insights
intuition
unthinkable
yet
certain
fluent
rhetorical
illusion
silhouetted
in
palpable
perception
contrasted
plenitudes
flickering
resonance
suggested
in
enhanced
if
hesitant
intricacies
cryptic
&
intriguing
imbued
phenomena
A claret mare,
slips through the lightless fields…
do I follow or does it follow me?
Milkweed drifts in the wind,
its intricacies caught in silence,
severed from any place of root or home,
do they know where they belong?
I drift, catatonic,
pulled toward a vague horizon
as if some austere hand grants favor -
or am I only imagining it?
Branches bow with dew,
a vessel of morning
in which the world seems briefly paused,
or is it always this still,
and I too blind to see?
Cherry blossoms, pale against gray…
hang like thoughts too fragile to speak.
I breathe.
The mare canters on,
and I, silent,
melt into the passing haze,
wondering if I will ever know
what carries me forward.
Extraordinary moments such as these
engrave themselves in our memories.
Swimming in the depth of fantasies
I surrender to softly whispered ecstasies.
Hands reaching, searching, ardent yearning,
retracing, touching, intensified relearning.
We delve, explore, as we heighten burning,
renewed expression, a sea of innate churning.
Bodies entwined, long satiated and satisfied,
we speak words of love, astonishing, mystified,
overwhelmed in bliss our hearts beat unified,
mutual adoration, and tenderly our union is fortified.
The intricacies of our lives develop and cultivate
seeds of mutual respect, as we ameliorate.
Within our realm, conflict we eliminate,
with extraordinary moments, riding the tide of fate.
Nine, five, one, three—
Is that truly all that remains of you?
What fragments of me linger in your mind?
If only you would take a moment to slow down
And gaze upon the world that unfolds before you.
Your way of life is shrouded in enigma.
Your sixth sense, paired with your keen understanding of women,
Collapses like a carefully arranged stack of dominoes —
So unsettling, so uncertain, so trapped in its own confines.
Please, help me unravel the intricacies of your thoughts.
You've often claimed that men are creatures of folly,
Incapable of taming their wild impulses,
As many chase after fleeting desires
And consume whatever is placed before them: so you said.
Sister, sister, if only you could just slow down,
For we are already halfway through this journey.
When a past love transforms into merely a chapter
In the book of our lives,
It signals that you have reached the finish line of that phase.
His number still drifts endlessly in my mind—
Nine, five, one, three, is all that you have left of him.
Please, help me grasp the depths of it all,
Why is it so difficult to truly love?
It's no surprise
that I'm back here
looking out over the river,
painting thoughts, dripping
memories, smearing streaks
of the here and now
across the canvas of a dull,
overcast day.
There was a time
when I had ambitions to be
an artist, high school dreams
of a life in smoke filled studios,
tee shirts and paint splattered
Levi jeans. ( A la Jackson Pollock )
Fate though had me
nine to five dressed in a suit,
white cotton shirt and a tie.
Over a long career I digested
libraries of corporate jargon,
studied the intricacies of office drill,
the dark secrets of management
all with consummate skill.
To survive, I mastered the art
of disguise and deflection
as an undercover poet
learns to do.
Throughout all the unyielding, cacophonous clamour,
Within the intricacies of intersecting timelines,
Overwhelmingly gnawing inside even the most remote labyrinths of your mind,
Silence listens to every rapid thrash of a trepidatious heart,
Adheres to the wheezing forced from infolding lungs,
Travels from one neuron to another,
Always looking for a pathway to calm your inner demons.
But in spite of all its longings to fix the trauma-laced flames licking your soul,
Its dreams are continuously unsuccessful,
As it paradoxically gets drowned by all the nightmarish noise.
In the mind of a poet on days when his muse is uninspiring
In the smile of great-grandma as her wrinkled hands hold her great-grandbaby
In the thoughts of a philosopher when he ponders on the intricacies of life
In the eyes of a farmer when his soil yields good crops after days of toil
In the silent prayer of a devotee as he stands before his Lord with eyes closed
In the sweet cuddle of a pet when he sees his master after a long time
In the tears of a mom when she meets her son after several years
In the void, hitherto unfilled, in the hearts of distant soulmates
In every single bud of thought that blooms in a mute’s mind in his lifetime
COMING GOING
to go or stay or runaway avoid delay of my being here of my being there of leaving now
wondering how of roundabout hereabouts of this residence a missing prescence in this
empty house in this empty mind of being unable to decide about coming home to go or stay or run away without delay with empty hands&of an empty heart
esoteric
intricacies-
mumurs assuaged
inspired by Samuel Beckett novel& poem 'Watt'
All you left me was a feather—
The greatest goodbye I could ever receive.
