Line of inquiry:
“as both this form and boundless space
cravings of ego negated
awake, vibrant yet nonchalant
bliss drenched heart remains elated”
Believe one’s bliss is happiest in youth?
A squeaky-clean parchment with true blue eyes.
A selfishness, of seeking perk, in truth,
Circles the moon at pubescent sunrise.
Yet, surrounded by dark, although there’s stars,
The eyes wizened in pain and confusion.
Insides begin to look at clouds’ tear jars.
Thunders true love, is it an illusion?
The letting go; let spots of wisdom grow.
Portends rainbow, halo of rain; a sigh.
Let go umbrella’s twirl; accept rain’s glow.
Floating in space, like embryos, on high.
Couples, like twins, in water’s depth, don’t drown.
In selflessness, they’ve found a blissful crown.
All that for its world sensual
Tempted and tickled us
Was dangled a water into;
For naked leg's "ooh, ooh"!
Sounds and sights, furthest woman's
Enticed, excited by!
Friends' hands alone, amusingly
Spun round of, dizzily.
Validate Spring with its plenipotentiary pollen.
Green sawdust all about the ground, car and porch -
Shaken free from the jocund trees with budding leaves.
Before the season’s even warm, they’re all in.
The celebration of pubescent branches causes us
Below to agitated fits - eyes water, nasal drips.
Still we admire the fashion of pinks, whites, and greens.
The youths, so lovely in their resurrection dress.
3/21/2023
No longer on maps
the Fertile Crescent ~
must have been pre-pubescent
The toy box made of plywood painted white
my grandfather built for me when I was three
has become a time machine
a tool of torture
Why haven’t I burned its contents to ash
as I did all his letters full of lies?
Within I find notebooks in which I penned
my pubescent musings that seem so silly now
First attempts at poetry
that sound trite today when read
with a much more mature tongue
that has tasted the bitter brew of experience
Scribbled quotations from history’s finest minds
Sketches of dresses I designed
A crumbling corsage of carnations
still sealed inside its plastic shell
for the last twenty five years
that he pinned to my pink Victorian taffeta gown
I can close my eyes and recall
its fresh flowery scent
feel the silky petals under my fingertips
the gentle cool early autumn breeze
blowing over the river on my young supple skin
that single night of my life
when every star in the sky
seemed to be shining solely for me
I had hope then
Not the pen and papers with the idol of words
Give me the erudite poems
Not the kisses with rosy lips and beautiful scented night bed
Give me the natural colors of all flowers
Not the stunning grace of decorated face
Give me full of starry night light
Not the lustful pubescent body
Give the heart of unselfish shapeless mind
I’ll build there a temple of canvas
Where you are most adorable goddess of love
27.06.2020 Chattogram
At winter end
comes the time of lilac
pubescent shoots tipped light green
budding up and down each branch,
young growth stretching, flexing new muscles
ready and anxious to answer the call;
a gentle but large white sun
hangs low in the gray blued sky,
spring comes as it often does
every year around this time
softly waking earth
shaking loose the ice-cold winter drab
until all is new again
reborn to grow and blossom;
only time, weathered and season worn
anguishes to leave some mark;
this aging earth draws from creation itself
imagining its restart from memory
as humanity appears to remain
self-absorbed, hard-hearted and indulgent
until living in oblivion
returns to see taking in the time of lilacs,
natures bounty and beauty recharged.
pews of velcro Sunday flats
little girls in plaits and jean dresses
arms folded
heads bowed
fluttering eyes from under lashes
peeking towards blackgrayblue Brothers
in their suits upon the stand
Father, Son, and Spirit
prose in archaic english dictating
lives
loves
loss
Priesthood power
ladies in cushioned folding chairs
swollen ankles crossed
the sacred womb
preserved bodies for creation
shoulder to knee painted into
the coat of many colors
squalling babes in arms
too diminutive for motherhood
pre-pubescent hips
pre-prepared for human polyps
homemaking lessons for middle schoolers
babysitting a gateway drug
for force-fed doctrines
and unhappy marriages
a girl’s purpose
and duty
Brave is the rose caught in November’s thorn
While she endures nights of chill and snow,
Awaiting gold daylight's warmth to bestow---
And liven her frame…her mouth drooped, forlorn.
