Long Unspent Poems
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This, perhaps, has been my constant duty all through,
My life has been a perpetual stock-taking;
Within which, I, like sparrows, from out of the blue,
Find possibilities of Nestles get shaping...!
The almighty and my kith and kin have been great,
What a life he has given me, it's wonderful!
Who says there's existential resolve and sad fate?
My response-filled life has been rainbow-colorful...!
How delicately each bird pecks its little grain!
How each loyal soul searches for the final goal!
What's, after all, without reaching that godly reign?
To which each one needs to strive with whole heart and soul...!
I sift each sad shadow like a penny not spent,
Each unspent penny has added to my... lone cent...!!!
those of us who caught or chased our love in every field
knew her best by memories that we caught.
anvils that we stood upon gave grain to find our shield
leave our stain upon the earth with every word we brought
thought we to gaze and see, sought we to touch and feel,
each passing thought, raised as boulders meant for hearts of steel.
we sought to know the grass by every blade
Trailed beside our breath all ghosts; known to us as shade.
we carried dreams in envelopes that were too tightly sealed
wherein past hearts all lay encased inside of marbled stone.
with dagger nightshade curtains cast aside and hands held high
to grasp between the fight that sought that space within us all,
where poems of each reside; inside a breast whose eyes
see far beyond the light.
those of us to whom it mattered what we hunted for and found
in waking sleep few mortals come to know.
we danced inside a rhythm found, inside life’s unawakened sound;
and felt a kiss upon our soul that only God bestows.
those of us who caught or chased our love in every field
treasured coins unspent and serpent’s tongue unheard;
manufactured fields in which we married, marched, or kneeled
tripped each crumbling trap unsprung by mottled deed or word.
things our Science told us we could never hope to touch;
and yet like breathing, life sometimes had weight;
and though we never tested footsteps taken without crutch
each fall was one step forward into never ending fate.
we carried on our backs the weight of minions gone before
at times our journey slow, at times forlorn.
but in the end the corner turned, stood we with shaken core
full circle to become again, in wonder, life reborn.
one or zero may be all we thought that we would hold;
but those of us who caught or chased our love in every field
gave this world Eternity and shaped it to unfold;
laid bare the mystery there to find, a mirrored God Revealed.
Give none to love, its toxic disarming charm;
obey your mind not your heart;
my dear family and kindred spirit friends;
Nothing refused to love is
wing unspent.
Let your heart go free,
beyond the far horizon,
the abyss of the brain.
Enduring fire,
love is a fire that burns,
everything on its path,
good flame rising to the sky,
requiring courage to
dodge the smoke, the bold master
dictating to follow with untold intent.
Give none to love, hear me, its
demons stealing all grace, unhinged
from logic, unmade by reason.
Let it brag about its scope, the cry
of the beloved, diving into your dream,
the vague promise of salvation, obey
your reason, pity your life, and give none
to love -- one who fractures all deserves
no remorse at all.
But walk freely in museum of love, gingerly
on its bundle of broken hearts littering
its ground.
I have not the will
If not for anything perhaps everything
Life if there is the real
Can I but ask for one more a dream?
When so little can mean so much
When so much is to mean nothing at all
Life to forever be judged as such
Might death be a relief to applaud?
To have words yet unwise
To have time yet unspent
Humanities to be made for lies
Where did my moments went?
I have truths to belong my own
Yet of lies to speak a better of in truth
Have I a stranger in me unknown?
Yet to have somehow a society a better proof
If life is real
I do not have to dream
Have I the will?
If not for anything perhaps everything
A line divides the bed they share
a line, invisible, but there.
Between the North, South East, or West
who knows which side now offers rest?
Post-angered words it widens so
a space where unspent feelings flow
and neither dares encroach this place
with cautious touch or first embrace.
The line did not exist at first
when then their tangled limbs traversed
the bed at any angle known;
no part of it they claimed to own.
Now he lies left, and she lies right
the border crossed by some invite;
and neither knows the reason why
some nights allow, and some deny.
A line divides the bed they share
a line, invisible, but there.
"Well"
Well,
I’m way too romantic
aren’t I?
Tattoo’d poetry
on a tongue
not
speaking
on a body of work
spent unspent
love let loose
on a deep
French Kiss
tatoo'd poetry
on a tongue
locked in
your everything
diving deep 6
into you
like Persephone
underground
I’d rather be a carwreck
driven 100 mph or more
slammed up against your wall
with purile certainty
fingers entwined
the plot curled, legs twisting
fingers deep
in ink
Well, bursting
I’m deep
like deep Red bells tolling
out there
in that walk on water
ocean of yours
sharks circling
I ride
their sandpaper backs
holding tight onto their quartz fins
their razor sharp teeth
cutting up all my pages
in the in-between
emerged in everything
the losses over
every winning win
the black and white
Orcas circling grin
wolves like words
come to save me
and I am yours
eventually, heaven ridden
Well,
I’m deep
6 ft in
another
4 and 20
blackbirds
risen
Candide Diderot. ‘24
A once-thriving wishing well now stands as a desiccated testament to lost hopes and the passage of time. The well is not merely stone and dust, but a silent amphitheater where countless dreams once took their bow, now reduced to a stage of cracked earth. It is a mute oracle whose prophecies evaporated with the last drop of water, leaving behind only the ghosts of whispers and the echo of unfulfilled prayers.