And, hidden somewhere within its delicate intricacies, in every fibre;
Buried beneath the tiny atoms that make up who you are:
Are written the words "I love you".
Traveling down the memory lane paved a long time ago,
I remember when I was completing graduation,
what profession I’d pursue afterward I didn’t know,
one professor gave my career a direction to follow.
A short statured profoundly erudite humble person,
introduced me to the fascinating facets of geology,
and to the intricacies of the earth in a simple way,
expounding its interesting evolution history.
The complex lattice of crystals he made clear to me,
using designed diagrams and meticulous models,
showed me in the field what in the rocks to see,
opened window in microscope on the world of minerals.
His unique way of teaching influenced my young mind,
ingrained in me a deep interest in the marvels of nature,
leading me to continue my studies in earth science,
creating the launching pad for my satisfactory career.
I won’t forget him for I realize with sense of gratitude
how the course of fulfilling life a teacher carves out,
not only by sensible sustenance of the imbibed acumen,
but by molding the mind to be satisfied with the shaped life.
deep vibrant velour
delicate intricacies
thorn pierced marooned bled
Oh to the tree,
The so abstraction of elation.
There is one to which i go,
To which i go and compose,
Draft of intricacies beyond comprehension.
Oh to the tree,
Of complex mentions.
I sit under the shade that so fades,
But even as it fades, I do still wait,
Waiting....for one who can grasp what i compose,
The complex mentions... in the question.
Oh to the tree!
The day has come... there is this girl,
She gets it!
Dismay forgone, now all is shade
I still do wait but the shade doesn't fade...
Abstraction of elation, indeed.
Speeding along life's highway
With the scenery flashing by
Must stop and smell the roses
There's more than meets the eye
We miss the tiny intricacies
Subtleties that mean so much
Life's delightful wee treasures
The warmth of a babies touch
A gentle breeze at daybreak
Welcoming a brand new day
Puffy white billowy clouds
Trees as they swing and sway
Life's a highway, enjoy the ride
The end comes far too soon
As you look for it's hidden meaning
You reach life's final swoon
Reflecting back over the years
Of the good times and the bad
You realize it's been a blast my friends
Thankful for the life you've had
With heartaches and some sorrows
To get through it all unscathed
Is nothing short of a miracle
In your memories you're left to bathe
Written: February 19, 2024
____________________________________
The dam, in which
the tissue residue is present
has a saline ecosystem
despite the dryness
It is still preferable
to a carnival of wood and
burnt bryony bushes.
You could smell it.
from light-years afar
a tourniquet grasp of
saffron soil in a swooshing
flame is inscribed on the
plains armrest.
The grassland dips in
revealing slabs of an ancient utopia
the focal halftone of a
floating forehead features
a house of clovers motif
my torn lobes throb
beating as a breathing bruise,
hiding behind the partial eclipse
the integral aspects of
crimson maple.
I started overlapping
the threshold
to be buried as an
enigma in the depths of her soul
in the funnel, mists of ash, and shaking
sprinting into the intricacies of a
heavenly sanctuary
dubbed heart.
Geology, the science of the earth,
elucidates the intricacies of
creation of continents and opening of oceans,
explores the complex framework
of the multilayered deep interior,
and unravels the enigmatic structure
of the mighty mountains,
deciphers from the fossils,
the evolutionary trends of life.
The arcane aspects of earth’s ancient architecture,
imprinted in the petrified rock strata,
enunciate the 4.5 billion year history of the planet.
My expertise as a geologist
lies in the study of rock structures,
that ascertain the deformation pattern,
consequential to the interplay of tectonic forces,
drifting the evolving continents,
forming the changing montage of mountain chains,
like the old Caledonia and the young Himalaya,
and creating earthquake-causing seismic faults,
like in the Saint Andreas and in the Anatolia.
A piece of rock is not just
a chunk of ordinary stale stone to me,
the lattice of the entwined minerals
enumerates the lyrical anecdote
of the eventful eons of the earth,
motivates me with poetic passion,
as I unfold the mysteries of the blue planet.
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