Gently, new moon peeps into kohl of eve
While its luster reflects on this bud , soft
Like a pubescent ovule held aloft
By elms guarding her round shape NOT to cleave.
Though one kind-hearted owl perches nearby
Mutely disapproving this ghastly tread…
An obscure fog sprays crystals overhead
Instead, wings lock against nip of the sky.
How unwavering…in her innocence
Morning rises, its lucent gleam so young
That frozen dusk pales with wheezes unsung…
Oh, grit of a rose saved by providence!
Written 9/10/2018
Contest of Broken Dream
Enclosed Rhyme - September, 2018
Resting your wunderbar head
On my bare pubescent chest
Makes my throbbing pulsation
Adorably align to our passion of
Night and day chronicles while
Tending to your
Irresistible magnetic beguile that is
Captivating yet still addictive.
I know something about being a GLBT Ginger,
the undress and redress of our left leaning politics,
like sacred naked communion
for Therapeutic Warriors.
At my best,
when adolescence urged HisHer ugly ambiguous head
through pubescent tail,
I wondered if other fire redheads
and sun speckled skins
felt this co-passioned love,
desire beyond procreative need
to touch,
embrace,
to smell,
to taste,
but not to own.
How could I have known
difference between my Ginger sensuality
and gay male nervous sexuality
without more comparative communion?
Although,
in hindsight,
perhaps not quite so much commingling
of sacred elements
I invested with integrity
for sorting out these red
and blue-black,
purplish and heated
ultra-violet distinctions
of warm wet rainbow Gay ecopolitics,
with Ginger red-yin differences,
influences,
tinctures seductive and reductive,
distinctions inductive and deductive;
Integrity of wild red unrest.
The first among to wake up in the Spring
The award winner, comes with a sting
Stinging Nettle pubescent and green
Cannot touch the super herbal queen
Urtica dioica is the botanic name
Dioica is the one with European fame
Tropical cousins are all not the same
Strong and sharp, they can make you lame
Each sting is a delicate hollow hair
Stiffened with a tip of silica ware
Swollen base that stores the venom with care
Shoots its payload, touch, if you dare
Transmitters are same as yours and mine
Acytylcholine , serotonin and histamine
If stung by nettles, remedy is close at hand
Do not go far, Dock is where you stand
There was a sudden lull in the day
when all the children sat still without play.
They gathered round the barbecue
straining to get hamburger, hot dogs, one or two.
The adults spent the hours oblivious
as suddenly each child grew more mischievous.
All the adults busy drinking or cooking,
with no one really looking.
The kids soon became quite rambunctious
little pubescent vultures spurred by compunctions,
ravenous beneath the glances of their parents,
they ate indulgently on cake, ice cream, candy and cookies aberrant.
Then came the wild uncontrolled displays
of an influx of childhood uncontrolled craze
and foolishly each parent wondered why
children wantonly indulged in the magical sugar high.
I told you that you are the one,
of all the women I've ever known.
I told you that you are the best,
so unique among all the rest.
I told you I Love You and could never love you any less.
I praised your beauty as I watched you undress,
but now that we've done the nasty, I must confess.
I just did all of that stuff only for the sex.
To all the young maturing pubescent beauties;
This is how All Boys think during puberty.
To all of the fully matured adult ladies.
Many men carry this attitude into their adulthood unfortunately.
Why do I reveal these secrets and betray all men?
Probably because I was raised in a household dominated by women,
wonderful, loving women I might add,
and that's why I'm a traitor to my gender kind of lad.
the big P
it was in it’s own proud prominence
the path that entered your world
innocent
ruled by beast
brawn
blood
pressed in tensile tension
awakening in sleep
asleep in wakening
a one note song
spewed from a
two sphered voice
spiraling into the fulcrum
of your fecundity
it was in it’s own stuttering singularity
a part pieced partly from
paltry presumptions
petulant pursuits
penetrating into palsy
perturbed then pallid
plucked
pruned
passed
into peculiarity
punctured
pitied
perplexed
into perpetuity
trapped in pubescent possibility
perambulating at the periphery
of your heart
just beyond the miracle
of profundity.
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