you are angry
at yourself.
you feel
impregnated- swollen with
primordial rage blistering,
splintering your rib cage.
pretty blush pink lips firm and tense
with disgust.
warm chasing, begging, pleading
-for love—
what has become?
your children stare back through
ashen grey frosted pane—
Freeze frame blue screen eyes.
They are
freezing.
your connection is freezing—
and you sob
for a man who ices his conflicted interior
Intentionally
and spits on your offerings, dismissively
shoves his anger like fingers down your throat as you vomit pleading nothings.
you are a stronger, now- to yourself.
The internal dialogue- print press tapping,
Always muttering
“but they didn’t love me this much.”
“But it could have been worse.”
“But if only I-“
its okay.
I
love
you
this much and
I
See
Your
Worth
In the rust drain,
She sweeps memories,
Revolting white froth,
Effervescent with fast time
and alkaline bruises
too slow to catch up.
On rustic terracotta,
She walks with pricked feet,
That foam, it recurs in tides
and spreads all over
like spilt milk on spoilt food.
And she shoves her bruises,
The nostalgic nightmares
through the drain,
She’ll cleanse her rustic terracotta
But she doesn’t know,
The foam will come again.
A tousling love is tender and fair,
So terribly gentle in its strikes and shoves,
It shows the joy that she still cares.
Love taps,
Lest I flinch and get upon her nerves,
Alas, she learned my play, so now it’s real,
She taps a little harder when I swerve.
Still delicate,
Into these gentle taps of her attack,
No horror finds me in this bliss of force,
Her laughter lights the mood, and I go slack,
She knows,
A tousling love is what my taste demands,
So strike me down and I will let it land.
What does she do when she’s in love?
She sits and thinks, she dreams and sighs,
She pushes and shoves, just to meet him in her heart all the time,
What does she do when she’s in love?
She travels in a daze,
She gazes for him to pass her way.
What does she do when she’s in love?
Time is lost in his every motion,
Time is spent in focus on him with a lover’s notion,
Time is soaked in the dream of him, way deeply afar and above,
She’s lost in his love,
Moist — the stone beneath my hand,
Unyielding -- cold, unmoved—
It bites my fingers -- bites my mind --
Yet -- roots me to the truth --
Hard—the wind against my chest,
It shoves and twists My -- breath --
Till lungs -- Beneath -- and Break --
And heart beats -- hammer death --
Deep—the river of the night --
It drags my soul -- Below --
Where light -- dissolves in endless dark --
And whispers what I -- know --
Deep — the silence Nought but Screams --
It presses -- on my skull --
Till every thought is drowned --- in hope --
When it never seems -- enough --
Hard and deep -- it's never gone --
The world’s sharp weight -- I keep --
But It fractures -- deep --
lnto the bones --
I find a Pulse— quite Deep -- inside my Brain --
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sky bruises purple—a ripe plum dropped
on concrete. Tin roofs flap like trapped birds.
First fat drops smack dust into coin-sized stains.
Then the deluge: gutters choke on leaf-pulp.
Wind shoves trees sideways; they bow, green hair
whipped sideways. A plastic chair tumbles past,
legs kicking empty air. Thunder cracks its knuckles
overhead. Power lines hum a warning hymn.
Lightly touching leaf of a lilac
a ladybug sunned herself delicately
dainty and demure, hurting no one
Yellow lily strived to make herself tempting
Bug gave her a nod, and a wink
Understanding there were more flowers to visit
Gave lilac a healthy good-bye before she shoved off
She pretends it’s no big deal
She wants to speak, you know
Just trivial things, no big reveal
But today is a day to tiptoe
He pretends she’s no good anyway
She’s really just too much though
She is a silly goose every day
But today is a day to tiptoe
She pretends to be just friends
Although this crush just won’t go
She senses his shifts and trends
So she knows today is a day to tiptoe
He pretends nothing should be said
As though his feelings shouldn’t show
For him it is safer to tread
So he knows today is a day to tiptoe
She pretends that his handsome face
Doesn’t affect her at the show
She shoves it down with a little grace
For today is a day to tiptoe
He pretends it is better to be without
Affairs of the heart just cause woe
Being busy is a much safer route
For today is a day to tiptoe
No channel skipping ..no flannel...it was so gripping…hearts melt…Pant's ripping svelte pelt and belt..stripping and whipping..the fab never drab Rishab lab..was it real..felt like I was tripping… no pipping..surreal cartwheel flipping..
Some verse about the Panto Pant curse…does traverse…like a hearse….won’t reimburse..adverse bowlers terse..things getting worse…reputations nurse…Rishab flash panache smash and grab..rehearse that ramp reverse..in his own homegrown perverse.. with only himself will converse..no fretting..go getting…record setting universe..
Now has outshone and outdone..shoves show pony Dhoni.. as the Indian man alright talisman with the gloves everybody loves with the most tons..holy moly..more three figures scores on England tours than the folklore of before..Sunny and Kohli..
