Barbed Flowers.
I would write this all down to you
If i thought you could read.
If your hand didn't cast a shadow
on what i would author.
If only you had seen what i saw
that i can only chalk about now
but not here - afterall...
Listen? You can't do that one of two!
Not for yourself, not even momentarily.
Patently not for me nor for others,
not for our girls whom have ears
that listen and seesaw.
Your noisy darkness grasps the heart,
plays it like a theremin.
This is how i feel
when you feel the way you do...
like something always does.
Better left unseen, unheard, unread.
Put to rest the thread,
it comes unraveled
when the needle is unminded.
The scent of October,
it's windy fragrance,
i scribe this to myself.
Saptaparna etched in color.
Holding the muddle together
a little while longer... with rusted wire,
I nurture beautiful barbed flowers.
Categories:
unminded, beauty, child abuse, flower,
Form: Free verse
He does not, mind you; it is not you he minds
He minds only his time
Certainly the smile does not admit
How dull the deficit
In wit, in words, in stars in the sky
Left unsettled and themselves unminded
Sun and moon performances, duties grinded
Infinite interpretations, but of presented
Such limited definition allowed, intended
He tires, indeed, of being a Thesaurus
Directing the dictionary of "for us" towards
Synonyms of self, dishonest portrayal
His own heart's heartfelt betrayal
Too weary to mind you, to play this game
He'll be more of him, of him less you'll see
Of self more, of one to be
Reconciled in great enlightenment
No part out of place, awry, wrong or bent
I am made of only myself.
Categories:
unminded, betrayal, heart, self, solitude,
Form: Rhyme
Let us stop talking of the light,
and instead walk unminded in it
as we do in our shoes
and the nails of our toes,
so delicately intact.
A cigarette here and there
will not keep the blot of grey,
this white metal railing framing
this narrow patio fixed
between me and all possibilities,
Love then like the wings of a butterfly.
Though let us not speak of love,
But gaze, simply gaze, upon the fluttering,
real or not, as it floats over the cold
smooth iron. Let all be, with our heart
touching all beyond the boundaries
of the varied weather of the soul.
Though let us not even speak anymore
of that ghostly key, for forever does the
door swing open with a swish, swish, swish
With the sound of swinging silence.
This alone we should rest in our communing,
faith-filled movement.
The sound of young voices in the night,
and the soft light of indoors, now,
with faried voices leading me down
this path...
Categories:
unminded, imaginationsound, me, sound,
Form: Free verse