Manifesting thee-
thou new December,
let joy and peace be
the last month's ember.
Glowing from the fire
of chances and luck,
taken as a trier,
by hearty risk, buck!
I lay dead alive,
in high anxiety,
on how to survive,
not by my piety.
One thing, I know of-
is my faith's prowess,
holding up above
emotional cuss.
That would sink grievance,
of chance not taken,
driving luck's deviance
to reawaken...
Good luck and fortune,
repairing this year
wornout misfortune,
not to reappear,
But bring on blessings...
meant for this year's grace,
out of gloom's dressings,
running out of chase.
Amen!
Julie looked like a worn out ragamuffin
rolled out from under an alley garbage dumpster
her hair was dirty, her teeth reeked of tobacco
her clothes were unkempt and unfitted
there were holes in her shoes
all pride was gone
drugs had turned her
from a cheerleader into a guttersnipe
In a hundred days, it has seen me,
A thousand times, by the old tree,
A tomb, atleast for me, that still sings,
The old tales, I sit on the worn out bench,
Below the wornout street lamp, as if,
The world moved on but it remained stiff.
Quite silly of me to wait, but I can't resist,
As the night falls, the thoughts still persist,
But with time I see the lights flicker and shut,
With it, I take leave of the place but,
The thoughts still persist and they call,
"When we meet again, this promise you will recall."
I'll walk through ice and numbing snow
Though slaying cold be its freezing feel,
And trek through roasting deserts drear,
Taxing grip betwixt soil and mortal heel.
Not lonely climes shall my strides deter
Though forbidding such motions prove;
Every steady step sturdier than the last,
Toe and sinew shall defy earth's groove.
Past shroud of searing beams and heat
Shall these wornout soles tireless tread;
Every tactile kiss knitting earth and heel
More painfully spewing its slicing dread.
Neither immobilizing blow nor chill's bite
Shall these gallant legs dampen or slow;
Against menacing pestilences and trials,
Must this walk persist past darkest woe.
1
Do not know you yet, after a whole
life slept with you, O my illusion,
groping and pawing- your
knowledge in vain- still there was
darkness between my fingers- light
streaming out from the nails-
2
The end of road- in the river,
the iron lace, hiding the math,
when the boat sank, I was
searching butterflies, it was the
navel, with a stitch on- tattoos
were gone- it was hot, too hot to handle-
3
Writing poem a day, my ritual
since last many years- still do
not find the right words- to convey
my unspoken hurts, I keep on
mending the threads, knitting a
wornout blanket again-
Satish Verma
Life , Deeds, Loving and Solace
My past acts have sown so very many evil seeds
looking at a yard with many wicked little weeds
No pretty , neat scenes greeting my tearful eyes
no absolutions in spite of so many, many tries
There were the ladies that I did so badly use
then cast away like wornout, old dirty shoes
Too many gave their sweet hearts and their all
to a me that was so arrogant, petty and small
The friends that I ruled so very harsh and quick
no mercy given for I was mad and wickedly sick
Days spent gambling, drowning my life with drink
more bad acts , looking back I can smell the stink
No escaping the wild, crazy life so very misspent
Only painful knowledge I have that I must now repent!
Robert J. Lindley, 06-16-2014
Visions of strips of clouds in wornout towns
People walking through them making rounds
Sadness in their faces only frowns
Silence on their voices not a sound
Movements muffled growing softness not a vibration round
From underground roots pull them down and down
Within the air moods chill them without bounds
Light glimmers barely flickers brightness drowning out
Darkness showing over flowing flooding through the town
Sight extinguished no overcoming its taken what its found
Molding likeness forming lakes of wrong to righteous
Reflecting from deep inside us blinding what we know of trust
Devouring selfwill always following close behind us
A shadow on our backs to constantly remind us
A chill down our spine to regularly rewind us
That beat in our heart that firmly defines us
That rage in our eyes that seeks to defy us
The race for the prize that overcomes choice
Which results in the town of the people without voice
The typewritter the empty page.
Time has forgotten you.
As we worship the talentless in a foreign age.
Cheap **** and a old lush.
Poddle skirts and a highschool crush.
Wornout jeans and a no longer spoke about bands patch.
Sneaking out the window .
Unlocking that old gates latch.
Forbidden lovers and young hearts loving thta first feeling
so very true.
The stars are a midnight canvas.
Rain and beauty reflect the same to old and new.
Coins in a wishing well thrown by a lost
young teenage girl.
Sweet agony and diary pages.
Red lipstick andher hairs natrule curl.
the scent of innocence and regret fill's the air.
Bitter souls loath the foolish
young who reach for a place where only dreamers dare.
Like a mustang down a empty backroad through this life we
blew.
So many feelings it leaves you numb.
As the guard must change from old to new.
You come home from work tired,wornout, beat.
Your body aches all over from the top of your head to the bottom of your feet
The radio blaring, theT.V is full blast
Your oldest son wants to borrow the car and money for gas.
You go up stairs about to lay your weary head on the bed.
There on the dresser a note black and bold.
If you don't have the rent you will be out in the cold.
Bills upon bills a cycle that never ends.
When you are in need,where are your so called friends.
You go out of the bedroom you pause in the hall.
You ask the Dear Lord is it really worth it all?
As you stand there and ponder the thought
You help your 3 year old off the bathroom pot.
Back down stairs you go to the kitchen
There standing by the stove on her hand a potholder glove.
Is the real breadwinner my wife the woman I love
From that moment on I knew the answer from the hall.
Yes Dear Lord it is really worth it all.
YOU COME HOME FROM WORK TIRED,WORNOUT,BEAT.
YOUR BODY ACHES ALL OVER FROM THE TOP OF YOUR HEAD,
TO THE BOTTOM OF YOUE FEET
THE RADIO IS BLARING,THE T.V. IS BLAST.
YOUR OLDEST SON WANTS TO BORROW THE CAR AND MONEY FOR GAS.
YOU GO UPSTAIRS ABOUT TO LAY YOUR WEARY HEAD ON THE BED.
THERE ON THE DRESSER,A NOTE,BLACK AND BOLD.
IF YOU DONT HAVE THE RENT YOU WILL BE OUT IN THE COLD
BILLS UPOM BILLS, A CYCLE THAT NEVER ENDS.
WHEN YOU ARE IN NEED, WHERE ARE YOUR SO CALLED FRIENDS.?
YOU GO BACK OUT OF THE BEDROOM AND PAUSE IN THE HALL,
YOU ASKED THE DEAR LORD IS IT REALLY WORTH IT ALL.
AS YOU STAND THERE AND PONDER THE THOUGHT,
YOU HELP YOUR THREE YEARS OLD OF THE BATHROOM POT.
YOU GO BACK DOWNSTAIRS TO THE KITCHEN,
THERE STANDING BY THE STOVE,ON HER HAND A POT HOLDER GLOVE.
IS THE REAL BREAD WINNER,YOUR WIFE,THE WOMEN YOU LOVE.
FROM THAT MOMENT ON, YOU KNEW THE ANSWER FROM THE HALL.
YES DEAR LORD IT IS REALLY WORTH IT ALL.
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