Long Crouched Poems
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One clear evenfall, on way back to home,
She speculated a dark figure around.
She felt tiresome or it was real,
She moved her steps towards it.
As she advanced,
The shape walked ahead too.
Everything was not a clear vision,
It appeared intriguing.
Finding it difficult to not follow,
She determined to check that fellow.
Few minutes later, it became static
And crouched itself on a tree trunk.
Besides the unknown figure,
She sat down fixing her eyes on it.
He appeared peculiar,
And wore a veil on his invisible face.
"It's your turn today to rewind past"
A male voice uttered in the silence.
"What should I tell you and why?"
The curious woman questioned him.
"I am your close acquaintance,
for one last talk, will fade away in dark"
He firmly asserted the puzzled face
so that she could trust him.
"I just survived an ordinary life
And dedicated to my family.
Following the norms, they told me
Since, my childhood.
Forced to live within some limits,
As world seemed too unsafe to be free.
Waiting for a day, I could move out
Into the world of my dreams.
Breaking the chains of society
Which suppressed me"
The veiled figure laughed out loud,
"You could do anything from now"
Till then she didn't know his name,
Folks called him time.
She became as light as air, no blood and flesh, Leaving behind luminescence, she vanished.
Her notions lingered inside unsaid,
And lived an incomplete life.
Living into the fears, she reached
The last moment of her existence.
Since the evening, she wasn't alive,
Her soul was exiting the Earth.
Time, universal and limited for all,
She persisted her life span and left.
The clock, it waited for none
Just continued in its flow.
Speculating birth of living beings
And then, engulfing everything.
His one message for every woman,
"Queen!! Start living from now".
©?Aditi Anvita (Anvi).
Would love to get your feedback.
Apparent normalcy of seeing Simon crouched on bathroom tiles,
engrossed in energetic chewing, fails to filter my distress.
From outer body standpoint, hovered below ceiling's heat lamp,
I monitor the horror of my daughter's distraught face.
Ginger fringed, four foot five island stands on tiles first splat tarnishes.
Her scrunched hand shields centre of her face.
Vibrant sauce slides between her fingers, rivulets lead from between knuckles.
Confusion holds her captive. Velvet blond temples wince.
Metallic stiff hand draws away from her altered face.
Gaping space menaces a moustache of tomato soup.
Escaping stalactites extend from her feather faint face.
Rubbery bulb thousand times kissed
bread crumb sprinkled nose tip Rudolphs its ridiculous absence.
Coolest nochalance, Simon casts defiant dollar coin eyes at me.
In typical satisfied snack imbibed style, athletic tongue traverses his tame feline ferocity.
Miniature tiger teeth with clinician care cleaned, reminisce their red.
Placidly pleased by his sudden dismounted diplomacy, primal Simon forgot it.
Sun snoozing couch cushion
visited by vengeful psychotic.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Gory story. Feeds my fiction addiction.
3rd June 2020
“What is Past is Prologue.”
The Tempest.
It's the young ghosts that
haunt us most.
A vison of my 6-year-old self,
looking up from a basement window
at the gray pavement above my head.
It scared me then and still does.
One dead-eyed day in a wintery city
I saw a man without a coat
crouched and shivering,
the coat that he did not wear that day
I wore at that time.
The more I looked, the more I understood.
Such younger ghosts are spectral preludes,
phantoms of our psyche,
sealed into a setting, just large enough
for them to relive forever
a one-act play
of our soul-etched moments.
In a moment, she was out the back door,
And turned green cat eyes on me;
Rare vase lay broken on the floor,
And guests just arriving to tea.
Her ears lay flat upon her head,
As she humbly crouched along,
Little cakes and tarts of cherry red,
And soon would hear birds' evensong.
The antique vase lay creamy white,
And covered in vines green and gold,
And tiny, beauteous birds in flight;
Three hundred years old.
Abby lingered in stillness of afternoon,
And once more the doorbell rang.
It appears they'd arrived too soon;
Fragrant pies of lemon meringue.
Trampled violets and roses from the garden wane,
They lay there so wet and so lovely;
And bloom for now and never come again,
Though tea is served at three.
Abigail sat darkly upon the porch rail,
The guilt in her eyes apparent,
And swatted a bee with her tail,
And garden smells were prevalent.
submitted to Seth Pina's Horror Contest in '26
It started with one utterance
that grew into a shout.
That cry grew louder in his ear.
He could not get it out.
The bellowing prolonged itself,
and then one cry was two.
His frightened eyes searched faces on
the teeming avenue.
On the edge of reason then,
he gaped at strangers’ lips,
but mouths stayed shut and mocked the truth
of his apocalypse.
The cries that he was hearing came
a hundredfold or more,
a deafening cacophony,
an oceanic roar.
And nightmare revelations that
had brought this din in dreams
were now his actuality -
enwrapping him in screams.
The throng pressed on around a man
who crouched, with eyes half-dead.
And now inside a room he rocks
to screams inside his head.
...Steel Hands leapt to the ropes to celebrate,
what a dramatic comeback victory!
cried out his joy while pumping his fists,
right there for the whole audience to see,
but his joy vanished hen he turned on back,
McGill still lay there, by tremors was wracked.
The ring doctor was crouched over his form,
and called frantically for medical help,
another man began to do C.P.R.,
was McGill dead? Still hands just couldn’t tell.
but all thoughts of ego and titles died,
nothing but horror remains in his eyes.
Were money and belts worth what he had done,
even though it wasn’t his attention?
