Like a toddler taking maiden steps
The narrow stream moves through the woods
Tripping and falling over pebbles and boulders
Chiming its silver anklets
Drowning the whisper of bamboo leaves
Its sweet murmur falls in my ears
As an eternal living melody
The cosmic song heard over aeons
Forcing itself in irrepressible flow
It thrusts and shoves its way down
Through thickets and a line of ferns
And the tangle of creepers and brambles
As the water sluices down the rocks
It is a frothing braided torrent
Producing a harsh grating roar
Like the crescendo of a tribal symphony
There it forms into a small pool
With its waves gently rippling
Where birds merrily come to take a dip
Refreshed they fly back sunning their wet feathers
Sometimes travelling unseen
It suddenly emerges into the open
Cutting its way through cracks and fissures
Never willing to surrender before hurdles
With a bearing immaculate in grace
It sends out waves of pure delight
What joy it is to watch the dilly dally
Of this sedate pilgrim moving to its destination
July.31.2022
Anything Goes Poetry Contest
Sponsor. Mystic Rose Rose
The shape of water such a mystery to me
Staring at it for hours
And still the shape is free
A trickle drop drop
A gurgle and bubble
A breath infused whisper
A deafening titans struggle
It’s the shape of power
Of love, joy and pain
Magnificent roaring waves
Couples dancing in the rain
A solitary tear of pride
A mother’s love bursting her heart
Open sluices from eyes
Sorrows tears tearing worlds apart
The shape of water is freedom
Flowing, tugging, swirling, ebbing, evaporating
To places I’ll never see
But feeling gentle kisses of mist raise goosebumps on my skin
The shape of water is still a beautiful mystery to me
22.06.2021
“A meager life!”
the world hurls out.
Brooding rage stirs -
grave music in mind:
an orchestra of feelings,
unsatisfied turmoiled thoughts,
perceived by paining wounds -
heartbeat
with frightening velocity.
An enfant terrible -
Alone,
singing to himself
a parable:
paradoxal
to martyred music,
divining
death
while the blithe world laughs
with an uplifted voice.
A broken vessel
trapped in
shuddering darkness
and contrasting quietness
secret stirrings,
saturated senses -
quick ticks the clock…
A twilight lit room:
shining whiteness spreads,
as stars burn bright
and rain sluices down
over sun burnt grass
and folded flowers,
the silver moment
bleached with rain
dies in darkness,
while a woeful crimson
glissades across eyes
acknowledging sorrow:
maybe a disguise
for vengeance.
A voiceless void:
phantoms of thoughts
from which even
shadows flee.
A lovely child -
alone;
smothered,
by bloodshot clouds…
and nerve strained eyes...
If you care for me
As you claim you do
Let me see
If your feelings ring true
In words and in spirit
Deep enough to respect the elasticity and plasticity of the space
I own which with respect you should treat
Or else it’ll be a deja vu case
In which words claim one reality
While actions portray the opposite
Notion which depicts frailty
You ought to quit
In circumstances that jettison
Hollow claims teeming with lame excuses
For which a levity lesson
Shuts down the last sensitivity and sensibility sluices.
In the night, ignite the light
Meant to delight
The flight undertaken
To heal the heartbroken
Writhing in pain
Overloaded in vain
Misunderstood
In a morose mood
Catalysed
Scandalised
To a high degree
In a sentiment spree with glee
Although torture
In a suture culture
Unabated
Sated and dated
Rubs on bruises salt
Bereft of means to halt
Cycles of sadism
Cynicism and misogynism
Pursued to the hilt
To tilt the guilt
Embraced with passion
To fruition
Whether heartaches
Coupled with headaches
Subside or preside
To decide
More humane
Methods in the main
To separate
Eradicate
Scores and stores
A train of pain and strain pores
Over as slices
Splices and sluices
Invite the might
A love bite
Supplies in time
For a damsel to climb
From depths of despair
Her plight to repair
Surges forth
In victory to boldly proclaim her faith.
Homer Brunett
1879-1912
You didn’t think it would be easy? Did you?
Life squirms incessantly,
As with the molting snake,
Turning and squeezing into mortal convolutions,
With myriad forgotten episodes
Of human triumph and tragedy,
Of endless drama in the slatted houses;
Life is constantly lurching and lunging, ever forward,
Under those silent indifferent clouds, up there!
But time is the ultimate mind master,
He knows where the switches to the stop gates are.
He knows when to open the field sluices awash!
We foolish human beings inevitably
Get taken by the rushing flood waters,
Get completely swept away by the undertow,
Helpless against the madding confluence,
Ending up as tears on the faces of the bereaved.
This is my final testament and statement!
That of an intelligent dead man!
Raindrops falling
Haven’t seen the morning paper yet
Here are the raindrops
One, two, three..
The headlines must be…
Floods in Mumbai
Don’t go away
Listen to the voices
One, two, three…
Song of the protean wayfarer
Dance of the gypsies
Prancing sluices
Dont go away
Here goes the plangent fiddle too
What a way to water the day..
By: S.Jagathsimhan Nair
Neuro syntax thread mills beside constant streams of thought.
Slowed and constricted to reserves
for later turning churning production.
Rushing through narrowed sluices of tedious occupation,
to slow and build again before yet another challenge.
Ever do the myriad wheels and stones grind
thought flour of our daily bread and nightly dreams.
Listening to the falling waters tinkling over memories of yesterstones
and Calderstones and rain filled days of schooling
children swimming and drinking their fill
to weather the deserts and harsh wind plains of life.
Yet do we thirst for knowledge of others
riding this river or sailing the open armed ocean
adrift in the salt tears of so many who failed.
Waiting the winds of change in leather skinned boats of hope.
Drinking the daily rain.
Eating slow fat birds and willing whales.
While waiting for another try at life.
Another land to take from.
Two boats down a white haired druid
sips angel fish tea
dreaming of Wales.
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