When trellis of flora
ripples like a drapery
I wander in awe, my yard
littered with dusk of starglow ;
As quietude circles this view
my lulled breaths heave inhale
The rhythmic tempo of nightfall,
when soft notes of windsong reel :
In stillness, treetops hum for mild sways
That floral tones invite healing
from rigid toil of day's drill---
My breaths less clamped from hours' noise
and by sauntering in yard's sanctuary--
My spirit finds wholeness,
till evening closes...enshrined
Visitors
Frantic bass shakes the farmhouse windows.
The red pop-top screeches into the driveway,
its driver pounding on the horn.
Two men in the back, shoulders moving to the beat.
The three vaulting in sync
over the doors
onto the pavement
sauntering up to the house, through the garage,
pulling open the studio door,
pressing into the dining room.
a breeze drifting through the open window
three figures freeze in place
fingers skimming beneath the jaw
chins quiver
ears resisting the tug of fingers
blinking eyes
fix into stillness
masks dropped onto the light cherry-wood table
under the flesh, a flickering translucence
bodies already thinning at the shoulders
the three turn toward the open door
raised fists closed in one last salute
the red pop-top backs out of the driveway
masks left discarded
on the dining room table
eyes unmoving
lips flutter
Orion in the heaven with your belt of stars
Bedazzling fair young ones after setting of the sun,
Senses becoming feldspars of obsession
Emerging from dream-threads finespun,
Secreted away from light of day,
Shadowed by the vines of deadly nightshade
Inside the mind of precocious, provoked youth-
Onward sauntering into life as if it’s an arcade,
Not comprehending reality has no reset booth.
We kept hearing the queen was here, but this parade was insane
Every person from ten thousand miles was here, dancing in the rain.
Which one is she? We asked, straining to figure this out.
Finally, we heard many using a confirming shout.
The Queen of the Day of the Dead Parade was sauntering by.
She was led by six horses with skull masks, I wanted to cry.
It was an amazing finish to a parade that lasted six hours.
We arrived back at our hotel six seconds before insane thunder showers.
We have come a long way —
you and I —
sauntering along paths of tales,
narrow, slippery, serpentine, endless.
We crouch at spider-ways,
through the fustiness of late-rising dawn,
feeling the rapid beats of a stolen heart and the
entanglement by an unending network of
webs and encroaching thorns.
Cockroach feelers we rely on to guide us
through the length of seaside lichgates.
Life is one Hell of a place, we agree.
It’s a cup of cliché we drink on daily basis—
like hastily brewed coffee at the city’s rush hour.
But, like the radio, it has a tuning fork —
and with it, one operates on frequencies
mute and clear, wavy, far and distant.
It’s a challenge.
Remember Michelangelo
lying supine on ramshackle 16th century scaffolds
and painting the Sistine Chapel for four long years,
his fragile back hurting, his paint brush screaming,
his pots of paint on tilt . . .
Now, that’s some labour!
And with restive paints of stress dripping,
Dripping, and streaming and sweating down on the
broad canvas several feet below, staining
the usefulness of enchanting woods . . . !
Oh, I hate the putrefaction of desolate souls.
Particles of sweat, creeping into the
panoramic canvas...
Your body is like a flower vase, crowded
with freshly bloomed flowers of the
arbour of love,
I asked you wherefrom you have brought them...
Silent you were.
Thereupon your fingers were fidgety,
sauntering through my bare back,
A tingling sensation, a mild line of
blood, or I might have been wrong,
for your pale neck was intact when
a uniform oval sign of love was dug there,
by my trembling teeth, undisturbed, unperturbed
by the external disturbances.
Just like Ulysses was searching for his
destination, my hands, in pursuit of your
pleasure hotspot,
around and around would roam aimlessly.
Let us live through the moments, for the
freshly bloomed flowers would be wrinkled again
until they are rejuvenated
by my spurt of love
Sarban Bhattacharya
At the bottom of our garden
there's a wayward wandering Jew
but I have yet to spot
a crawling Christian or dot a hiking Hindu
I'm adding to the landscape
if it takes me all week
going in steadfast search of
a meandering Moslem or a sauntering Sikh
yet as no rockery looks good without
and planting both who could really resist
for the ladybirds bees and butterflies
a creeping Catholic and a bustling Buddhist
Atop a grassy hill I sit,
gazing at the rich azure blue sky
watching a few birds fluttering in and out of my vision,
slicing through the air like knives.
I lie there for what feels like an eternity,
wind turbine turning in calculated motion
out of the corner of my eye.
My rucksack ties me to the ground,
filled with a thousand weights,
preventing me from being like those birds,
majestic, elate and carefree.
