Your scars showed up in my existence,
whispering shards of hatred.
eyes made reflections of soul
in which you and i were a part of.
ran through the cold frames
yet no rose could fit
the interstices of your soul.
we after our last breaths
in the doors of heaven,
hymns our fate.
Beneath the city's concrete awning,
Sunlight pirouettes through the urban sprawl.
A danseuse of shadows on an asphalt stage,
Nature's pulsations thrum through it all.
Skyscrapers, leviathan bellwethers,
Forge an ersatz forest, soaring high-hearted.
Yet, within the interstices, light clandestinely seeps,
A palpitant echo of the limitless sky.
Amidst the urban hustle, a delicate interlude,
Komorebi, a tender kiss on the city's veins.
A pause in the plangent urban resonation,
Nature reclaims what the concrete constrains.
Crystal leaves and chrome branches entwine,
Casting intricate choreography on sidewalks below.
Sunlight gavottes through the narrow openings,
In the eurythmy of ebb and flow.
Candescence alights in hidden sanctuary,
Where sunbeams dance, and freedom finds liberty.
Komorebi, a serene urban ballet,
Nature handwrit in city's clamorous fray.
As the night falls from interstices of burning clouds, lumbering through the broad sky like grazing herds of sheep
There comes a great forlornness through the deep forests of Zambia.
Land marked by Withered Tallowwood branches, that once covered the fiery red sun.
The bayou, with dry river beds sleeping all the more calmly than hibernating Owls~
Looking somewhat haggard in their night coats~
waiting for the setting sun.
Summoning nature's obligation that remains oblivious to the break of dawn.
asper the invisible nemesis – i.e. electrical
impulses faux nattering nabobs of mien nativity
whereat unseen thriving sensational riffraff
quenched powerhouse ousting nestled milk
maids, or rather pressing said resources,
sans vitality into dangerous, frivolous,
and horrendous self destructive antics,
where ballistic charges drugged eminent
domain former nerve cell size occupants,
thoroughly re-engineering sense and sensibility
with pride fullness and prejudice on par
with dousing one with opiate completely
upends functioning healthily, judging lovingly,
and managing productively versus expending
precious time and energy self absorbed
into manic, neurotic, and/or psychotic actions,
manners, thoughts, et cetera, which irrationality
got embedded within the neurological interstices,
even as of this moment hound me
akin to wild beasts circling ever closer
to launch mortal kombat against their very housing.
life on the edge
of a thread
suspended from a network
of interlocking filaments
bound by triangulated interstices
woven by a master of deception
integrated into his lair
lying in wait
patient vigilant and aware
of what disturbs motion
intersects light
ever ready to ensnare the unaware
who venture into the transparent maze
suspended mid-air
Spare me ill-considered thoughts
and tales of the enlightened sage
whose very basis of belief
arose in palpable assemblage
one late summer evening
while listening to his ringing ears,
as he lay soaking naked in a tub.
And holy writ of nether world—
its commands and promises
now in language thrice removed—
misunderstood when first uttered
in scarce remembered ancient tongue,
yet presumptive literal masters
hasten to opine.
Absurdities compound,
interstices of mind—
vacuformed and stolid—
deny calm reason’s abstract,
and flee truth’s sanctum,
dogma in their fond embrace,
awash in its decrepitude.
Humanity thus
in thrall of Mesmer’s haunt
sustains a tortured cadence
of greed, dishonesty and graft,
which now in tawdry bloat ascends,
as if arms of gods on the empyrean sphere
would open wide to greet.
Consider well and ponder such severely,
who would transcend the veil,
for wisdom gained and love prolonged
will surely ease the transit.
And those who favored having over being?
Their cherished worth is fled.
Their hubris now dismissed.
Villanelle: The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face
The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face
What were once cherished hopes serve only to nag
The first to fall papal pride in the purple stride of mace
All that one once fought for family position place
Lie now trodden by the wayside no sweat nor brag
The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face
The once fine psittacine nose at parties shone with grace
Now hangs pudgy a curlicue strawberry smudge a snag
The first to fall papal pride in the purple stride of mace
The ego shifts about the hidden interstices of the maze
Fears of the embattled siege in the psyche’s empty bag
The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face
Sudden moments of anger take all spouse job and lace
Ego stomps out of the house grimacing grudge vowing no lag
The first to fall papal pride in the purple stride of mace
Deserted one sits unwashed on the pavements in disgrace
Eyes avert insatiable molly-coddled egos which drag gag
The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face
The first to fall papal pride in the purple stride of mace
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
you talk to me.
and i try to hear.
your words would know me
if my mind did not resist.
what do you expect?
that we should conflict?
that we should connect?
or merely titillate?
except we are from different worlds;
or rather you are from a world
and i am from no world at all
but the interstices of many.
my mind can not organize
for you to define in your cosmopolitan ways.
so how am i to speak
for you to see me?
or should i ignore you and recluse?
yet i crave you
and the presence of speech other than my own
to drive away the madness.
