Recluse Poems

raspberry recluse hiku

 in iris    i        e s
                 s  l
                
 moon  
 

Aberrant Recluse

The marooned mind molded in 
      webbed design,
laces the lattice of psychic pattern,
      innately configured.
In its fold the rainbow secrets lie,
     defiantly dormant,
a captive of my capricious creation,  
     inherently content,
morphing into a Narcissus nestled in

Hermit

                                          wilderness 
           

Utter Nonsense

Allow me to introduce
the hermit Hugh
who
I do deduce
felt it within himself
to eschew
an embrace
yet
being obtuse
when on a wild chase
did goose a moose
in the caboose
then a disgrace
but such behaviour
did induce
Bruce
another recluse
to pick up the pace
when playing footsie
under the table
fast and loose

the recluse

unable to identify
with cacophonous din
caused by stuporous minds
we take shelter in silence
aglow with light of God

perhaps it is escapism
as we search for rainbows
yet to manifest in the blue sky
which are already created
in the cave of our heart

A Recluse Does Not Embrace Modern Trends

Facebook people I may know, do they know me?
If they do they might request to be a friend
through our Facebook interface quite easily~
but a recluse does not embrace modern trends,
unless you message a most poetic plea,
my hermitage I will happily defend;
solitude is the keystone of sanity,
all else is victim to mortal vanity!

To Emily, Who Heard the Quiet Things

Emily, you stitched the world into small, precise syllables,
tucking eternity into lines so brief,
they might be mistaken for whispers.
But in your whispers, there were earthquakes,
the kind that only the soul could feel.

You walked the garden paths of Amherst,
where bees hummed their sermons
and the wind brushed secrets against your ear.
Did you know your words would fly

Recluse

‘I’m a failed Muslim. 
I drink raki now,’ he says. 
A bottle twinkles 
on the upturned orange box. 
 
On the unmade bed, 
a punch-drunk pillow 
lurches in a sea of ruptured quilts. 
 
‘I never pray,’ he adds, 
as hawk-eyed Ataturk 
retreats to an ascetic frame 
and glowers at the room. 
 
And we

The Recluse

In marooned mind shaped in webbed design
the strands of psychic hues are patterned.
In its fold rainbow secrets lie
as captive of my own making,
turning into Narcissus in introvert insight,
where I’m with me as an aberrant recluse.

Into The Shadows

I will slowly fade into a shadow
Without essence without breadth
You will not understand me
I will follow you and watch you
But I, that once was, won't

I will fade into my shadow
A solid relic, a light reflection
I will be, but in the shadows
To follow you  and to watch you
But I, will be long gone

I will be

The Recluse

“the beauty of the rainbow mind
I chase in the introvert realm
following the flashes of mirage”
Quote by Poet


mind molded in webbed design
strands of many hues patterned
strange motifs not unified 
in unorganized psyche

in its fold dark secrets hide
not known to the outside world 
taciturn mind never cares
it slyly bears the burden

captive of my own making
I discern all

Recluse

Recluse

You kept me away i know
Bcoz then I kept away from you too

I felt like being barred in a dungeon 
Suffocating to hav a glimpse of you

And now I enjoy the freedom from your punishment 
I don't idolize your soul anymore but love the distance 

Golden dawn, morning dews and the sunshine
Are the closest to

Recluse

heart of compassion, stifled by rejection 
concealed with conscientious imperfections
marvel mind mortified by man made mistakes 
confined in constraint, no mental escape

flunking society's supposed expectancy, 
failing oneself, free-falling inwardly
sparkles in eyes subsided, light subdued
flame flickers restrained by winded worries' mood

foreboding face, faded flat with fatigue 
harness of helplessness, harrowing grief 
sandbag shoulders, sullen with unbounded

A Poet, Not a Recluse

Red blood courses through my veins
    I've written my will, I pay my bills
  The currents of the day reach me too
    I am a poet, not a hermit

  At the sight of blood, I do not swoon
    Nor do I ever sleep in

Recluse By Dint of Circumstance

Recluse by dint of circumstance

Proud anonymous troglodytes 
forerunners of mine
confronted threats less horrific
than forty fifth commander in chief
of United States of America.

He/him (matted hair, ratty, scrawny, 
and tetchy ugly villain)   
scurried into dark recesses of hermitage
averse to cavort, frolic, inure himself
into the duplicitous schemes
capitalized, glorified, popularized
courtesy vanity of *****sapiens
lest imp of the

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