Short Carvings Poems

Spinal s plentitudes
solo cranial carvings
soulful solitudes...

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Carvings in a tree,
A heart with an I love you;
Lover’s initials....

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Ancient carvings 
from a mythic age
where children 
played in everyway.

Now they scream
lost in a dusky dream
crying: “Help – save us”
from this polluted stream....

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I looked at the heart-encased initials on the table, 
a couple's lifelong promise turned  employee's weeklong cleanup project, 
I wonder if it's gone yet,
Love is set in minds not etched in someone's regret...

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There was a fella I knew who worked with hammer and chisel

Made carvings in wood that could make your eyes sizzle.

One day he brought a carving to the store

Where they sell tobacco, cigarettes, cigars, and more...

And there it stands beckoning, even in a drizzle....

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HALLOWEEN PARTY
     
 
         Halloween Party going gorgeous great.
         All excited, delighted to celebrate. 
              Little kids liked candy
             Guardians chose brandy. 
        Lovely carvings drawn on pumpkins in crate. 


  

   10/17/19...

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a scratch
a scar
        an inscription
carvings 
         as memorials
gravestones
and walls
            of a cave:
I was here
            we were here
we lived
we loved
we died
            now,no one
remembers
              our sighs
              our cries
....... our lives...

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For ever, I heard the cavernous rumblings
The truce, the battle, to find , to choose
My misty pathway, unknown, indefinite
Yes, the tattooed carvings , I see
On the tree of my life, crystal clear
The spur, the muse, the magic wand
Blessing me to stride, the course
To scribble, the unvoiced stories...

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Each day remains, 
the last is gratefully gone,
the next holds mystery, 
what will  be will be,
whats next for me?
Can I rewrite my destiny?
Like a line in a poem?
Can I recreate home?
Everything seems set in stone,
Like the carvings on a stone.
Finality and reality,
being born human is a strugle....

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The shards of my life never
cut so deep, as when you're
holding them

An addict in disguise,
I beg to go deeper

Crimson rivers can't
bring yesterday's tears
Dull throbbing of a
sanguine rush invades
my erratic tranquility

Suddenly I recognize
the carvings of a familiar artist
and the hand that is mine..
hard at work....

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Words of a song.
The sound of wind all along.
In the vase by the door,
the petal of a flower
on the floor.
Letters of a word.
The carvings on a board.
In the vase on the table,
a drop of water
in the ladle.
Write a song,
forever belong.
The words of many,
to earn a penny. 
In the vase by the door,
The flower fell on the floor....

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A grain of rice,
seeds of a vegetable,
lights in a decoration,
a bride.
A bottle of old wine
infected by abnormal wishes.
Crawling into fake
carvings on a stone......
of an old love.
Stones broken by a stone crusher,
fighting back for emptiness
still a grain of rice.
Flew among the clouds,
a scarlet horse,
a prince, seeds of a vegetable,
a bride....

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October announces autumn's cool weather.
Red, yellow, brown and some green
embellish the sky and horizon with color.
Blessed is the harvest of summer's hard work.
Orange carvings decorate our yards while 
trick-or-treat youngsters parade for candy.
Crowds take sides in the World Series games as
October welcomes winter's slowdown.

October 4, 2021...

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I see wood, finely wrought carvings,
Curling and creeping up to the ceiling.
What sort of bars are these?

And navy cloaks on chequered glass,
Hang a honeyed warmth across each pane.
A lucent inch from forbidden world.

All have their eyes on me, one wears
Pearls, one in sweater and sari, one hides in an animal's skin.
And who is captive, who is free?

Is this prison, or paradise?...

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Flames devouring her breast betwixt these fangs as

She cried; virginistic blood, dripping unto the floor....

Quivering for more whileas she squeezed times thighs

To release it's joy; her craving piercing nails; bitten

Carvings of this night; screaming at the silent moon

Ravishing her still framed flesh; in euphoric crimsons....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...."Loves Notes" *...

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Writing on the walls.

Is not enough, 

I have to carve out my words,

My non-words,

My name.

So that when this cave is studied one day…

So that when this cave is abandoned one day…

The science will help them understand,

The nonsense.

And me.

It will not be my ghost that haunts this place.

Only the brick and concrete that is cracking and creaking.

Only those carvings. 

From my time here....

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Eventually you will find out,
why my feelings are in hibernation,
Opening the past is to sleep, 
when dreams turn in the wrong direction,
I've tossed and turned, 
dodged and ducked all the past nightmares,
The dreams are my life's memories,
entwined in sordid affairs,
Embossed on slate, my life's carvings,
for everyone to see, when love turns to hate,
To drink, it smother's the feelings, 
discarding what was ment to be fate.........

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Fair weather friend,
Thou art a beguiling trench
So deep your carvings burrow
That the gorge, like a ghost's cravenly respite,
Stares at my face every morn and night,
And I, a childless brazen woman,
Wander along the narrow path of servility
Of fear and pain,
And the nuances of passion
Has desiccated my body
To a state of apathy
That is forever succumbing 
To what is known as the murderer of happiness.



Copyright © Iman Roy...

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A nasty, string of wood carvings
Bellowing scripted atrocities
Successfully distracting the masses.
The village idiot has risen to power
Playing the part with inflated lungs of egotism
Against the backdrop of looming globalism.

Greedy, seedy, needy, speedy, targets
Of wasted life in the hot sand.
He tries to build a castle
Only to have it blown away by the dry wind.
Dry wind, the bad breath of evil
The falling of another empire....

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My fingers ran over the bark
“A+K” nestled in a heart
Wouldn’t you come with me, he asked,
I cast a smile now an old scar
The gentle breeze closes my eyes
In the dusting of the springtime 
Sweet scented thoughts of yesterday
Waft too often never to stay
Winds settle and plums bloom no more 
The corpse of our carvings’ a stump
The lady in white pinafore:
"We should go back" - an innate grump
The clinic is a sight weary
None comes as close as “who was he?”...

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