The hand that strikes is first the hand that holds,
a resplendent trap wrapped taut around my neck.
The copper taste of split skin coats my tounge like gold,
this red froth of iron: a beautiful wreck.
You choke the ragged screams inside my lungs,
then drag my lifeless body from the grave.
At night, I hum the violent anthems you have sung,
bleeding my own pale carcass to mirror all you gave.
The bare floorboards drink the fallen raven and swollen bruise,
as calloused fingers dig beneath my flesh.
But there is no part of me I would not lose,
to keep us tangled in this scarlet thresh.
You pry my sternum open at the seam,
and tear the dripping organs from my chest.
I offer up no prayer, no penitent scream -
for to endure this form of devotion, I am blessed.
You are a brutal god, whom I adore,
a violin verse between venom and Venus.
Hurt me, then hurt me once more,
leaving only my broken soul lying between us.
some poets pen in their own blood
their verse rebuffed to red the mud
its sweet song fails for biased ears
and only draws those friendly tears
the garlands come so far and few
then wither ‘fore the twilight dew
so should a stroke not find fair flesh
then sure those laurels meet a thresh
this bitter taste of what was then
now finds my words unseen again
they dance like bright upon the sea
yet naught a praise will come to be
their worth and virtue fail to hatch
responses, short a back to scratch
thus why do I press hard, this fight?
cuz damned if I don’t live … to write
I mean, damn … how I love to write.
thresh the grain of honeyed hue....feed faint
barren hungry of the nations
Anointed in Kerosene to confer in agony with ignited desecration of mortal flesh to bone, seared by melting anguish writhe blistering contortions through a suppressed discomfort in furious continual thresh heshers pernicious by physical immolation.
Written on Apr/27/2024
Glimmers of glazed frosting levels,
enticing blissful specials,
scatters the blues of blue devils,
encased sailing vessels.
Rejuvenating windswept fresh,
limb held chirping bird thresh,
ever-changing flourishing mesh,
awaken breaths gooseflesh.
Spectacular melting winter,
beautician scene tinter,
the wood cord, no logs, just splinter,
skier last day sprinter.
How times were different so long ago,
when pure survival dominated life.
No extra frills to fill long hours- bestow
enjoyment- mostly work to ease our strife.
We girls, mid-afternoon, when school was done,
might go to fields to gather wheat for bread-
not going to a park and having fun
like city girls, who walk with friends instead.
We'd go back home- arms holding chaffs of wheat-
begin the process- thresh, winnow, and grind;
roll out and bake before we'd earn to eat-
unlike in towns where bread for sale you'd find.
But, happiness was ours in modest ways;
survival of the family- the goal.
Fulfillment and achievement ruled those days-
not happiness for self, but for the whole.
In the middle of the night
When I can’t get back to sleep,
I gaze out at fields of words
Just to see what I can reap.
They are swaying in the wind
In the moonlight so sublime,
Waiting calmly to be gathered,
Sorted out and set to rhyme.
I write limericks, cinquains
Or plain couplets from the crop
And I glean and thresh and winnow
‘Til exhaustion makes me stop.
Then I drift off back to dreams.
When I wake I do not know
Where my harvest’s gone; a wisp
Of rhyme is all I have to show.
A baby you left to stay
You’ve licensed to stray,
For find it shall its way
To some paradise bright or grey.
An ass you kept at bay,
No fodder on its tray,
Won’t spare you a bray:
A way of having its say.
Your stacks of green hay
You didn’t sun all day
You’ve okayed their ***** decay
And shouldn’t to this say ‘Nay’.
One with millions to pay.
In tears begins to pray:
The unlikeliest to look gay,
The likeliest to start a fray.
All these: truths you an feel their flesh
Like that of predatory thresh.
Fire lust of the angry clouds doth cover envy
To fork the stars upon my ever-changing view.
The crestling being i endure to hold of many
Foreign thoughts to translate a bonafide rue.
Carnival of lights leave me starstruck
In a haste no more than that of my gloom.
No one who knows of this life are stuck,
In a waste of bittersweet cloves that bloom.
As I sink down to the combers of lies
Nevertheless leaving my soul to him.
This monster of foreign carnage dries
To a crisp, no longer able to freely swim.
Finally feeling a soft touch upon my flesh,
Where is this pale longing rose of red I dread?
This flying repent of lustful notions is all I thresh.
