
distance and consciousness
does. Things can work for
entirely different reasons than
thought. Man has many grafted
bibles. To some, Science is a
truer messiah. Love, then, par for course,
to the same mindset, is a mere figment.
Man conjuring up what he believes he
needs – thinking what he imagines
he cannot exist without.
My well-searched opinion,
Love is not Love until it is clarified, rendered
a unifying reality. Released from the palm of
Ego Driven Grip. Freedom, a double-edged sword.
Possessing both lengths of good and evil.
i tried to see you again
for the first time in almost five years
it was my fault for leaving
but when i said goodbye
i didn't know it'd be forever
i wonder what i would've done differently
if i had known
and now it's going on three years
since you passed
and i miss you more than you know
i just wanted to see you
so i tried to join you
but as i sat in the bathroom
with my head over the toilet
color draining from my face
vision going in and out
my brain imagines you're there
waiting for me
arms held open
but i know now i won't make it to you
yet another time i failed you
my brain puts you next to me
almost as if taunting me
just sitting there
watching me at my lowest
and we both know
this is my punishment
this is what i deserve
With lamps, fiery skies,
Pearls and spires all so many,
Sans thy light of eyes
O thou doe-eyed young beauty,
This world’s gloomy night to me.
_______________________
Translation (Tanka) | 29.08.2025 | beauty, dark, world
Note: Here is a verse (in Anushtubh meter) from Bhartrihari’s Shringaara Shatakam (hundred verses on love and romance). Here the poet imagines world without his doe-eyed beauty-- dark even with sun, moon, and brilliant jewels. Here is the transliteration of the original Sanskrit:
Sati pradeepe sati agnau,
Satsu naana manishu api |
Vinaa me mrga-shaava-akshyaa,
Tamah bhootam idam jagat || 16 ||
In the quiet corners of his own mind,
he walks alone,
a poet whose pen drips with moonlight.
He counts the hours by the hum of his thoughts,
each one a lantern swinging in the wind.
A thinker —
he weighs the weight of names,
dreams of the laughter not yet born,
imagines a tiny hand curling around his own.
In solitude,
he builds worlds of words,
hoping one day a child will wander in,
pick a flower from his sentences,
and plant it in their own heart.
The waiting is a long horizon,
but he watches,
because even a lone soul
knows the fire is not for himself alone.
The cage creaks upward.
The ancient Otis,
ascends slowly from a first floor past.
He dreams on...
Outside the remembered apartment
the fat round nipple of the doorbell
reminds him of her -
Rosy Holroyd,
who once, without being asked,
shoved one of her large **** into his mouth.
He punches the doorbell with a flat thumb,
imagines her undressing,
getting those ample bosoms warmed up.
No response from behind the door!
He feels disorientated and foolish
as the dream once again sinks his hopes.
The cage creaks
as it jolts downward through decades.
Alone in the elevator; gradually awakening,
his lips open and purse
like a lonely goldfish.
I'm torn between two distant worlds ~
one steeped in wickedness and sin,
the other pure and righteous;
my mind drifts like oil on water.
Alluring is the glory of heaven,
promised if I remain pure and holy,
yet enticing is the frivolity
hidden in jollity they call "sin."
My mind imagines the afterlife the Bible depicts,
yet I savour worldly pleasures my flesh can't resist.
Even when I long to retreat from every sinful street,
my soul burns within with these endless conflicts.
What if the promise is merely a myth,
and I found out that piety robbed me of earthly pity?
Would that not be a loss of two cities –
one paved with gold, the other left cold?
The hegemony of height
gets too much.
The city robs me of the horizon
and hides it behind towering
cathedrals of concrete and glass.
Even trees conspire to fill
the gaps and extend their
leafy reach to obscure the sky.
I long for uninterrupted distance,
horizontal vistas of the open sea
and the flat, unfenced expanses
of the inland with its views
to infinity. Something in me
seeks wide spaces, craves
room to breathe, imagines
sparse outback plains punctuated
only by the height
of dust devils wandering
the vastness that stretches there,
lifting up the silence
in spiralling columns of prayer.
He left her for a bony
with halitosis.
She thinks of humiliating him
recalling that final orga...
hears again his sob of pleasure.
Then his hurried dressing, his coldness.
She wants to humiliate him,
to stomp upon his bullcrap soul.
One cigarette after another.
she draws the smoke into her lungs,
into her belly, feels the fumes
turning to vengeful wraiths.
Imagines pleasuring him once more,
using him up.
One last warm splash,
then leaving abruptly, yet a look back
to relish his wide-eyed undoing -
junking him from her body forever.
Peters rage never wavering even within the night sweats as cancer ripped through his tiny frail body he still imagines what his brother has if he could just grab his brothers lovers to covenant then perhaps he’d gain just a little more life he craved the smile his brother wore he craved the notion of just taking his brothers life shattering his brothers heart into would grant him at least a pretend love Peter has his own family but craved his brothers life until Peters rage grew heavy and constant the pain became unbearable unimaginable but Peter still craved his brothers life destroying his happiness proclaimed he could just become his brother that he could laugh heartily his heart grew cold and hardened until no love could ever enter again he died of a broken heart severe pain remembered only by the deeds of his brother not his own as he became his older brother in death
She’s awake, though, wide awake, her mind miles away, spinning stories she knows aren’t true, dreams she knows will never come to life. She imagines, with a kind of detached satisfaction, what it would be like to touch someone else. Not him. Never him, but someone else. Maybe the neighbor’s wife, his her golden hair and too-long lashes, always standing by the door, ready to smile, but not really seeing anyone.
She imagines it, the way his hand would feel tangled in the hair of someone else’s husband, someone who’s more than a man, someone shaped by her mind and her desires, someone customized to every inch of fantasy she could dream up. She’d be touching him, in a room far away from here, somewhere in a world where the sheets don’t smell like stale promises, where the blanket doesn’t suffocate.
In the silence of the night, alone in bed, she lets her thoughts drift,
She wonders what it would be like to feel the warmth of a man beside her,
To have him kiss away her fears and touch her soul with desire and tenderness.
She imagines his hands slowly uncovering her secrets,
And his lips tracing shivers on her skin, like an artist of shadows.
She wonders, does it hurt? And if so, how long until it turns into pleasure?
What does it mean to feel him deep within her, to sense his firmness and unwavering desire?
She longs to know that deep explosion, that fulfillment promising universes,
To experience the pleasure that has not yet come, but feels near, like a dream.
In the quiet of the night, between desire and imagination, she weaves untold stories,
Waiting for dreams to become reality, like a song that has yet to be sung.
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