Like a bowl of dry fruits
There’s a motley of words-filled books
On the writing table,
And like an empty plate
On it appears blank paper,
As if penknife, the pen
In hand, the poet waits,
In search of the first line to start
And of inspiration
That has long deserted
Him. Alas Muse is a free bird,
So be the dodging word,
They elude all like luck,
You wait and left are high and dry,
Wait not, the birds come nigh.
___________________
Musings |06.01.2025| Tercet, words, poet
How reverently he removes the seal,
anticipating the fragrance,
the first small taste,
remembering the warmth and
laughter of the party,
parties, the bar, the taverns,
the men, the women,
long-tailed cigarette smoke curling.
His tongue unconsciously caresses
the corner of his mouth
as his left hand cups
the shoulder of the bottle
gently and firmly as a lover.
Drawing a penknife from his pocket
he pulls open the blade to cut
the black band binding the cap,
his lips slightly pursed,
engrossed in the process.
Deftly flicking the cap,
he lays it aside and pauses;
it takes only a moment
for the subtle vapors
to lift to his nostrils.
Not quite a smile,
something even more
expressive of pleasure,
a submission,
a peace that fills him
as if coming home
from an arduous journey.
He pours.
A fresh new birth has come again,
I still have got more in life to gain,
Memories of joy filled in my brain,
Been through downs 'n' mountain,
But I deserve happiness not pain.
It's yet another birthday without a wife,
To lift me up to the heights of joyful life,
Sitting down while holding my penknife,
Always busy thinking about my afterlife,
With less time to spend on my social life.
Can't believe that today is my birthday,
I have set date nineteen as my holiday,
Feels like a weekend but its a weekday,
Maybe because a star sparkled today,
Being born in the month of June not May.
©Kelmwa
The story is about someone's life,
Written by pen and not a penknife,
Telling of a cool guy with no wife,
Who was brought up by a midwife.
Even though she wasn't his mom,
She struggled for him to transform,
By helping him to get past the storm,
Even at times when he didn't perform.
The midwife didn't treat him like a fream,
By throwing him away as if he was a heam,
All she wanted was him to achieve his dream,
So she raised him as her own and made him gleam.
Wrap in dry onion skins and dip’em right;
you’re going to get a big surprise.
It’s colored oval onion bliss;
something you wouldn’t want to miss.
Grab those, Sharpies now, my friend;
colored poems, you can pen.
Color’em in Crayola black;
make a lightly scraped, penknife hack.
Etch your poems on every one;
this can be a lot of fun.
You can Crayola colors, too;
etch those poems very loose.
One time, I, portraits drew;
Groucho, Chico Harpo, Zeppo, too!
Dip some string, tape it tight,
swirl it ‘round the eggs, just right.
Folks will rave about your gift;
you’ll enjoy a ”fab” uplift.
Moon rose from
obscurity, once I released
the fury of darkness.
*
Do not want to
repeat; why my song was
stolen by flight of birds.
*
The negativity of
the penknife. Always tearing
away the heart.
Satish Verma
My dad told me when he was young
And fit as fit could be
As the best Saharan lumberjack
He cut down every tree
He rode a wild dinosaur
From York to Timbuctu
He took it back to London
And put it in the Zoo
Then later on in World War two
The German horde he beat
With just his trusty penknife
He forced them to retreat
He’s swam the Indian ocean
Ate crocodiles for tea
Paddled up Niagara falls
And still got home by three
I relate my fathers exploits
Friends give me such a ribbing
They say his tales are tall ones
And that my dad is fibbing
But I know my dads not lying
There is no way he can
I know my dads not fibbing
He’s a real life superman
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