The day has drained my soul; there's no time left to wait,
I slap the kettle lever, fire the engine high.
I need a rescue mission for my current state,
and grab the grey and white ceramic of my eye.
My absolute favourite mug. The water starts to roar,
It sounds like trouble bubbling but it's just the start.
The Rooibos bag goes in, those lazy tannins pour,
A slow, dark comfort creeping right into my heart.
But wait-where is the ginger? Panicked, at top speed,
I grab my mini grater, shredding till it hurts.
That fiery, fresh root is the remedy I need,
Because a bit of ginger always sparks and flirts,
Then boom - raw honey! Heaven drops into the chill,
with floating spicy to titillate and thrill.
Rooibos tea is a family favourite in South African homes.
They asked us
In the absence of screens,
To dim your conscience, pains, and dreams
Would you resort to panicked screams?
Or would the quiet be obscene
I'm scary summer visit once a year
with fierce countenance I always appear
Dry up all sources by sucking water
Day by day shoot up hotter and hotter
My infant days warm, cosy, and cheerful
when days pass by, I turn into fearful
My aura haunts even after sunsets
And the suffocative weather upsets
Burst opening the charcoal doors of night
Emerge with the gleam of chandelier light
Like a vicious dragon, I diffuse fire
None dares to encounter my severe ire
My scorching and charring hot weather chokes,
Squeezes, suffocates and perspires the folks
End to end whipping waves sprawled and enclosed
Everywhere stringent curfew terms imposed
Panicked birds stop singing and hide in trees
Tired cattle stay in shades of trees and wheeze
People gulp to quench their enormous thirst
Scared veterans shut up indoors coerced
Light and simple cotton clothes people drape
Lemons and melons to beat and escape
offering a fun they gather at pools
Enjoying ice-creams children bunk their schools
Place : 1 st
Not anything.
It’s not a sleeping face in me.
Just gradual nothingness.
As if I’m being stewed, and stirred for hours.
But that’s just-
The Not Sleep World.
Dreading being locked up.
Feeling fascinated in a Not Sleep way.
Like there’s a bowl of ice cream under my bed.
Being devoured by dust bunnies.
It’s a ‘haha, panicked, wait a minute, ok’ way.
Not anything good or cozy.
Eyes blinking like corn on the cob.
The Not Sleep World.
Makes it into morning.
Like breakfast, or being.
Crazy corn on the cob feeling.
Just unbrushed my teeth and scattered.
I have work in a wavering, squinting way.
In a slapping the wall way.
Not good and cozy.
I hear them clapping.
Because I slept an hour at some point.
Now I can entertain the waking world.
On the wall he placed his helmet
as always ,when about to start
his bike ,for his office.
One evening,he lost it.
Panicked,searched everywhere,asked
everyone he knew,but no one
knows what happened .
Later,he realised he lost his helmet.
Blamed few and person who took it
but ...........................
not his carelessness.
He managed without it,
but ...........................
he needed it as it was his safety.
He did get one,not new
but borrowed from his friend.
As usual he goes to office,
wearing his new worn-helmet.
Before starting the bike,he places
the helmet at the same spot
where he lost his father’s helmet
and drives away ..................
WRITTEN ON:11/11/2025
PS:This is a metaphoric piece on people's mind,perception and defense.Please do share your thoughts on what you felt when reding this poem.Thanking you in advance.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jack-o’ lanterns flee~
down pumpkin-stained gravel roads
panicked exodus
Warlocks, witches and wizards appear,
as they do this time every year,
exposing craggy faces, screeching sounds,
and sowing blood magic as fear abounds.
Guarding my head with pillowed quilt
hoping my craven face won’t melt!
But I cry out panicked! Horrified!
They pass me by on their frightful ride.
White-hot power rends me paralyzed
and by despair and anguish traumatized.
Terror races through my iced blood
reverberating a tortuous thud.
Ghouls and zombies teeming around
burgeoning in and out around town.
I pray to survive till sun arises
and confront no more horrid surprises.
Halloween is suitably scary.
I am vigilant, and wary.
Once-a-year is enough for me.
I savor being eerie- and freaky-free!!
I ran through it.
My arms are ribbons twirling around.
There is always a spot available.
On a bench which is made up of livelihoods like mine.
But there’s something so nice about sitting down.
When there is nowhere else to sit.
This is the most splintering kind of panicking.
This bench is made of old wood.
So it’s one of those woodsy types of places to sit.
And everyone does sometimes.
It’s the most ruined, run down panicked feeling.
The last person who sat here?
I think he was a music teacher.
I can tell by the music he left in my head.
On this bench which seems to conform to my body like a couch cushion.
I think he stopped following me.
So I can fall asleep in the woods.
Wouldn’t it be weird if I kept running?
I thought so too.
You whirl, you whir, a sparkler with no plan.
A frantic rush, chasing all you think you can.
Each flip is fragile, fleeting, never really sown.
A scatter gun feast, that leaves you all alone.
