absent being
claiming deliverance
even fearful gratitude
has its jaws knitting lies
mimicking, never opening
prying questions, rigid statements
tallying up versions
Xanadu waits (for you)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At first, it was only hydrogen
humming in the dark~
a single note stretched thin
across the ribs of nothing.
Then the stars learned to count,
their bright fingers tallying
the arithmetic of light.
Galaxies folded into themselves,
remembering.
Now the void whispers equations
to any ear pressed close enough~
the gravity between thoughts,
the slow calculus of dust
forming hands and eyes
the unbearable weight
of a mind vast enough
to ask:
Am I alone?
And somewhere,
a pulse echoes back:
No.
Someday I’ll miss the sound
Of my mom singing carols
Off-key in the other room
While I’m trying to fall asleep
(We agree Bing Crosby and Dean Martin
Have astonishingly similar voices)
Mingled with her announcements
I got another one!!
Tallying up her finds
On our impossible cupcakes puzzle
Marooned on half our dining table
Ever since last Valentine’s
(She wants to entice me to help her find more
But I lost my patience long ago
So I just made her a glass of lemonade
With five ice cubes falling from the fridge)
It’s mildly annoying right now
Hearing her argue with cupcakes
Singing along quite out loud
With her unending playlist
Yet it’s also kind of comforting
To pause and think
This will be a memory of her
I can make it sad or happy
And I know I’d regret it if I complained
Because someday I’ll miss the sound
Of my mom singing carols
•THE QUINTESSENTIAL BIRTHDAY•
Rather than count candles,
Contemplate your blessings,
And stop tallying the years,
Your birthday bliss brings joyful tears.
The world was blessed with you.
Your life has been enriched all through
Reminisce those who love you & care,
In diverse ways, they're always there.
Ruminate on the memories
And the scathing victories,
May your experiences make you a star.
Believe that is who you are.
Another year is a happy gift,
Enjoy your added year like a lift.
Exude in the euphoria and slay,
Cut your cake, and say:
"I won't just count birthdays,
I will count blessings all my days!"
•VICK MANUEL POETRY{VMP}•
Form: Rhymes/Heroic Sonnet
Copyright ©9th July 2023.
I don't know
that love has a
bucket list,
a program best
to follow...and
writers do seem often
inclined more amorous
of
text...
especially us poets, flag
carriers of the heart,
seldom an emotion
not expressed
by pen in part
like an accountant
tallying feelings
numbers his bread
and butter
one has to wonder
if the physical and
the sheet ever entirely
meet
did the composition
a real body fullest greet
or sometimes is writing
Love's happy-face hiding
fearful retreat
“how much do I love thee?”
I have not read Browning's
reply in equally great verse...
were I the beneficiary
my cry of joy would
blush the very sky
a splash of passion never
to be rivaled nor dimmed
for all the world to see
therefore, Elisabeth
was it so deeply also
Robert's eternity
was such fond declaration
the height of shared human
affection
or mere sonnet of romantic
poetic perfection
the heart
too often
a heart of letters
There are five
perhaps six, maybe more?
There's always the invisible
when observing deer.
A speckled group
braids a tangled grove.
Stippled light shapes -
not their appearance
but their disappearance.
Deeper into the trees
there are mottles and flecks,
a sun-streaked shimmering.
Deer thread leaf and bough
floating over
pools of light and shade.
Shapes move in and out
of a mirage
painted to baffle.
I watch
tallying their invisible sum
on a green abacus.
I knew a Luke Banjo,
Who loved to see D’Jango
And often wore bongo…
A Nigerian Banjo
With craving for Tango;
A Tallying Bongo
And Packs of Sweet Ringo:
Guess his dog’s name: Bingo!
So, it’s A Luke Banjo,
In his life lots of - go
And a single lone – jo!
Hushed mystic quests esoteric intellect
As quietude permeates domain of truth
Ruminating about things done and said
Reflecting upon the avenues of regrets
Reminiscing on boulevards of conquests
Tallying up all the triumphs and defeats
Wailing in futility of feats and fantasies.
What has been, cedes to what could be
Beyond pensive boundaries of mortality
Illuminating today in meditative reverie
Transcending the mundane, the ordinary,
The futile worries confused in ambiguities.
Ambitious past now seeks new meaning
As dissonant arguments lose appeals
And wisdom draws from ethereal spirits
And enlightenment ascends satori feelings
Where grief is no longer as dominating
And happiness no longer as demanding--
For material things forfeit their entreaties.
