@Bappa Mazumder
Gazing early dawn, to be blooming soon
Gazing early dawn, to be blooming soon
Night is still young, unending
Weather, the morning forecast predicted a rain, ensuing
And then, this will stop me from seeing you, a refrain
The city and the outskirt
A lot sits in between, in hindrance
And the present tense and
the erotic boy zone
wondering through Facebook, whats app for
a lover boon, millimeters to million, thriving.
I am a heritage queue, an odd audacity
I saw time, bygone, as t'was forthcoming
in a closed 'laptop'
I and my fanciful clouded entropy,
the flower vase embellishing the dawn
you and a warmth, adore
one step closer to the brim, ashore!
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I like hammocks.
I like buzzing bees.
Unseasonably warm days.
Or maybe more like hours…
In April, things get taken out.
Then put away again.
My favorite shorts.
My favorite flowers.
My favorite everything.
Even when it’s supposed to be cold and stormy tomorrow…
We don’t believe it.
So we pull out clunky lawn furniture.
And mow the grass which has only grown a few millimeters.
Today is April 22nd.
Don’t leave any metal tools out.
Or they will be rained on and get rusty.
I thought the rust was over.
It’s as if March is haunting us.
In about a week, it will be May.
We should be excited.
As the grass grows and grows endlessly.
But today, it is still April.
Hopelessly April.
My fox screams and yells in utter disbelief, a glass wall silencing his pleas
I can only watch in utter display as my fox slowly but surely withers away
You may ask, ‘Why didn’t you help?’ or ‘Why just watch him fall?’
But the horrid, harsh truth is, I tried everything and nothing works at all
The glass cage, is seventy millimeters thick, much too tough for even an icepick
Yelling and begging that my fox stay calm, leaves him confused and much too headstrong
For the silence between us goes both ways, whether I push or tug, it always causes us dismay
I would bang on the glass, crying out his name. Yet the fox just sits there, immersed in his pain
Of course his isn’t the only pain in the room. For my feet are shackled, in barbed wire, I’d assume
As I walk around the cage and bang on the glass, the wires cut deeper as I trespass
I’m desperate to help, for it all to go away. But the magician is still here, finding glee from our pain
And finally when the hour strikes nine, all motion ceases, except for mine
My special fox is dead, while I stand unwillingly, surrounded in my pool of red
Glistening night began the fall,
Of dreams and joy, he would often call,
Hopes residing on his shoulders appal,
Dark inhaling the being, exhaling it all.
Where would it end?
Masking it, anonymously penned,
Giving in to the existing trend,
Stuck in a marsh knowing no friend.
Eyesight going weak, in all bleakness,
Feet moving barely, in a guess,
Millimeters from a mourning press,
Light may come, and caress.
The distance that hurts me the most
it is not that of the miles that separate us,
But the one with the millimeters
between my eyes and your eyes...
the one that tied us closer,
the one we no longer reach...
I grew up with inches, yards, miles, and feet.
I knew the difference, it was easy, and neat.
But today I am far behind in the dust because
Metric scale is what the new math does.
Millimeters, centimeters, cha cha cha.
Pencil thickness is about one centimeter. Rah Rah Rah.
Ten Millimeters is one centimeter, reminds me of cents to a dollar.
I may be catching on, so I stand up and holler.
One hundred thousand centimeters is a kilometer, friend.
One hundred centimeters is a meter, did you know that, Uncle Ben?
Millimeters, centimeters, cha cha cha.
Paper thickness is way less than a centimeter. Rah Rah Rah.
Now I think of my recipes. Did they change the tablespoon too?
Do I have to worry about cups, pints, and gallons for my glue?
I used to know my measurements, but everything is new.
Don’t even show me the rest of the new math. It is a boo hoo.
No matter how fast I run, or how high I climb,
It always escapes me, that being called “Time”
It is a cunning sparrow, taunting with each rasp
But with each step nearer, flies out of my grasp
Fleeing from my hands, away from my clutch
Just millimeters away but not enough to touch
Running up a steep mountain, I lunge to clasp
But stepping closer to the edge, I let out a gasp
Richly hued feathers painted black and blue,
Each trapping my limbs, my feet stuck like glue
Plant-like appendages wrapping around like vines,
Securing me in place to watch the minute hand’s line
Each tick, each beat, each shake of its slender tail,
Speeds up my heart rate and the pace at which I inhale
Staying in the same place, I beg and plead for more
More of that being which continues to soar and ignore
To this day the sparrow continues to hide and mock,
To glide around others and let out a triumphant squawk
For no one can stop time, whether I am young or old
Only during my final breaths, the sparrow I can hold
Written: July 7, 2021
Contest: “Grasp”
Sponsor: Constance La France
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2uqZhnqHMAg
The orchestra strains to be symphonic --- a bee in a tin box.
Cigar smoke thunders, molecules of sound wilt
only to be dialed up through brass lungs.
The combo is quaintly upholstered, a classic sports car
driven by Disney. Outmoded refrains gurgle.
We see the obsolete road ahead, feel the bumps,
the lack of shock absorbers.
The third piano concerto, the romance of the exile.
1940 is pulled from under its Perspex lid, served up
as fresh Prosciutto di Parma consumed in a diner
long derailed.
