Short Writhed Poems

she strung him up
shook him out like laundry
he writhed with frenzy...

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Wiggzy Wormzy
Burrowing
Saying neighbourly hies
As he writhed
From top to bottom
Of the veggie garden

Wiggzy Wormzy
Waving
Sharing friendly hi-fives
As he cantilevered
From leaf to roof
Of the veggie garden...

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strange, I vaguely recall

the sad joy of returning, 

of being back to a place

I can't remember 

leaving...


where I must have writhed 

in pain with the ache to stay,

wrestled with, but lost to, the  

urge to leave,  and stay 

away....

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I simmered in my warm pool of anger...
 Splattered wax from the candles; broken...
 Regrets dripping from the words not spoken...
 The eerie night breeze came in from the south...
 The darkness breathed and writhed in the wind...
 Where have I begun? And where will I begin?...

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Everyone else has gotten off,
how long am I to stay?

The train unstationed, tender gone,
its engine writhed in pain

Did I miss my stop on the journey down?
“an express” the porter screamed

All light afire, ticket burnt
—satanic nightmare dreamed

(Drexel University: February, 2020)...

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He wriggled and squirmed,
Like a demented worm.
Fidgeted and fumbled,
Grimaced and grumbled,
He jiggled and jived,
Contorted and writhed,
Kept saying Arrr,
Like a wasp in a jar.
He was out of control,
This poor wretched soul,
As he reached fever pitch,
He found the itch,
Which he scratched until,
His body stayed still....

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Her quietude
is like a red rustling satin
twirling in the honeyed
sheen horizon.

While her compassion
seems limpid avalanche
that can't be writhed
by a strong storm.

Her heart is as kind
as a sheep, as pure
as jasmine, and
as valiant as an eagle.

She just laughs away
her trials sibilantly
with equanimity.
A wonder woman...

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She ran towards the tears,
No escape; no doors to open,
Pouring down the elements;
Red is the colour of screams.

Laid by the bed of roses
Silently created the sound,
Abandonment rose fast;
Her screams fill the empty chest.

Afraid to show the hurt,
In there the mountains grow;
She writhed in ashes; dust,
Ever so cold,
When the sun shines....

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WHEN OTHERS THINK 
EXAGGERATION, YOU SEE ITS 
MY IMAGINATION.
INSTEAD OF SUPPORT, i GOT 
SEPERATION, YOU STEPPED UP 
INTO MY DESPERATION.
AS MY SOUL WRITHED IN 
HURT AND PAIN, YOU BEAMED 
SUNSHINE THRU THE RAIN.
WHEN I WAS ISOLATED, SO 
UTERLY ALONE, IT WAS 
ALWAYS YOU RINGING MY 
PHONE.
AND WHEN I FELT MY LIFE 
WAS AT WITS END, I 
ROUNDED THE BEND~AND 
THERE AGAIN, ITS YOU, MY 
FRIEND....

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. for public domain

I scoffed at hearts that writhed with pain,
that fell from broken promises,
for I had naught to do with Love,
it's folly or its gain,

but now I find that not to love
is not to live at all.
The stones on our paths outlast us all,
but I dread to exist that long.

I choose to risk feeling pain
than to feel no pain at all.
Jupiter is a very great orb,
but in living, very small....

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Listen to poem:

The beach was packed with bodies burnt bothered,
reeking of sweat, dried salt and sunburn cream.
The sea writhed and churned as the crowds gathered
to take a swim to beat the heat and scream.
The sky darkened as storm entered the scene.
The crowd panicked and rushed home in a crush
As rain and hail fell in violent stream.
Leaving the beach scrubbed clean with a brush
By summer showers calling: "It's time for a flush"....

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I ache to return to where my soul 
may at last find my elusive self 
and once again be truly whole.

I must heed the old ocean's call 
echoing in my brain, telling me
so quietly, "I am one, I am all."

Vaguely, I recall the joy of returning,
of being back again to a place
I can't remember ever leaving.

I writhed in pain with the ache to stay,
fiercely wrestled with, then lost to
the urge to leave and be away.



....

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Invisible fingers—wiping sweat off my brow as I writhed with fever
Invisible hands—packing my raincoat at the hint of nimbus
Invisible lips—murmuring prayers for any minuscule endeavor
Invisible eyes—scaring away evil shadows, the demons monstrous
Visible pain in those eyes as she fell on the porch
Visible linger in those hands, goodbye in the touch
before the
invisible soul starts to melt into vapor as I crouch.

Written 04/27/2016...

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Sky's bright red with no morning sun
Blood covers tears spilling from her mirrors
Dark winds spiral in defiance of wanton love
In Rainbow's heart a dagger lies await 
For the songs echoes in the chambers of No
Shadows writhed in trees with shards of glass

Look no more in blindness eyes
For the Sky's hide in cloaked death stare
Sun, oh Sun is burnt to ash
With flaming seas as waves crashes ashore
Get up! Get up! Morning's a slumber....

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The unspoken words 
had the unborn quality.
That homliness sitting around the fire pits
writhed in predatory hopelessness.
Insensitive to flesh
we were shooting the ducks in midair.

Rapture for the dirt,
deceit does not need a consonant,
the intensity confronts the meaning.

The impermanence of joy
restores the crypt ;
the body was still to be brought.

On the winds 
a crumpled name floats
recalling the orgies.


SATISH VERMA...

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Strangely, as in a hazy dream,
    I remember the joy of returning,
        of being back to a place
            I can't remember leaving,

back where I must have writhed
    in anguish with the ache to stay
        and fiercely wrestled with, then lost to
             the urge to leave and be away.

Now I hear and must heed
    the ancient Ocean's silent call
        that softly echoes in my brain,
            telling me, "I am one, I am all."...

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Summoned obscurely by the orange, tinny glare
the sun-struck promised afternoon an amulet to wear
With wild indignation we unrolled our weary lids
as we stretched and writhed our way beyond the fringes of our beds.
We passed by coffee temptings and we headed straight to lunch
With crinkled hair, no savoire fare, we kept our back bones staunch
There's always a pit in the stomach when you break out of bed at noon
The infernal plight of the night owl - the morning comes too soon......

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His belly full of absinthe
His nervous system writhed
as he looked up to the heavens
cachinnation in his eyes
The juice from plums of damson
trickled down as purple blood
as he fell, the kulak jester
face first flat into the mud
Aromatic orange berries 
filled the night right up with spice
whilst the hyalite 'round his finger
sparked itself up to delight
The nadir answered back his laugh
with rain and sleet and hail
as we leave the jester lonely 
sleeping in his vinic jail~...

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