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Best Poems Written by Abhishek Suresh

Below are the all-time best Abhishek Suresh poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Abhishek Suresh Poem

Charming Patterns

Gods of glowing neon and gaudy screens
smile upon charming, charming patterns of heads.
All colors of hair, lit red, then green, then blue,
guided along invisible paths, crown heads
perspiring, chanting and glancing down
on marching, mechanical arms, then worrying
as they scurry along infinite, crisscrossing paths -
at once so ordered and so unfathomably chaotic.
Drums are rolled by hurrying feet 
dictating the race of mankind.

A metropolis looms, adorned by a billion shimmering jewels -
electric jewels - and an apparition sways over the
bustle, silently watching, silently floating.
Giant chutes proudly puff out plumes of nightly black
and devils forged in impure fire do rise
to the heavens above, graced by the blessings of 
the industrial revolution, in turn blessing humanity with progress,
imperceptible except as phlegmatic gasps
and the whiff of crisp green paper, distinguished by 
wizened faces and packed in neat bundles. 

Bulbous, aged fingers do trace from within
the sanctum sanctorum of a temple aged a thousand years,
charming, charming patterns of jewels
in intricate, frozen dance, carving out hexagons of perfect symmetry
from wearily cut marble windowsills.
The work of a thousand splendid hands
preserved by the unseen, dusty hands of time
did render the mosque palatial, its beauty heavenly.
The admiring eyes sing hymns praising the architecture, alas 
they are blind, for the marble, white as angelic wings, is grey now.

The scientist appears, eyes hidden by thick glassy cubicles
yet shining through, lit by the endless pursuit of knowledge
and equally burdened by numbers, figures, notes
and the maddening myopia of man.
On the screen appears, against fresh white
charming, charming patterns of red, green and blue
sinking downward, worryingly as it would seem,
his uninflected pleas let in through one ear, instantly
shunted out through the next by the populace, to whom
the music of modernity rings sweeter.

First Place, Charming Patterns Poetry Contest

Date: 16th October 2021

Details | Abhishek Suresh Poem

Rain

Rain


I hear the pitter-patter of rain, 
greedily savor the whiff of bathed Earth
and I see, yet again, that palace frozen in time
my home, far, far away.
The misty memories of a blissful past
lay interred in those walls of faded pink,
the heaving groan of the rusted gate sounds
as melodic as the chirp of the bulbul.
The rain smelt sweeter then, in those bygone days
when I'd hold my grandfather's large hand, and
my little feet would splash puddles all about.
How I feel sometimes, as if only yesterday
that large umbrella towered over me amid
the incessant drip-drop and that man's
booming laughter as we'd walk!
And it reminds me then, of that day,
embellished eternally in my mind,
when even that man, larger than life itself
was united with Earth's welcoming bosom.
It rained even then, upon the both of us,
and trickled down my moistened cheeks,
for there was no umbrella over my head.


Date: October 26, 2021
6th Place, Onomatopoeia Poetry Contest

Details | Abhishek Suresh Poem

In Memory of You

In Memory of You

So that even if my moribund mind fails
to show your fading beautiful face again,
you shall glow eternally in these trembling words.
By no means hollow are the choicest crowns
this dying poet does bestow on his cherished lover.

1st Prize, Something Beautiful 5 line rhyme Contest

Date: November 5 2021

Details | Abhishek Suresh Poem

My Son, Far Away

My Son, Far Away

In the sunny gloom of this
ocean of burning Earth,
the scythe of time hovers like
a hungry vulture above us
men of "honorable" duty, but thankfully,
for my weary heart, this
graveyard of sand is never too far
from my son, far away.

We are but men, not Gods,
for every death my hands effect
I kneel closer to my own.
Only the bespoke hands that
signed neat, dotted lines can
explain this infernal farce that
donned in warrior's attire the
father of my son, far away.

He's a fine gentleman for sure,
in him I see the man I never got to be,
I fear now I may never see
again that little boy whose big feet
long outgrew his father's shoes.
If my death blocks an evil bullet, be it so.
Let no bullet fly past me,
and reach my son, far away.

So when I die, oh brother,
rest me not amid these sinners,
in this bed of metal thorns and 
aged blood.
I beseech you to, instead,
lay me to rest in
the soil that sculpted me, and
take me home to my son, far away.


War Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Date: November 12, 2021

Details | Abhishek Suresh Poem

Scars

Scars

This land knows not what I seek,
here I am frowned upon
the glares of rejection and hate like
a thousand whips lashing on 
my arched back, my hopes for
recognition, for an equal voice,
for a place among these people who loom over me like gods
gone, never to return.
I would much rather have death, than
"exist" as an unwanted being,
my eyes rise to the heavens above
and I ponder these wounds in my heart and mind, screaming at me
telling me I'm wrong, while a deprived inner voice joins the cacophony
I've done nothing but be born upon this wretched world.
They pain me far, far more than
these sunken scars, biting upon my ivory skin
tell me, am I not human too?