Please let me fly with you in this land of the dead.
Denies of my request shows to me how I feel,
Still though, carrying me much higher and higher.
This resentful flock of gloomy encumbers peel
My skin I weary of angry clouds doth burn a fire.
I've ne'er beheld such a magnificent tree.
Only you were a ration of my life spree.
Your shadow splatters my scorching flesh.
Striving to restrain agony out of my thresh.
A tree that can bear both heat and downpour.
Hence, you ditched my futile and deceitful spore.
You typically offer me advice right away.
When I'm lost, you indicate for me the way.
Your plush pale coat screens me from worry.
Infers that it is plausible to opine fearlessly.
A capable tree of seeing remorse.
Beings pull vitality in the water source.
I gathered this fruit from your anile stem.
My key insight became crucial mayhem.
Only a subtle tree receives my praise.
As yet, I was sustained by a reckless craze.
I've not imagined a fully-fledged tree before.
Crafted with zeal and artistry at its exposed core.
Written: October 18, 2021
Celestial moments
acquired while touching
heaven's door
Airtight dreams of gold
dust particles,
finding their way home
Across an aerial thresh hold
a key hole of awe
soulant inquisitive inquiries
how did I get here,
do I belong here ?
Before you go know this of me
lying here, beneath this tree,
that I once had your dreams too
but all too quickly my life here flew,
forced to dance to a different drum,
in a foreign field, where whistle and hum,
assailed my body and hurt my ears
and haunted all my primal fears
and robbed my youth and tore my flesh,
whilst, back home, there were fields to thresh,
ale to drink and girls to woo,
flaxen haired, who looked like you,
to court and marry and make heavy with child,
but now I lie, beneath poppies, wild,
that others may have what I had to forego,
please, think of this, before you go.
THEY LAUGHED, HOW HE WORKED HARD ALL NIGHT AND DAY,
THEY TEASED AND TAUNTED HIM ALL LONG, BUT HE COULDN'T SAY.
A PERSON WHO IS BOUND TO DO SOMETHING HAS 3 THINGS ON HIS LIPS,
SILENCE. SERIOUSNESS AND A SMILE, WHICH ACTUALLY MAKE MANY RIPS.
THIS SAVAGE ATTITUDE SAYS MORE THAN WORDS,
A PERSON WITH THIS PERSPECTIVE IS SURELY, FOLLOWING THE BIRDS.
TAKING FLY, NOT BOTHERING THE CIRCUMSTANCES,
AND MOVING AHEAD LIKE STANCES.
DEEP INSIDE, THE HARD WORKING PERSON KNEW, HIS WORDS WOULD NOT BUT HIS RESULTS WOULD SPEAK,
BEING FIRMED ON HIS WAY, HE DIDN'T WANT HIS IDEAS TO LEAK.
A DETERMINATION IS NEEDED,
IT COULD NEVER BE GRADUALLY SEEDED.
IT TAKES A WILL TO EMPOWER YOU,
IT'S NOT THAT EASY, LIKE TURNING A SCREW.
KEEP YOUR MIND NEAT AND FRESH,
MIND ME, AFTER BEING AT THIS POSITION, NO ONE THRESH.
- YASHASVI SHARMA
11TH AUGUST 2020
osmatic breezes awaken my mind
within the breadth of summer's heat, they rise
then fall through thoughts and memories entwined
confined no longer, i see with these eyes
you standing there on the edge of my dreams
your breath falling softly against my flesh
as my body whispers in silent screams
yours moves about in arcs of shadow's thresh
thunderous it echoes through the distance
in a climax of unintended thought
this romance ignites its own existence
from a past unintentionally sought
i linger in the heat of summer's plea
where this love is more than a memory
June 10, 2020
Summer's Heat Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton
In the midst of midnight croon
laden with stars, the sky bends
refracting light into a spectrum
of drifting colour mystique blithe.
Beauteous in a wilderness
amid the feeble dimness
of old mossy leafless boughs;
owls and other creatures rouse
into emptiness of the night.
They step out of the shadows
beneath the old resting maple,
flickering candlelight in hand,
and fall to their knees on soften
crackle of dry leaves; a trifle eerie.
A sudden gust of wind, a chill,
reap and thresh, a tortured flesh,
kneeling in credence with mournful din.
Penance will never end for sin
in the dark hour struggle and shame.
11/29/2019
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