In summer, listless feel of sloth he gets,
stops the sluggish time, the clock hands he sets.
In hot kitchen he doesn’t go,
keeps whipped eggs on portico.
He snoozes in shade, sun cooks omelettes.
In summer, sluggish sense of sloth he gets,
stops the lazy time, for clock’s hands he sets.
In hot kitchen he doesn’t go,
keeps whipped eggs on portico.
He snoozes in shade, sun cooks omelets.
My old house stood
by a march
surrounded by bushes and rushes.
Thrown over it
garbage and faeces
sometimes,death rodents.
Disgustful it's dwellers often came up
on the portico of my house,
Intruded inside.
Yet pitiable every time
from it heard
the distress call of a frog
grabbed by a snake.
I filled the marsh with earth
cut down the bushes,
built a new house
in place of the old one.
But true to what old folks told
after a long time
it returned to me
myself felt it's dwellers.
Then, I preferred darkness,
I not be seen
and silence
listening their clatter,
wishing the bushes
myself to hide.
The old dilapidated manaion
deep in the wood
sometimes would call me
in my lone hours.
When weather smiled
I wandered near;
it's silent portico
drew me close and I, resting
upon its crumbling stair,
would dream of its days
once bright and fair.
How grand
it might stood in ages past -
it's fleeting charm
non could last .
And in those times
I might not stand
within the reach
of its proud land .
{"I convicted myself into a death sentence when it came to dote on, bear the witnesses because they saw me alleviate the tears nobody had reconciled or dared to wipe away; they simply did not.
The smoke is flaming inside of me, and it isn’t dwelling away or even sufficing. They replenish my lungs in exasperation as I flunk to inhale a tad bit of reinvigorated air.
You slaughtered me in a way nobody has. Whereas now they beg for the forgiveness of the broken. They measly take a stand and testify against it. I whisper to myself like a madman, for you shan’t be convicted of manslaughter, and I shan’t forgive you in any way probable.
Your actions don’t merit punishment behind bars,
you deserve death as I have reached my own demise a million times over; bear the burden I have felt, one that cannot slide open the portico and make a legitimate run for it. I let it in me, fused it, relived it.
I inhaled the smoke of a Cigar and let it ruin me all in all, then I testified against all odds;
‘It is what it is.’"}
In summer, sluggish sense of sloth he gets,
lazy time passes him by, he forgets.
In hot kitchen he doesn’t go,
keeps whipped eggs on portico.
He snoozes in shade, sun cooks omelets.
A scarlet-throated hummingbird, betrayed,
commences the annual rite of packing his nest,
in response to whimsical winds' pirouette
and the capricious moods of weather's ballet.
Distant friends once conspired in sunbeam pursuits,
beak-dipping in nectar teased from blossoms' allure,
whispers of the breeze tutoring flight's debut.
Without forewarning, save the whispers of history,
the wind turned, concealing its chilly shoulder,
snow's fragrance on its breath, contradicting denials.
Taking only essentials, nestled close to his breast,
an eccentric twig, a wisp of newborn down for nostalgia,
the unborn blueprints of a portico, a dream deferred.
Perched on a bare branch at dawn, the crimson aviator bids adieu,
soaring on a desolate breath, burden lightened,
leaving his heart with the capricious whimsy of sylphs.
A red-throated hummingbird, betrayed,
begins the annual rite of packing up his nest,
in response to the mercurial spinning of winds,
and the twisted temperaments of weather.
Distant friends once conspired together, chasing sunbeams,
beak-seeking nectar beckoned from blossoms' tease,
thoughtful temptations from the breeze who taught him to fly.
Without warning, save the predictions of history,
the wind turned her shoulder, hiding the cold,
smell of snow on her breath belying denials of inclemency.
Taking only what he needs, tucking it in next to his breast;
an odd stick, a tuft of newborn lanugo for the sake of nostalgia,
unhatched plans of a portico he had intended to build.
Red bird perched on bare branch, in morning bids farewell,
takes flight on desolate breath, his load less heavy now,
having left his heart with the unsteady humor of sylphs.
