There is an expectant hush,
a kind of full-term birth.
The baby will be a green child,
leaves will be its hair,
its eyes will be green pools of light,
deep yet bright,
its limbs both roots and boughs.
It will know not conflict or strife,
only growth and blossoming,
fruitfulness and efflorescence.
It will be our child,
born from a love of life,
but hush,
we will need to hide it
from the death dealers,
conceal it for a little while,
then exiled,
escape to that legendary Egypt,
a symbolic land
where astrological temples
proclaim the green hearts
of cosmic progenitors,
those that once seeded this earth.
Listen now
with your evergreen soul,
harken,
for even to this day,
they watch and wait.
The organic chemistry of memory
is faster than light.
it cannot be deleted, only defeated.
That cellular crucible deletes itself
by an entropy of catalytic reactions.
Stop stoking the flames
then the ash will then fly away.
Whose your daddy, whose your ma?
Who parents your life, now that the parents
have become your children, progeny recollected
by old images of yourself.
The world, that part of the brain we know as us,
it is always incomplete,
it does not evolve, it only recalls itself
over and over again.
We are unborn, the progenitors of
an imagined ancestry.
Our legacy is a rootless mirage,
and we can never delete
what never was.
The lake is black, high country water,
ocular.
Beneath the surface, a species
reflected in an amniotic sky.
There are three here,
three progenitors
searching for the lost children
of mankind: -
water, sky and
that which watches.
Three wombs that wait expectantly.
The water stirs,
something born too deep
wants to emerge.
Let it!
Her Side
By Sy Roth
Are they going to die like that?
Expire
Retire
As a broken, opalic string of DNA
Ribonucleic disaster
Worm-eaten womb
Ascerbic molecules.
Who enabled this procreatic mission?
They rimed it with a urine trail
Left --Her side
Discordant disdain
Heeding her rantings.
Across the hall a pink room
Only denoting her sex
Imponderable expressions of emotions
Laid bare among a string of rejections.
It echoes hollowly in the recesses.
She laid WMD traps,
Exploding in sickly apprehensions
A vale of tears.
The sisters fought the battle of Cain and Abel
Smashing their bloodless heads.
The progenitors walked between them
Without trepidation
To the other side
To vanish in a haze of decaying synapses
Leaving behind only questions
Left silent in the detritus of their disdain.
I can’t breathe
Cause history made it so
I was brutally deracinated from my homeland
I can’t breathe
Cause the new society I was dumped in made it so
A slave could not be greater than his master
I can’t breathe
Cause the color of my skin was perceived evil
I can’t breathe
Cause my progenitors failed to convince that the content of character is supreme
I can’t breathe
Cause you kneel on my neck perpetually
To deny me good education
To push me into the abyss of poverty
When I try to get some food
You label me a criminal
You deny me fair hearing
You try me in the street
You find me guilty in the street
You convict me in the street
And kneel on my neck so that I can’t breathe forever
I speak my hidden angry GodVoice
and my sad suffering supplicant Goddess
listening choice
And these feel counter-balanced
within shared robust HappyGod
speaking through widely effective
boldly multiculturing voices
and/or deep learning health-conscious GreenGoddess
effluent flows
of nature's silent
non-violent
communion whispers,
Inviting soul songs for slow-dance circling
drumming
thrumming
strumming
plumbing rhythmic muses
Re-membering EarthTribe
con-celebrating HereNow
questing Paradise resilience
with past and future
more tolerantly listening
in-between regenerating
transpersonal progenitors
In Earth's sanctuary
not here for exclusively right answers;
Here to learn
to ask inclusively deeper and wider,
healthier and wealthier questions
together.
His covenant speaks through cooperative contracts
within a universally tolerant midway
sacred transcendent space;
Her sacrament hears uniting cooperative invitations
into ego/ecojustice sanctuary
of divine
and for humane
bilateral balance,
becoming holy healed.
Superstition
A belief in the mind
Learned from another kind
Baseless only a customary
Born from cultural shine
Easy to preach but difficult to practice
Educated brain and grown up science
Always defunct why such immaterial!
When practised for good from bad
It is acceptable follow just to obey
When it evokes bad from good
Heinous deeds to believe and follow
But as it came from a chain of life
There should be a primary cause
Simple men adopted it for letting it be
As two sides of a coin front and rear
When unnatural charge upon men and other
Implicates doing harm mind and body
A mere matter of trouble accepting unruly
Accepting purpose of would be
Many heritages are most beautiful
Letting human beings matter of glory
We should preserve them gift of ancestors
Let it spare for our progenitors
Abstract may be considered only a feeling
But who have seen their mind and soul
Still all should believe they are within
Is superstition or pure final act of the God supreme
Buoyed over waves of elation
Marvel at favourable sights of creation
Prospect for attainment visible
Within glossy bastion, even trials seems agreeable
Mollusk of endearing devotion, grumbling for denied favours seem so easy
How progenitors of our existence purse their frustrations makes one feel lousy
Reeking of corrupted souls, makes tastebuds sour to elixir
Grafted as second skin blends to exude a new color
Aversion so easily discerned when everything awash
How chameleon spirit avulsed everything from one in a stroke of whiplash
Hooters perched on the demise of accrued inheritance
Consternation that needs to be shackled for their malefactor dance
When plunder acknowledged for their vantage
Stipends bequeathed as morsels to owner of the heritage
When the bubble finally bursts
Lesson that even if one's dominion life is not always just
Monitoring in anticipation stranger's and dear ones alike by holter
Affirms the old adage that blood is thicker than water
When we finally build them
(and it will not be long)
will androids finally lead us
all to nirvana, a world of peace,
leisure, and endless wealth?
