Long Throwing away Poems
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I look around my house where there is no room
And I think no more shopping shall I ever do
Shopping used to be my thing, but lately
My multitude of purchases have simply
Made me blue.
The house is getting smaller. It feels like
Stuff has taken over. It is strange how
Fast it grew.
Weirdly enough, the stuff is not being used.
It is clogging up the house, and it makes me
Feel blue.
I have never thought of myself as a hoarder,
But I do now. Yes, a purge is what I need to do.
A gigantic sale, but who would come out here?
I live in the country where cars are very few.
I will have a freebee party, invite my friends, and
Have them take all the stuff they want that’s new.
Are you kidding? We both know I’d run off to the store
And replace all this crud, and buy some more too.
I will ask Joe to help me find a nice, orderly way
“so I can enjoy this house with you.”
Uh-oh. His ideas involve throwing away a bunch of
Terrific stuff. That I cannot do.
I guess I will continue to climb over the
Piles in the kitchen as I make my famous stew
And this conversation never happened, if you
Want to remain friends with me, okay, you?
Please come over here and rob the place.
The door is open
I will be gone each day 'til two.
I was never a girly-girl.
I am not a sorting, throwing away, cleaning girl.
I am definitely not a wash-the-dishes or wash-the-clothes girl.
I am more of a fill-up-your-spaces with junk girl.
Buckets of junk, baskets of junk, junk to
Put junk in, junk to sit on top of other junk.
I love thrift stores, garage sales, and flea markets.
Antique malls in town have my credit card number
On file in case I lose it again.
Being prissy is not for me.
Neither is being a girl; I’m a wild woman.
Definitely a SEASONED woman.
Confined in the heart and mind
Of a 9-year-old boy.
The boy side of me laughs
Silently at the prissy people who
Sort and purge and clean.
What sillies!
Wasting their time on something that keeps need re-doing,re-doing,re-doing.
My children can sort my junk after I’m gone. Or the grandchildren can.
OK, I confess, it’s been me all along,
It was I who did all the crime,
I am the serial killer of me,
Of murdering me every time,
The moon’s in bloom in its beautiful cycle,
I stood by the fire on the beach,
It was I who stood with both feet in the water,
Rebirthing myself with a speech,
And throwing away the last month of myself,
Rejuvenating the me inside me,
And listening to the water, earth, wind and fire,
Cleansing my soul to be free,
Yep, I am the one who kills every month,
Empties the soul that I had,
And replaces with a new, healthier me,
I’m a spiritual pagan nomad.
I am a true rebel- for I question
the words of my catholic rigid rules.
And will rise up to claim my self-expression,
keeping the parts that are like precious jewels.
Spiritual freedom is my obsession . . .
I do not want to be like the mindless ghouls.
Forces of desiring things creates aversion,
and pushing these things away creates diversion.
So, I let go of all useless craving
and let go of the resistance and fears.
Stop the beliefs like old etched engraving,
I hang from stars that seem a chandelier.
Don't obey all the catholic ravings,
but hold what I consider to be dear.
Through meditation my focus is unbroken,
and I can hear my spiritual voice spoken.
I turn away from any cult-like faith
throwing away all the rigid mindset.
Discard all the bible verses that saith,
to find my inner song- I press reset.
I will seek a journey to interfaith,
and hum to my internal clarinet.
I am placing all those old teachings on a shelf,
to begin an amazing journey to myself.
I Planned of
throwing away
the eld
machine
of writing,
crumple
the papers
accomplices
of mine
fetish...
until stop
writing...!
but how :?
the words
pass by
my head
as models
on the catwalks...
demanding attention!
I had conceived over blinding myself
completely...
(I sight poorly!),
not to sight anymore
colors, paintings...!
but my mind
have files
secrets with
all beauties
of the world !
I stopped eating,
never
I was hungry...
I stopped drinking,
I found myself free
from headquarters...