Some old wooden houses are deep,
they have porticos, piazza, loggia,
gables, and cupola.
There rooms are arboreal
they knot,
curl
and jut.
A memory rocks me gently
in its timbered embrace.
I also have an interior
that has been crafted
by every branch
of an endless forest.
It is this depth of a life
constructed upon the growing
of one root.
My house, my portico,
piazza, loggia,
gables, and cupola
all reaching
inward
to where this whole earthy planet
is but a single seed.
A black cat with long hairy curved tail,
an old lady brought me to her home,
not a long time ago though, instantly
overwhelmed me by her love and care.
She pampered me as if I was her child,
wanted me around her all the time,
didn’t even mind if I wetted the sofa,
I was too lazy to go to the assigned place.
The lady hardly went out of the house,
didn’t allow me to step outside for a while,
under her protective surveillance
I became totally homebound.
One day when I was sitting by the window,
I saw a lovely cat pacing in the portico,
charmed by her white silky fur and green eyes
I fell in love at the first sight.
Since then I spent time with her secretly,
allured, I decided to live with her at her place.
So, one evening I left the house forever,
but I’d never forget the old lady and her love.
_________________
June 14, 2022
Contest : Personification-Pets Talking
Sponsored by : Constance La France
Did you hear me call?
I stood on the portico
Repeatedly called your name,
You had turned away
Before I was calling you,
You turned fast, walked away.
I shall not call you --
You have brusquely turned away,
Now you must follow your heart
I no longer care,
You have killed my love for you
I do not care where you are.
Still, I think of you
I wish you every success
I miss your gentle caress,
My love was tender
But I no longer anguish
My broken heart you have crushed.
written January 28, 2022
So storms the night wind through the vane
Summoning the sounds of howling beasts
Assailing all that stands above and tall
Like chimney tops and stately green pines
Will not reveal the source of crashing down
Until the break of dawn and cloudless sky
They venture forth to survey the havoc done
Sun rising like nothing in the dawn amiss.
At first all seems well to the roving eye
Until closer inspection finds a neighbor’s cat
Hunkered down beneath the lower portico
Having given birth to seven yellow tabbies
Unalarmed by the threats of recent hail
And nursing contentedly at mother’s breasts.
Written April 21, 2021
N/A "All Yours" Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
A couple of ruins leave the cathedrals
nave and portico;
it is always molting season,
mice and beetles help
they nibble and gnaw,
wind-laborer’s, labor,
their whiplash backs bent,
to lever slates and all things loosened.
The sanctified, they guard their stony hearts
but the edges were made to crumble,
made to be returned to rubble.
The two twined ruins
exiting these ancient piles
were created to be spans and transits
for the upliftment of saintly figures,
no one will miss them, yet their
plinths, their buttresses
their embossments
until recently
held a small alcove heavenwards
a niche, that will probably
lose its faith soon,
toppling one year at a time
into an agnostic downfall.
The two ruins are so disfigured
as to be nothing at all,
but they are moving in mysterious ways
to where a tireless worker
will help them rise again,
but of course dust will stir up dust,
the mice and the beetles
will continue
to nibble and gnaw, however
the Maker will be ready
once more
to return dust to cathedrals.
A bout of sloth in summer this man gets,
time on lazy clock inert mind forgets.
In the kitchen he doesn’t go,
keeps whipped eggs on portico,
while he dozes sun flame makes omelettes.
June 8, 2020
Syllable count : 10/10/7/7/10
Checked on howmanysyllables.com
Contest : Summer Laziness
Sponsor : Mohan Chutani
Elegant portico columns, fireplace frame
Fronting tasteful, demure white walls
Rich browns -- pianoforte, armchair
Muted ostentation, classicism bespoken --
the eye startled, struck
by the clear glass vase
on the mantel
stems ascending
to bold-green leaves
slightly upturned
as are firm, youthful breasts
topped by brilliant bursts
of pink-streaked flowers
panorama
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