These are the spaces I confide
These are the narrow crevices
These are the places I reside
These are the secure refuges
Upstairs attics with small windows
The quiet corners where I go
The hidden chambers no one knows
Downstairs cellars through secret doors
There I have my room for dreaming
Room to create and postulate
Pose questions and probe for meaning
Riddles and rhymes to contemplate
In there the world does not dictate
And there I have less room for hate.
Fallowed mind on barren ground toils
Winter's cold streams radiant beams foil
No incubating current cuts through the dense soil
Muses' bright glint the dark, thick clouds roil
Blipping sparks can't light my sensory console
A dormant seed sprouts on a rocky knoll
Promising strands on frozen surface stroll
Chilling winds over shallow-rooted thoughts troll
Vapid ideas from stagnant un-imaginative threads loll
Without depth, the promising figments spoil
In due course, Spring's thawing tides do roll
On horizon's mount, azure panels scroll
The brighter patches degenerated conduits parole
Fecund spores with soaring visions cajole
Wispy tufts of dander blow into cranial hole
Into thawing seams, germinating inspiration bowls
Enervating muse, implanted seeds into interstices dole
Granules of wisdom brim from gilded boll
Leaving pod, enthralling, pearly grains silt the soul
The congealed fabric spins around each, sensory pole
Ginned fibers into imagination's colorful tapestry burrow
As twilight's shadows light does fade
Dark machinations interstices invade
In deep crevasses, insecurities cascade
In dark corners, fears, doubts parade
Day's, blithe rhythms subconscious channels evade
Night's diabolical inventions the deep recesses pervade
My twittering eyes cannot the bleary apparitions dissuade
As mind's candle flickers, o'er frontal lobes dark minions escalade
As primed marionette's mimicked taunts degrade,
so galvanized, inner demons perform mock charade
Ghoulish forms are imprinted with a sharp spade
Entreating figments as sane ideas masquerade
My nurtured perceptions of reality are staid
Nightmarish delusions all rational outlets blockade
Portentous visions of calamitous peril overlaid
Underpinning, disturbing dreams crack shallow facade
Discordant tremors breach; tone deaf ears serenade
Shock waves pulse down spine; nerve endings frayed
Time's world is porous.
One may slip between the fabric weaving,
journeying upon the back of art and music,
poetry and meditation,
and the offering of love.
It is transition in a paradox
of peace-filled paroxysm
faith would not accommodate.
Then just beyond, the spirits gather
for a welcome that exceeds imagining.
There the past and future laugh
at their deception, vanishing like smoke.
Come to the marrying
of fear and celebration,
the collision of realities
we never sorted out.
It's over there a bit,
where mornings never yield
to resting suns, and yesterdays
that know not how to say goodbye.
The pathways lie within your dreams
but far outside as well.
and all penultimate
to that grand boulevard that we forsake
with each device of breath
and one insensitive laconic label...
death.
~
Subconcious streams flitter through my silty porthole
Ebb and flow through my consciences' filtering scroll
Clogging the interstices and my formative, fragile mind doth control
Perceptions of self flood my sensory console
Pent-up desires breach mind's, shallow levee and over carefree banks roll
Carnal instincts bleach and, over time, corrode my chaste compass's steady pole
My soul's rudder listlessly through the choppy waters doth stroll
Delusions of grandeur and trite fantasies o'er my wayward ship troll
Teetering sails are blown about by truant winds so droll
Faulty navigation beaches my tattered psche on a barren shoal
Battered by the waves of inconstancy paying a penitent toll
Tunneling through the brackish bilge; a frenetic mole
Seeking to escape frollicking tidal waves that my froward, youthful mind did cajole
Sifting through the rancid seaweed that years of cresting tides did dole
Cloaked with guilt, shame stranded on a rocky, desolate atoll
Still vainly trying to justify my hopeless condition; my fleeting worth extoll
What was left in our hands
after risk and awards were given to seekers ?
Sign of grace at hairpin bends
was absent.Nobody was speaking.
A moratorium was announced.
Somebody will have a glimpse of the moon
through the interstices of pain. Not
a word will be uttered for the elite
ravines of truth. Blessings of facts
will interact with amnesias. The bribery
of bleeding will extract a price. I
am moving the wheels of doubt. The
vulture of time throws a shadow.
Satish Verma
THE AIR-OCEAN’S PLANKTON
Snow falls like icy ocean-plankton. The air swarms
With their immense unsullied nebulae swirling in waves,
Tiny immaculate individuals in an innumerable host,
A silver-ivory myriad to be harvested.
Trees taking gulps of air-plankton, great chunks of airy snow,
Stretch lattices of arms and hands skyward to catch them,
Each numb finger and thumb laden to the very nail
With its neat impeccable pile of alabaster fishlets.
Sky-net filigrees, their great interstices seafoamed,
Filled with unblemished air-fish, blank white plankton:
The trees overfill every empty arm with the light white host:
Like women grasp fleamarket bargain necklaces of pearls.
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