You blaze as if the world will soon ignite.
Your tiny body burns with furious light.
Your haste is commanding, yet what is it worth?
Without pausing to taste the fleeting mirth?
The garden knows your madness; it makes it clear,
That no blossom trusts your beat to linger near.
You skim, you dart, you never claim the whole.
For your shallow sips can never fill the soul.
A slower hand, will plant, endure and stay,
Learning the patient slow cadence of the day.
For haste will scatter, shatter what was planned,
Quickly yielding the dust you cannot stand.
Why do you not linger longer at what you sip?
Your feet are a blur; your body is a whip.
But, why this panicked, fevered, fleeting chase?
What force is driving you at such a pace?
Can menacing winds command you to not rest?
Or are rivals sneaking in, invading your nest?
You know a steady heart, outlasts a flashing one.
Playing slow and stead get the victory won.
Mr. Peanuts' Big Blind Date
I Like To Call The
Scrub Jays:
"Mr. Peanut..."
- I Treat 'Em All
- Like They're The Same Bird.
Mr. Peanut Always
Shows Up The
EarlyBird...
-Shocks All The Mourning Doves
-To A Panicked Disarray...
Grabs The Big YummY Peanut
On Top That I Left Out
For Him...
And Drops It
To The Ground Super Fast!
Then Knocks All The Corn
All Over And Sunflower
Seeds Everywhere, And
Maybe Eats One, But
PECKPECKPECKPECKPECK!!!
Everything Everywhere!
*!**!!*!*!!!**!!*!**
****All At Once*****
And Maybe Finds
Another Peanut,
To Flee Off With That...
Or Keeps Broadcasting
Everything With Seeds,
Looking For More...
Or Doesn't Find Any More
And Beak-Chops The One
That It Dropped On
The Ground...
TAKE THAT!
Or Just Flys Off
And Leaves It...
Behind.
Who Knows?
Crazy Bird...
Has No Idea.
I CAN LOVE
Mr. Peanut...
From Here...
Whether It Shows Up Or Not.
-It Clearly Doesn't Care
-If I Do.
-Gray Squirrel
05-21-2025
I'm too tired to care -
too worn to wear that
chic shirt
which matches my shoes
that you seem to care so much about
I'm too drained to change at all
Truthfully,
I'm more than tired -
an exhaustion born
from a wired brain
too tormented to sleep -
Too terrified to be burned alive
in this frigid fire pit again
and again -
but too afraid to end it
Too scared to survive,
too frozen to finish it,
too weary to wrap it up
Too frightened to fix this
sinking ship,
too panicked to patch it up,
yet
too spooked to let it sink
What I'm trying to say is
I'm trapped
Haunted by each torturous moment
I feel too powerless to pry myself from
I think we're all too concerned
with our own prying
to feel courageous enough
to pry into another's life
and aid them in prying
just enough courage
to live another day
That's all you need
Sometimes just a pinpoint of light
on this ever growing galaxy
Just enough
I think that's what God gives
Just enough
Pow! the pale powder pumps power into
The pastor’s panicked pulse. Peeing his pants,
He pulls his parcel and pitter-patters
To the piss-pot, paying his penile penance.
Tis not the age of lushy, dewy dawn
the springtime of our race
when we knew not right or wrong.
In the gardens of the past,
before we knew a story had begun
There was room for naive error
afore the coming of the Son.
But not for us -no- for we live in the fall:
the anticipatory autumn afore the harvest
at the twilight of time.
What powers have been set before us!
A wealth of resources to wield both right and wrong.
And there are fewer and fewer excuses for wild error
now that the deposit of faith has grown so great.
We live in an age that requires precision and care,
and a heart that can hear our Lord's
still, small voice
amidst the panicked crescendo of time.
2025-03-13 ~8:45-8:56 PM thought of ~7:30 AM on March 11th or 12th
The lights flicker on
In the room
The young girl sleeps in
Her smile widens as
She sees her mother
Come in with a book
In her hand
As she sits down
On the bed
The mother brushes
The girl’s hair off her
Face and begins
Reading to her
Watching
As her daughter’s eyes
Softly close
She glances again
And gasps
Seeing a corpse
Replace
Her daughter’s
Once living body
She tries to look
Away
But her head seems
To be unable to move
Forcing the mother
To watch
She wakes up in a panicked
State
Her heart racing
Sweat running down
Her forehead
Hand shaking
Uncontrollably
In her mind
She wishes she could stop
The hallucinations
And nightmares
Entering her mind
But she’s unable
To accept
Her daughter’s dead
I've been awake since three am
My mind just woke up suddenly
It circled round and round on things
Needing attention urgently
It panicked and catastrophised
It wandered back in time
It made a massive grocery list
And theorised sublime
I bargained and I threatened it
Got up and down from bed
Tossed and turned uselessly
Now I'm feeling halfway dead
But I've made a plan this morning
It's bound to work for sure
If I can stay awake till midnight
I'll sleep right through til......*snore *
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