But I can imagine.
The innocent silky clouds transform and bend,
producing a multitude of bizarre objects,
an army commanded by the wind
sauntering across the horizon.
A world with no end, limited only by mortal minds,
a mini-universe floating just above our heads.
We are the creators of this fictional world,
where human though unfurls.
I see an emerald dragon,
a group of chariot wagons, their horses galloping.
A circus filled with the most exotic animals,
an ivy snake laced with diamonds,
a canoe slicing through the sky.
A gnarly oak,
its trunk encased, fingers reaching infinitely high.
But each world is different for every one of us,
so tell me; what do you see
when you let your imagination
break free?
Sauntering
How does one go about writing
a lovely poem, one that does not have lines
like comparing her eyes to a crying
Morning rose alone all night in the garden
I like olives, not the plant that is, rather
boring, but it's fruit, in a jar with the pips
taken out and free of bother, going through
pages finding a word that fits with olive
I wrote a poem themed on Oedipus,
But the site that prides itself on publishing
Everything, you can find the poem unless
You are prepared to look to dawn.
Let me say something trite: I'm happy
to have a roof over my head, but if the
The roof is not yours, one has to side with
those in power of the day.
Echoes of summons ring on.
With them a sonorous clamour for painted lines.
The rim of night stretches and holds fast to
a colossal nocturne hung on furs-and-clouds walls,
and a concentric image of life rotates on
edges of weak silver.
Long-dead poets campaign openly for verses –
among them Wordsworth and Eliot –
each putting a swagger to his arrogant gait of lines,
sauntering towards a nest of whited papers.
Initiation signs, nebulous, line the torso of night,
and are etched deeply into the black bosom
of distant whiffs of ceremonies, like faint
stars of a tumultuous galaxy.
Fold and make origami
Pieces lost in the folds of time
Ripples in crystal waters of stillness
A riddle searching for responsiveness
Zipline through the playgrounds of my mind
Inverted skies stretch beyond grey
Clinging to air thick with silence
Shaped by a hope refusing to conform
Sleepily sauntering down an alley
Directionless shadows endless in their growth
Opaque walls murmuring their speechless weight
Flickering with thoughts not comprehended
Unraveling the knots of oblivion
Words hang precariously in suspense
A burst of color breaks through the frame
Slowly fading to the edge of a forgotten dream
It's good to see
Someone just walking gracefully
There isn't enough
Strolling or sauntering
They are such lovely words
The yellow colored leaves
Falling atop the umbrella
As well scattered at the byways
As she passes by my side
Looking silenly at her blankly
God made all things perfectly I see
Are all beautiful and welcoming
I'm breathing its crisp air, I love it
I love the rain as well.
motel lobby in arkansas
close to the crystal bridges
young man with tattoos walks to large creamer
he begins to pump creamer into coffee
sees me and indicates I go ahead of him.
Ii shake my head ‘no”
tell him to go ahead, he will be quicker than me
two polite strangers making conversation
in a motel lobby in arkansas
I sit down to eat my breakfast
watching people sauntering in and out
four children skip past, giggling like faeries.
they could be from new mexico or virginia
There are license plates outside from several states
I marvel that people are vacationing
in the middle of the week in arkansas
Rambunctious,
lemon hot drum drop;
Sauntering in stage left
a playful approach;
Citrus flavors from Orange amps
cleanse the venue;
Sick is about to take over stable,
the injection awaits behind the curtain;
Lemon hot drum drop,
you can feel it before it happens;
A smile for the crowd,
breaking a stone silence;
Bang
bang
into a roll..
Rambunctious,
lemon hot drum drop..
into a roll
bang
bang..
Rambunctious,
sauntering in stage left;
Sick is about to take over stable.
In desolate wasteland of deprivation,
sauntering languidly with my indigent life,
I tried tolerantly for so long
to smoothen the angularities
of our beleaguered bond.
Swirling in the egregious whirlpool
of searing indignation,
sucked into the chasm
of despondent desertion,
I searched in vain
for the pathway to your heart.
The feeling of dismal denial
made me abandon the pursuit.
But had I cultivated
the art of endurance
and stayed on resolute,
I’d have seen the butterfly
of yearning return reticent,
flitter in the air of changed time
on its wings of dream
in my sensuous sky
with the lattice of your charisma.
With the whispering wind
it’d have created the music,
harmonized with the rhythm of my heart,
where longing would have danced
with the ripples of rhapsody,
roll between you and me,
entwine us forever.
Purifying the renascent craving called love,
I’d have weaved the novel design of desire
in the tapestry of heavenly togetherness,
that wouldn’t have frayed
till the end of time.
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