Details | Abhishek Suresh Poem

The Architect

Architects
-Walter Rossman

In these ruins, a peculiar place
within the rubble, sanctity abounds here
and stand you will, straight, respectful
as you see the shattered idols of a previous people
erased.
one finds an engraved tablet
rustic yet visible enough
sees one, in wondrous artful calligraphy
that would’ve been etched by some
creative, trained hand that knew not
its work would outlive its precedents.
In it, one reads
“Forever have I waited for
this dingy city of mine, to see
new eyes and it takes,
sadly, the eyes of art
to see for itself
the utter monstrosity”
and you pick the rubble, anew
now with purpose that
that great hand wrote amid sweat
and blood, amid tiring hours of work
the future of the entire city.
As you dig, you find
the toolbox, filled to the brim
its contents never seeing the grit of stone
or the sparks off metals, never have they borne witness
to the midday sun and the perspiring architect
who creates art, unappreciated, and we all,
all of us men who descended upon the rubble
are filled with purpose
we grab what we can find.
The broken columns and
shattered stone, remnants of marble
and disgraced statue-heads are now lighter to hold
the rubble seems to clear off
beneath it lies, the indomitable will
of a poor, poor artist,
with eyes that could see far more than 
anyone of the doomed city,
we all bathe in that will, we are now
inspired by art,
art that knows no bounds,
of cities perished, little is spoken
it’s what remains that matters
be it so, for that noble man
we’ll create a masterpiece
and name it, “Architect City”.

Details | Abhishek Suresh Poem

Lone Maiden

Lone Maiden

The willow that rises in this graveyard, buried in grief
is solemn, solitary, for seldom does one come to see
the sunken bodies, free from joy or grief
but that evening, it looked so beautiful, so free. 

The chains tethering it to the grim facade of so many fallen faces
were so loose that pensive autumn's eve,
she looked like a damsel in black, graceful arms outstretched to the skies
the eternal dark she adorns, she does not grieve.

I could stay there for long, I would be so sad to leave
the willow that rises in this graveyard, buried in grief.

Contest: Nature Scene - Orphan Sonnet Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Dale Gregory Cozart
Date: June 6, 2019

Details | Abhishek Suresh Poem

Childhood

It appears as a distant memory, my childhood,
so much have I forgotten,
and woe be that I grew up so fast
and while the trees will still be there when I go,
how I wish I could admire them more.

Of childhood, few remember much,
there isn't a thing so sublime and wonderful
and yet so easily left behind as childhood
and looking out the misty glass, in all solitude I ask
what was my childhood?

Was it a distant dream of endless wonder
at the small intricacies of the delightful world?
Or a myriad of colors, a kaleidoscope
with but 2 small eyes to capture?
Was it an alternate world, a blessed realm
of ceaseless curiosity and boundless imagination
contained in a small child's mind?

A world when time stopped, and we shrunk
to the dimensions of the lifeless toys we so happily breathed life into,
a world when we knew not what balances or cheques meant,
and deadlines and schedules unheard of.
Yes, that was my childhood,
and woe be that I cannot live it again.

Contest: A Contest on Aging
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Dated: 13 June 2019

Details | Abhishek Suresh Poem

The Path of God Sq

The Path of God

The path of God is a tightrope, walk with caution 
with only belief to keep your balance, but fear not son
in the face of the winds of distraction and discord, that is all you need to cope
walk with caution, the path of God is a tightrope.

The path of God is a maze, walk with purpose
it is easy to get lost in the Stygian puzzle, but He believes in us
faith will enlighten the golden path, before you it lays
walk with purpose, the path of God is a maze.

The path of God is a dark tunnel, walk fearlessly
know that it is seldom taken, only the righteous can see
that truth is your lamp amid the dark, truth only you can channel
walk fearlessly, the path of God is a dark tunnel.

One finds several paths in life, choose wisely my son
I have brought you up well, your golden essence you must not shun
though your journey with traps will be rife
choose wisely my son, one finds several paths in life.

Contest: Swap Meet
Sponsor: Carol Connell
21 April 2019

Details | Abhishek Suresh Poem

Forbidden Song

"But love's a malady without a cure."
-"John Dryden"

Forbidden Song

The jury sits, pallid and grave,
well versed in the ways of "society" and "correctness",
he appears, drowned in confusion and numb to all else,
convicted of the dreary charge of "forbidden" love.

No words exchanged, for there is no need,
the sentence rings forth, pierces his breast like a dagger,
"Your love is a mistake, your mind a mess,
listen to the wisdom of the ages".

And it stings, it burns,
but he is not one to show.
Take my arm, take my leg,
but I cannot live without my heart.

And take away all I may need,
food and drink are careless indulgences,
but allow me the liberty to, in those dying moments,
find warmth and hearth in the home of my heart.

And lock me up, lock me in
in the darkest places deep, deep down below.
Though I may live amidst the unknown, scary and dark as it is,
the light of my heart shall guide me on.

Do it all, punish me so,
but for the love of God, let my heart go,
hearts are necessary, hearts are indispensable,
how can you perceive the love of God without them?

The eyes scan the murky darkness,
there are people around him, but they live in a different plane
his lover in his eyes, somewhere far far away
from the island moored by "society".

For love he chooses to go to the farthest points,
his world is that lover, unknown to even him at this point,
yet all he needs is love, the oil for the lamp of his heart,
a shame indeed that that love is forbidden.

And woe be to love, woe be to its permanence,
its rigid adherence to the faculties of the heart,
we hope to break free of this, to untie its grasp on us,
but love's a malady without a cure.

Date: 15 October 2020
Quotable Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh