Short Puritan Poems

Puritan sins flame
beautiful imperfections
we all-ter faulter...

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Puritan poet John Milton
a scrivenor's son from London
He made a mark with Paradise Lost
going blind was an early cost...

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John Dryden son of a country squire
as a puritan poet was not for hire
A  virtuoso saturist quite a lot
losing the laureateship when his religion did stop...

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Whither thou goest?
Thy wither showest.
Ruddy in pigment,
but a wee figment.
In bas relief,
exceedingly brief.

----------

H/T to Maurice Rigoler's Our Puritan Mentality
...

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Every life is a death sentence
It always ends with  departure.
That end can be sudden or slow
Unexpected or predicted
Which camp do you belong to?
The Puritan with its memento mori
Or the Cavalier with its carpe diem
The former looking to eternity
The latter  to every moment
As if it were the last.





...

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Picked a stray hair
from between his teeth, and she
sighed contentedly.



[I know. Cheeky! But it wiggled its way into my head last night, and couldn't go on without writing it down, naughty as it is. Anyone with puritan constitutions, look away! Look away, now!  :)  Probably should have held it until someone sponsored a naughty haiku contest. Plus, the categories here are so limited.]...

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just
want
to
say
thank
you
from 
the 
bottom
of
my 
heart
for
the
relentless
puritan
work
ethic
that 
you 
beated
into
our
ancestors
heads
when
coming
upon
this
land---
for 
it
has
kept 
me
swinging
with
both 
fists 
clenched
in
the 
struggle
to
pummel
all
of
your
oppressive
&
self-
righteous
ways
to 
a 
bloody
pulp
until
my
last
breath....

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silhouette
     shadows in a lake
flower flutter
       in a breeze
the dream ends
an imaginary world
                    appears 
a greenwood pond
                       secluded
a lark sings

simple&divine&puritan
softly&joyful
convincing        upright
truth will out

is anything ever true

a howling wind
the window closes
thereafter
     goodness
        diligence
           prevails...

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When you were rolling in dust,
a puritan said, truth was me.
It was getting dark in Himalayas.

Black words, black themes.
You have started a journey in daylight
in a hot desert of fear.

Tormented, because of the heat
of arguments. Mimicry makes you sick.
Mocking birds fly straight for lofty peaks.

Self-denial was hurting sometimes
against copious rewards and  generous handouts,
like pinned on a totem.

The happening must start
with hidden promises of price.


SATISH VERMA...

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