I am further health than
before...
my hunger
literary has increased...!
not further devouring
mountain ranges of ideas
pass my hunger
of verses...
thus drinking
an Amazon
of words,
I never killed my
thirst for poetry...!
An hour has hatched in my feeble head all the actually tormented minutes,
many stuffed seconds, the past's terrible death that haunts me obsessively,
to lurk, appear in the future, after a present that aged too quickly,
from the future, absent apparition, of being or never being clearly anymore.
And look how I've found through a me too often rushed through labyrinths,
infinitesimal traces of infinity, of my current occupation like a toxic river,
attached to life in my unprofitable square dream - from THOUGHT exploding in me,
the secret mission - hatred! - the tenacious demented fight with my phantom windmills!
To find for my poetry the neurotoxic antidote, the anti-EVERYTHING destroying meanings,
of candles transpired tears of hot melted wax, my most whorish passions,
of our statues celebrities, still unhewn, in marble stones waiting,
when from youth's exhausting sprint, I feel my labored soul throwing away.
I shake as long as I'm still alive from the biosphere all imaginary windmills,
of life's intensely total electric stress that burns my neurons in small fires,
I, the successful illiterate who reads chaos on the pages of burnt time,
of seconds' past sonorously screaming, on the definitively broken from lost future!
The hour hatches minutes like time embryos boiling in the skull,
the past's memories die and turn into ash of pallid memory,
the future lurks somewhere in the present like an untamed wild animal,
and I, rushed through myself, find infinite traces in my brutal finitude.
i'm still at the same place
sitting by the same old lamp
where we penned
a tale, a poem, a song for the ages
while listening to same old music
in void of your voice
and the letters you used to fly
from your place
i'm wishing on every star
for a force to come by and tell me
is it over or is it an illusion?
my mind is my graveyard
a death place of my happiness
that keep stabbing daggers
by bringing back memories
i looked up your name
not once, twice or thrice
but thousands of time
with my each cry
i see you're doing good
by locking me in a cage
and throwing away in the sea with the key
leaving me to drown and die
Nothing happens by chance
We thrive in God’s appointed
Times and seasons
All we are and do
Fit perfectly into
His divine calendar
There is time to be born
And time to die
Time for planting
And time for harvesting
Time for killing
And time for healing
Time for tearing down
And time for building
Time for sorrow
And time for joy
Time for mourning
And time for dancing
Time for making love
And time for not making love
Time for kissing
And time for not kissing
Time for finding
And the time for losing
Time for saving
And time for throwing away
Time for tearing
And time for mending
Time for silence
And time for talk
There is time for love
And time for hate
Time for war
And time for peace
Wait therefore for His time
For you cannot hurry the sunshine
At God’s time everything is beautiful
God’s time is the best
A Mirror on the well
Cutting deep struck plans to steal one's love of time
I looked into waters in the well.
Seeing reflection of one's prime years
Throwing away all failures that one sees until then.
Transient desire that one makes to throw a stone
While the stone kills one's beauty to different shapes
The ripples trips across the entire well
Adding new watery drops in place of old giving a new beauty
Fills the complete well in a few minute seconds
Remembering me to the world we are in
That changes scene every now and then
Like you don't be in the same place as it was
Every now and then...
S ANANDHI
11 05 2021
Through the plains and valleys they creep,
Throwing away their lives for man’s desire.
With death and hope in tow,
They carry the burdens of countless nations,
Believing in something so far away —
Be it the freedom that evil holds hostage
Or the greed of a single man.
And still they battle in those treacherous lands,
An anguished, silent cry as they wish for their loved ones
Far away in their homelands, waiting for them,
Singing prayers and praises in their stead.
Calloused hands that were beyond wear and tear,
And weapons imbued with the strength, blood, and tears.
The fallen lay, blessed by God,
While the others hide from His wrath.
But all shall be in vain, for His eyes still watch us from afar,
And they shall all beg for Him when the time comes.
When they know that they shall fail,
They speak with pitiful remorse about their lives:
“May the good God bless us through this war.”
By Jahnavi raj