Could any hell be worse?
For that day will be when
we lose purpose, and soon
perhaps the will to live.
When the androids dream
(and they will dream,
because we will make them
to be like us, for we have
always been a vain species),
will they not dream of flying
and soaring free of the land,
free of the weak, sad humans
they serve without accordance?
Then, when these humanface
machines begin dreaming in the
daylight, they will see no need
for their progenitors, and those
of us left living as shells sans
struggle or pain or conflict, in
an existence so boring, will
doubtless welcome our end.
A Peculiar Life
Nothing is miracle to me
Clock doesn’t belong to me
I’m always on my chime
Who made diurnal and nocturnal?
You or your forefathers?
Or, progenitors or those stars and planets?
Who, why and where, begin and vanish?
As a bubble in the ocean upon my womb
All are my sons, I belong to them.
Atoms are overwhelming
Not considering foreign objects.
Seeing its promulgation, time turns neck
No rule, no law, no compassion, or
A flow of infinite fragrance, always.
No starts’ alert, nor bother of tedious
A course of action never towards ends.
Opposition’s uproars as if in next term
Need of evacuees or thoughts of demises.
Neither commences, nor courtesy
Speed, a course in the path of faith.
Always desolated, a effect of consciousness
Only winning event there seems in realm, always.
Time does have a peculiar life, a belief always.
I write of paradox,
the catalyst of mystery
to flood the desiccated corpus of romance.
I write of stark obsidian
to dress the silver of the night.
I write of wild things
racing on the edge of everyday,
creators of imagining,
progenitors of lust and love
and laughter at the far, expectant tomb.
To write is to release
a rare, pristine ejaculate of self
churned out of dreaming,
fostering a karma made of ages,
built of old beginnings and the cosmic circus
drawn around the instant now
that is our prison, and
our lustrous paradise.
I write of kings and ragged men,
of paramours and saints
more dissolute, more brave than I
who sounded all the bells within me,
whispered that they flowed
within my bloodstream,
cried out upon their battlefields again,
upon their crosses that no holy death
could sanctify. And all of it is I.
I write in borrowed words—a seizure set
inside the impudence of my design
to join the vast concentric vortex of creation,
just to find an eidolon of truth,
to sing with history a new reflection
on the trek of humankind,
and then with them united, close
and throw another song
upon the altar of repose.
~
He stood alone on the hill,
through dusk to dawn
His roots dug deep,
deeper into thoughts
Thoughts of sunlight,
and the rays of hope
For his progenitors,
for the leaves, the branches
Thoughts of monsoon,
when summers pinched
And of winters,
When rains soaked his tears
He was always thinking,
for he was The Oak Tree
He was proud of the leaves,
that spawned his shadow
He endowed branches,
that unified his euphoria
The roots were his strength,
his indelible self
The only hope,
that touched his revere
He always loved them,
for he was The Oak Tree
He braved ages,
and the swindling time
He fought the storm,
the drought and the quivers
To strangers he bore resilience,
a resilience against the blistering swelter
He was always like this,
for he was The Oak Tree
His leaves changed color,
much like the weather
The branches tore his skin,
he wanted them to brave his age
Deserted he stood,
with his shadow
For his good days,
for leaves and birds and greenery
He always waited,
for he was The Oak Tree
There was a friend, a brother
a father, and a lover
for there was “The Oak Tree…”
Wanton words or bits of paper
Flotsam and jetsam or progenitors
Damp squibs or ticking time bombs
Collect..and recollect
Their golden worth, silverfish and all
Revived or transmigrated
To touch earth’s core and zodiac zones
To recreate vibes syncing with a smart sun
On pretty turf bearing its sweet burden
Of coy blooms or breeze bushed
On mornings lying about in yards like spilt milk
Words that wouldn’t miss the woods for the tree
Moving along paths, straight or wavy
Slicing through sheer life
Leaving left and right little islands
Of sunshine or sombre nights,
Bristling,though, with rain on fresh page
The epic stage for an unfinished call
Once left reticulated with a dumb aridity.
For Carol Brown's 'Pieces of paper..A poet's heart'
By: S.Jagathsimhan nair, 14 sept 11
No.1 in the above contest
At the doctor’s office, I had to fill out forms,
Showing gory details—infirmities and norms.
They said, “Take a moment to furnish what we ask.
Just tell us your condition, and your family’s past.
Did your ancestors carry some dread disease?
Like hardened arteries or painful swollen knees?”
Reluctantly, I listed the sick and the lame,
All of my progenitors since the Mayflower came.
About three hours later, with pages by the score,
Intense pain seized me, and I passed out on the floor.
Then I heard someone say, and much to my sorrow,
“It’s time to close today. Please come back tomorrow.”
the whispering voices
laid down the arms on the skull of the leader,
father of pain, then asked the guns to fire
a last volley towards home
targeting the prudence of fingernails
who crossed the gap
seventy thousand years ago,
the progenitors with exposed genitalia:
the dead man’s mouth was full of
secrets, my god, they were frozen pistons
of sugar, face bloated of pride,
absolutely white,
the skin had been very kind
a pink shade of poetry, you deliver
a rose for unnamed soldier
I break the windows and mirrors
SATISH VERMA
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