This dried-up structure is an empty vault, a safety deposit box for the heart’s most vulnerable desires. Each pebble, once a potent offering, is now an unspent coin of faith, tarnished and forgotten at the bottom of the husk. The well’s deep, shadowed maw, once a mirror reflecting the hopeful eyes of believers, is now a blind, dusty bowl—a bowl of broken promises and evaporated tomorrows. The sun beats down on its rim, relentless and unforgiving, baking the very memories it holds into brittle relics of what was once a sacred trust.
It is a monument to a forgotten religion, a sacred site where the congregation stopped believing. The deity of the depths, the guardian of the granted wish, has long since departed, leaving the sanctuary to the mercy of the wind and the dust. The ropes that once drew forth buckets of life and promise now hang slack and frayed, like the severed lifelines of a belief system that could no longer sustain itself. They are the desiccated veins of an optimism that no longer flows.
The parched stones, once cool and slick with the perpetual moisture of faith, are now warm to the touch, retaining the day’s heat long after the sun has set, as if still burning with the fever of a long-ago wish that was never granted. The well is a skeletal hand reaching up from the earth, its fingers spread wide, not in supplication, but in a final, resigned gesture of emptiness. The dried wishing well is, in essence, a beautiful, tragic metaphor for a heart that has run out of wishes, a soul that has learned the hard lesson that some droughts are too long to break, and some wells are never meant to be refilled.
From the beginning man looked up
at night and saw the satellite,
orbiting on a timetable
of its own.
It came and went, remained unspent,
Ying to earth’s Yang, celestially,
each evening rising—an old
companion.
Generations saw its pale white
reflecting down from sun’s bright light,
and through centuries past it spoke
to lovers.
Men wondered how it came to be,
and wondered what the distance was,
contemplated the mystery
in the sky.
And then within a hundred years,
men’s knowledge grew and dreams came true,
as science dawned and airplanes flew,
like eagles.
The President declared one day,
and made a claim about the way,
America would send a man
to the moon.
They built a ship to make the trip,
three astronauts in flying suits
were rocketed from Florida,
into space.
The world rejoiced, with kinship voice,
when Armstrong spoke and told the world,
a giant step was made that day,
for mankind.
And now again we celebrate,
commemorate, it’s fifty years,
since that event in sixty-nine,
the first time.
Shortly there will be a service,
taking people using spaceships,
on a lunar expedition,
for a fee.
In the meantime and forever,
every person who looks upward,
sees the beauty of the moonlight,
in night’s sky.
The scene’s the same, since Abraham
and Charlemagne and Chairman Mao
and you and me, we soak it in
impressing.
It speaks to us. It comforts us,
consistently, reliably,
the rich, the poor, it matters not
who sees it.
We offer praise, sing its glory,
thankful for the tides it brings us.
May it last and be forever,
as it is.
The delivery man when comes,
And brings in a hot well-foiled stuff,
We thank him, thank more than enough,
But, a thought if at all it comes
We scrub it off as if dandruff:
To her who daily serves you hot,
Expecting not so in return,
Do we ever thank her enough?
More oft than not, the answer’s ‘not,
And not whatso in mind might churn.
It’s like with unspent wealth to die,
Love, smile, wish, friendship might as lie
Un-spelt, or thoughts never acted upon,
A poem not penned, a painting not drawn,
A Beethoven’s symphony half-done,
Einstein’s experiments undone,
Let’s not die buried aplenty,
Let’s die spent-up and all empty.
Seeds are not to be stored un-sown,
But spread widely, everywhere thrown.
Let water flow, get widely used,
Stagnant, will it smell if unused.
_____________________________________
Musings |03.09.2021| Free verse
Poet’s note: Let’s not die with a rich crop of good creative ideas never acted upon, without a wish or love expressed, a friend thanked enough, wealth weaselled for a future and never enjoyed...The land where you might be buried is not going to be enriched with all this stuff. Get buried aplenty not, die empty.
On the precipice it stands,
loose-limbed with a sinewy grace,
body taut with an implied swagger,
face, grinning, a sun-dappled gold.
Unclouded by the cataract of cynicism,
its eyes survey a horizon heat-hazed with
a thousand promises.
As yet, love has left it with no sutured heart,
nor loss summoned a creeping despair.
By no friend has it yet been betrayed,
from no purpose has it resigned and strayed.
Lies, it has heard, but, believed, cannot hurt.
Ignorant of what it doesn’t know,
it has an ego undented by falls,
not yet weaned from the milk of optimism.
It has yet to learn the vices of body and mind
that take a lifetime to unlearn,
or the discontent sired by desire,
and what it could gain when there’s nothing else it wants,
that wisdom can be glimpsed only by a sobered fool,
yet Sobriety keeps a lonely vigil over a humanity
drunk on hate-filled wine,
and Truth is a far-flung place,
maze-like in black, white and every shade of gray,
that an ideal is oft a shabby lover next to the
painted temptresses sent by Vainglory and Greed,
that too often, in a world of crass appetites,
an angel has to stoop low before it can fly high,
and, thus flying, loses its angelic smile.
It does not yet suspect Fortune’s mischief,
taking us unawares with its games,
demanding that we shuffle in time to the music of whims,
that the love of life is often repaid,
yet sometimes unrequited.
All this Youth has yet to learn.
Pristine, with not a wrinkle on its soul,
it stands on the precipice,
untroubled by hints of the limits of infinity,
emboldened by intimations of immortality.
With wings unfurled,
beaming in the sunlight
for one last time,
it soars wide-eyed towards
a life yet unspent.