The mind warps eras, Michelangelo has gone Hollywood,
the 'Creation' sketched on a paper napkin.
Last notes.
Hands too large for tuxedoed minds, stamp
like rhapsodic elephants.
Percussive fingers slam-dunk ivory tusked themes,
Russian bells quake California.
Rolling vespers outgrowing each decade,
times now locked in a recovery CD millimeters thin.
~~~
https://www.thetruthaboutcars.com/2010/10/sergei-rachmaninoff-car-guy-aero-investor/
Grounded are the feet that be in the elemental earth
Bounded we the legs that keep the motion of walks
Rounded is the dirt beneath as the pressure begins to mound
Founded the discovery to uncover knowledgeable talks
Sculpting melding seeping
The soil underground flowing heated molten
Melting shaping morphing
Formation created solid black rock ground
Steamy is the water of the magmatic oceans deep
Risen layers pillow topped stacked slowly in the chill
Solidifying new earthen life pushed through to a crusted rebuild
Slowly in the unseen depths where land is consuming sea
Wisps of wind waves whistle with gaseous fumes
Lofting liquid red as golden orange fissures spread bloody fires
Inches measured by millimeters mold metals magical blaze
Wild widening of gaps shallowly engraved a blackened glaze
Obsidian wasteland of a treacherous expanse gathered island life
Reflective surfaces weathered time breaking down rock to sand
Erosive washing of corrosive materials gritty consumed by forces of nature
Natural is the condensing of observatory images in the fluid eyes of man
Inspired by 'It's Elemental' By Carole Duet
DOWN TO EARTH PLEASURES
Tyres screech and we’re down
Glad of it
Something satisfying about walking
---Where grass and flowers grow
On solid earth instead
Of an aluminum floor
With nothing growing
And only millimeters separate me from nothing
---Where turbulence affects only swirling leaves
And thunderclouds threaten only a drenching
And pressure on ears
Comes only from the dog’s tongue
Who Pulls The Trigger
The degree of difficulty diminishes
conscience and justice dim
the fog of zealous denial.
A trigger is squeezed
each millimeter
an agony
each millisecond
a lifetime.
Sharp recoil awakens reality
SCAN QUICKLY TO SLOWY
ACQUIRE TARGET, RESIGHT
resist the pressure
of the trigger
resist the resistance to it.
Death comes
sometimes quickly
always slowly.
The finger compresses
time, life, right, wrong
milliseconds
millimeters.
In a large office
a “leader”
looks at his hands
examines his nails
SCANS QUICKLY TO SLOWLY
ACQUIRES TARGET, RESIGHTS
This distant trigger finger
compresses a button
no conscience
no justice
no connection
to faces
dying.
1/9/2017
submitted to – You Say You Want a Revolution – Poetry Contest
Four millimeters of tempered glass separates your world
from the Homeless Beggar Prince now standing before you
appearing tattered, torn and trampled on like discarded trash.
No longer a viable phoenix rising to escape winter’s burn.
Merely a grounded mortal traversing icicle stares with an
aged back and fingers that he had once worked to the bone.
Long forgotten building blocks for a house and a home
Blizzards came tirelessly with every season to wreak havoc upon his
crumbled foundation. Putting him out into the cold to face the face, of our
harsh reality, where it’s a tundra full of thin ice, and a dog eat dog world.
Piercing watery eyes reflect upon your hidden self, and his frost
laden beard parts to say aloud “If not by the grace of God…there go I.”
White knuckles grip your steering wheel tightly as the chill exits your spine
“Thank God!” you exclaim, now, that the traffic light has turned green.
Drive and drive but you can't get away
But what if the distance needed a break?
You travel and travel but it stays in place
Covering the world but can not move at pace
It wishes it could write or learn in normal life
have a family of Millimeters and go on Union strike
It wishes of love and the ability to breath
but it's only a unit of measurement you see
for it cannot be anything much more
then a unit of math and metric lore...
Pure white with golden font
Millimeters numbered just right
Thick enough only for distortion
Smooth to the tongue
Held perfectly at my fingertips..
But it'll slide right down your throat
A pill of death for a musician
The lump stuck for hours
Breakfast food fights it down
To the acidic pit
Hopefully melting away
Releasing the inner toxin..
The beginning of a bad omen
I swallowed a White Fender Medium
Late night communications
The girl of my thoughts for weeks
Happy and comfortable
Accomplishing a beautiful feat
Secrets become unsurfaced
Everything that flourished is dead..
I swallowed a White Fender Medium
Cold weather ahead
Windows shattering at great times
Gusts of air paralyzing our bodies
Vacuum the sharp remnants
Frozen hands with an aching soul
These shards are just the beginning..
I swallowed a White Fender Medium
They were always special to me
A musician's charm of good fortune
Karma despises my weapon of choice
Instinctive feelings are nothing
Plastic, rounded triangle with letters engraved
So much for the lovely theme..
A Fender White Medium..
I swallowed that stupid guitar pick..
Darn rules are getting harder to read
Millimeters, centimeters
Might as well put millipede
A 1/32
Maybe a 1/64 and 1/2
6 centimeter minus .875
A 2:1 pitch=5 holes and one inch
10 millimeters to the right
Has anyone found my mind yet?
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