Records splattered shattered..gallivanting Pant parade..cascade and cavalcade …flattered .. Rishab paddled..bowlers addled and raddled..skedaddled
Ignore any naysayer…prime sublime Pantomimes…haymaker…cocktail shaker…p**s taker…tik tok peacocker..run for fun maker…cool cat with the bat..almost indecent crimes..the Indian’s best test player and slayer of recent times..
God works in whispers and slight nudges
Some choose to blast the music of the world
They drown Him out and claim He isn't there
They run away from Him tapping softly for attention
He follows
But not with screams and shouts and shoves
He doesn't work like that
If only we can learn to quiet our minds and lives to hear
His words of love and nudges reminding us of our path
He knocks on the door of our hearts
All we need to do is let Him in
Words, nudges, and knocks to remind us of our true home
Home with Him in eternal happiness
Ruffles of sand that flash before my eyes in every waking moment
Oceans of blue that briefly lift and meet mine
My plain, brown eyes, that would blend in the mud
And my clothes that never lose the scent of pine
Versus his hoodies and the gold chain that hangs around his neck
Or the glasses that come and go upon his nose,
His brain, or the fact he shares a name
With the boy who hurt me the most.
When I stand surrounded, I look for him
Watching the door, hoping to see his hesitant gait
And the way he shoves his hands in his pockets
Seemingly content to stop, watch, and wait.
When the day fades to night, and the crickets cease to chirp
It’s him who haunts me when I lie awake in bed
Replaying each little interaction
And regretting the things that i never said.
Every corner of my mind stays aware
Of how fragile our tether will be
If I allow myself to stare into those oceans of blue
A single wave would wash us out to sea.
So silent I sit whenever he comes around
The fear that I keep protects my fractured heart
Injured, but not quite broken
By a love that didn’t start.
plane, bus 'n train
elevators 'n escalators
revelers 'n sale-day crowds
is where we meet
STRANGERS!
looking away,
with no eye-to-eye contact
no nod, wink, grunt of 'Hi's',
never ever recognizing
the sharers of the commons
shoved together
withdrawn incognito.
Here for thee be :
The Ten Commandments of Crowd Etiquette
Thou Shalt Honor Thy and Their Personal Bubbles
Thou Shalt Not Partake in Olfactory Betrayal
Thou Shalt Not Greet Strangers with a Nod, Only with Indifferent Defiance
Thou Shalt Yield Thy Seat only to the Ill, with-Child, Frail, Aged & the Lovely
Thou Shalt Stand Thy Ground, Letting Others Squeeze Pass Reluctantly
Thou Shalt Not Covet Another’s Seat or Space
Thou Shalt Keep Thine Phone Silent at Thine Side, and Do Not Speak
Thou Shalt Bear No Grudges for Shoves, Humphs & Grunts in Tight Spaces
Thou Shalt Honor all Queues, Despite their Length and Thy Lateness
Thou Shalt Yen the Zen of Strangers in Common Humanity
the shock
72% of the inhabitants of Israel
Approve of Netanyahu's treatment of
the people of Gaza
One supposes their TV shoves the same
horror as we see
It is as the people of Israel are beset by
an inner truth that destroys their soul
and lead them into self-destruction
For, we need a long spoon when
dealing with Israel
Breath in, breath out
the tide ebbs in, and surges out,
flows and pauses.
Swings and seesaws rock, bounce and rebound,
up and down, in tick-tock metronome time.
Memories tug, get hugged,
then unclasp, withdraw and let go to fade.
Dreams materialize, then dissolve.
Laughter spits, splits, spills, gushes out,
echoes then wanes to abstain in a chuckle.
Hope flits and flickers like a candle flame
blown to quiver by a shaky breath expelled
while trying to blow
the flame of a birthday candle out.
For the cadence of existence
is a hymn tuned by a conductor's baton
a metric dance, set in a tango two-time step,
a soft-shoe tap rap
in between yesterday and tomorrow,
in between blinks, breath holds.
Nestled momentarily on-hold to pause,
in between the tugs and shoves
of feelings, emotions,
hopes, inspiration
faith and desire.
Hold your breath,
for a brief moment.
Take time to take in
all the ins and outs,
and the roundabout twirls,
that surround you,
while you go
with the flow.
The man in front of me is a broken one,
and my fingers are drowning in dripping glue,
in cement,
in something meant to hold things
To hold him
To hold myself and others together.
Yet he binds himself
with puppet strings, scotch tape,
and the wet breath of drugs.
Batting at my outstretched
Hands
Dodging the warmth of a true touch,
He flinches.
He bleeds- visibly
and he screams from a
starlight-lost, daydream-blinded face
that I am wrong.
He shoves daggers into my seams,
prying at my wounds.
Burning red and pulsing in purple bruise
Image of a warrior
turned blue.
while leaking he bursts open.
Pain seeping into my sobbing mouth
From his unstitched scars
So easy to tear.
He rips with his own hands
At the both of us
When he does not cover his ears and turn his back
To cradle in a seething silence
Clutching with razor blade hands
the child,
The pained,
Chained, caged pet he swallows with every breath as if I cannot
See the lump in his throat
Or feel the kicking in his chest.
But I am a mountain,
capped in the blood of a hundred storms,
and I will not cave.
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