To win a sport he’d put a man near the grave,
so that his name by most folk would be mentioned,
he’d hurt a man seeking fortune and fame,
that would be how folks remembered his name…
He did not hear them announce he had won,
to the hospital Ray Richardson went,
he learned that McGill was barely alive,
and to the ICU he’d been sent,
Ray saw the man’s wife as she loudly bawled,
didn’t feel much like a champion at all.
It had been so long since Steel Hands had felt
a true and compelling reason to pray,
but in that hospital he called out to God,
asked him not to let McGill die this day,
but he was brain dead, despite Steel Hand’s prayer,
trapped deep n a coma, he would stay there.
Richardson wailed when he heard the grim news,
never imagined such an end to a fight,
didn’t care for the money any longer,
only cared about how to make this right,
the media crowed, if it bleeds it leads,
voracious scavengers, looking to feed…
Though he didn’t think much on the uproar,
Ray was brooding, feeling that he had failed,
he was known in life for doing something
That outside the ring would land you in jail,
he decided something right then and there,
and gave his whole fortune for McGill’s care...
CONTINUES IN PART III.
"Barefeet"
Let sleeping cats lie
velvet dreams licking
skeleton keys
passed on kisses
passed on fire tongues
sketchy
scratchy
curled around
warm blanketed whispers
laughter tickled
by whiskers
tales twisted
paws softly scratching
skin forgotten,
dormant
covered safely
under blanket
out of life
out of tune
in over-heated
lonely poet-hung rooms
barefeet in benediction
crouched naked waiting
ready
in position
on knees
elbows follow, genuflection
cats, black hearts
all feral
stalking futures passive
inside pheromones all growling
aggressive wants
demanding latent love
A Prayer
for the wild at heart
dancing naked
seeking some kind of love
souls on
hot tin roofs
very forward
purring darkly
come
(Ladylabyrinth / 2020)
Springing free from glistening
Fronds
The summers heat leaps for
Height;
Whilst drifting obscurely far
Above
A distant lark now hangs in
Flight.
Floats down his sweet trill,
Accompanied by joyous and
Uplifting revelry,
Over the black crows nasal
Calls;
Whose draped shadow,
contemplating devilry,
Flaps and furtively falls
Into ripening bean fields
Planted in neatly sowed rows:
Nourished in darkest till,
Enriched by pedantic verse of
Gaelic odes.
Do now these gentle Slopes
Pause to yield
Where secretive song,
Bursting forth, is much concealed
inside the plain of Aidhne;
For here the great rock of the
Burren,
Whereby so implored upon,
Revealed its grey stones...
To rebuild ancient and deserted
Thoor Ballylee.
Sweeping briskly past a tors
Grassy island busy in bloom,
Eagerly cramming under four
Crouched arches,
Skim the borrowed waters of
Thee immortal Cloone;
Dappling currents
Dawdling around squat stanchions -
Staunchly carrying the quiet bridge
Over the old concourse:
Momentarily loitering -
Wantonly begging to coyly swoon...
Now, joyfully sporting in gushing
Discourse,
Gleefully courting elusive and
Glimmering enchantments:
Mirrored reflections enticed to
Enter -
To be forever trapped within a
Burbling rivers sacred rhyme and
Tune.
Higher and higher the spiraling
Stairs of de Burgo
When through airy woodland
Glades
The towering shadow sought;
And higher and higher the spirit
Of an ageing poet...
His crowding thoughts
Roaming freely amidst these
Fabled legends of Gort.
Harken then to the feathered
Herald -
Tis Gods design that calls on
Ye!
For few men know of what he
Sings...
He sings of the forgotten paths
Forever lost within Innisfree.
I owe so much to you
When you pulled at me,
Tugged me from my toiling,
When I was crouched low,
In the kitchen, blurry choke of tears
I saw the outline of your peninsula
Etched in florescent blue in my mind
A little red star on a map
Such a hard drive (for me and the Ford)
But I, swept into the arms of that gentle house,
Saw a clearing in the nettles, one that I could pass through
And those turned to violets that kissed me as I was waking up
And going to bed, listening to the healing black wind
Through the many cracked windows
Presque Isle with her flags and sea glass
The promise of going to Canada
Turning my head to look at the lake, that dark lake
Itself enigmatic- a sea but not a sea
I think about that, brush the snowy sand from my palms
Yes, in a way,
That could be me
Another Sunday morning
Crouched in the beam of headlights
Steam coming off coffee and breath
Fumbling to pin race bib to pants
A romance
Of sorts; this dance I’m addicted to
Those magic numbers: 5k, 13.1, and
The boss lady: 26.2 (I’m coming after you)
But why? Friends ask
You’re crazy they say on posts
Of me on each early Sunday
I say nothing back, but heart the comment
I can’t explain what the rhythmic pound; the sound
of New Balanced footstrikes does
For the broken part of me
How the week’s aggression
That needs suppressing is sweated out
And gathered up in Nike’s moisture-wicking fabric
How weaving through the crowd of neophytes
Wearing today’s race shirt, alternately
Sprinting then walking
And the kids, eager, then over it
The moms reclaiming a body that sheltered
The now-strollered baby
The geriatrics, shoes well-used
Nimble limbs, not brittle but abused
From pounding pavement years before this
This environment, atmosphere
Big race crowds or small informal
Stopwatch race; doesn’t matter
Just involved; a part of this kinship
Unspoken club affiliation; in passing
Not a wave, but nod
A head bob of appreciation
For another’s association;
Obsession with times, miles,
Post-race selfie smiles
Because I know there will come a day
That my body will betray
My runner’s soul.
But for now I stand at the start
Ready for race gun and one more mile
2/14/19
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