Life in equilibrium of peace and serenity
Aspires to poise of supreme understanding
Buoying on clout of calmness and clarity,
No longer stirring what could have been
Seeing everyday as the essence of being
In eternal halo of a cognitive awakening.
November 3, 2020
Placed 2nd: Ambedo poetry contest by Silent One
Placed 3rd: Podium placings (6) by Brian Strand
There is a special
love – the love one
dreams of having...
a desire for
limitless expression of love –
a love that embraces
your all…
but the thrifty heart
can never be happy
in love
mush less, the miser –
addicted to sums: meticulously
keeping records – foolishly tallying
that which, according to divine length
and width, ethereal standards of weights
is ordained immeasurable….
No – love, though often a puzzle
as to origin, can never be appropriately
defined
by its pieces
nor understood by fragments
no matter how captivating – as those of a
fine tapestry, or swirling mosaics…
for if there are borders,
so restricted is the timeless
nature of love…
Though love begins
with embers of cooling stars...
the Resurrection, a result of its
comforting warmth,
leads to the soaring rebirth of a new
and even brighter generation....
Follicking Rollicking Roch your world
Tallicking Tallying Tok for tale
Fock it and rock it and make it fail
Frock it and bawk it and make no shail
Ferry it and mock it
and pace what ail
Hope it and frot'h it
and fate be nailed
There are five
perhaps six, maybe more?
There's always the invisible
when observing deer.
A speckled group
braids a tangled grove.
Stippled light shapes,
not their appearance
but their disappearance.
Deeper in the trees
there are mottles and flecks,
a sun-streaked shimmering.
Deer thread leaf and bough,
floating over
pools of light and shade.
I watch
tallying their invisible sum
on a green abacus.
Magdalen longed to become a Parisienne
Unfortunately she felt more like a prairie hen
Working earnestly for the county’s aldermen
Tallying hydrogen nitrogen oxygen
Overseeing regimen and specimen
All lined up under lights of halogen
At times she closed her eyes and said amen
Holding her magical fountain pen
Writing poetry about way back when
She dreamt of being a beautiful Cheyenne
Canoeing down the river Darien
Banked by miles of green magnificent glen
She had countless fantasies since she was ten
Flying as free as a sweet wren again and again
But Magdalen always longed to be a Parisienne
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
I was at my neighbourhood café
Come to hide and read quietly
As I so often love to do
In my favourite little corner
My latte was especially smooth
My story particularly captivating
How better to relax on a lazy afternoon
Life couldn’t be better that is
Until a shriek tore through
So high pitch it woke the dead
I jumped out of my skin
fearing the worst
Looked around on high alert
Met countless pairs of wide eyes
Staring back in bewilderment
Tallying the many near-miss heart attack victims
And there they were… the culprits
Two giggly grown women
Sitting out like sore thumbs
Totally oblivious to the commotion they had triggered
In a world of their very own
But not being too quiet about it all
Just when I presumed it might be safe
To return to my quiet nook and haven
And ease back into the literary world awaiting
Loud enough for all to hear
It was made known to everyone
Soon there would be another new young mother on this earth
Ahh…
Someone was about to earn her wings
AP: Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2026
Submitted on September 12, 2017 for contest POEMS THAT PAINT A PICTURE sponsored by SILENT ONE - RANKED 2ND
Roof we perhaps ignore
is a patient secret listener
hearing laughter and insults
silently doing her things
recording, sorting, tallying
never letting cats out of bags
when storm invites her to go
she flies with all data
I fully remember my earlier life completely as a man
People of my village used to call me Phony
Who was killed with a shot gun fired at close range.
The reason was I made a pretty girl pregnant.
There’s a party with masks and horrid dresses
A girl extended her hand, took a walk on a lake
Saw an old house not lived in for many years.
We had it all the house, nothing could stop us.
After a few months, whispers went around about
An unmarried girl with round tummy gifted with a child
But I could detect her because of a mole on her upper lip.
Before I could see her, some people shot me dead.
I still bear array of birthmarks tallying a gunshot blasts.
I often visit the village in this life and often see the woman
With the mole and her son exactly a carbon copy of Phony.
+++++++
June 26, 2014
Form : Free Verse
Dr. Ram Mehta
Fourth Place Win
Contest: Past lives by Carolyn Devonshire
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