the anguish
I am a writer bereft of words
a barren mother, empty womb -
no eggs'
i am the dormant disease
a festering wound that itches
eaten alive by past experiences
coursing through my veins
devouring to day's presence with tomorrows angst
i feel the puss stealthily moving
like the clock of the womb i carry
that consumed my children
so that they were never born
i am... the grieving lioness
who pounces with vigor at the prey
not so much from hunger or anger
but to fend away all archaic slights
i am the villain of my own story
the one who stumps at the root of joy
so that i can feel the rush
as the baby dies inside, i am a killer of dreams
the one who turns off the light
just as the godly idea sprouts
and often wonder, "who will even care?"
I am wanderer with out a compass
i see the canvas, yet fail to paint in bright colors
i am the problem that compromises the solution
so that the world today
looks exactly like it did yesterday
i am an enemy of progress
an overzealous aggrandizer of the past,
i am the history, and the heritage
through words i am passed on
from generation to the next without question
i am without morals, the morass that keeps you here
i am you...
blood line
they too were reborn
the blood lust of my ancestors
the pulse in my veins
they were reborn
when the sun set on that October evening
and the octopus's limb grew from that sinister white stump
the puss from the wound watered the bloodline
and daughters gave birth to sons
and sons grew to men
to replenish depleting bloodline
a word from the moon is that the stars are ready
they were reborn too by they radiance of the galaxies.
Wingless Freedom 2
Never a day passed
when he wasn’t there
watching the rose
white star birds
grazing in the cloudy air.
Soaring beyond sight
to appear once again.
The Fairy Terns
miracles of nature
this child was their life-long friend.
Over time, he was welcomed
following the pattern they flew.
from sky to sea
and back again
he was immersed in sunlit blue.
When he got married
they attended the rites
dazzling the couple
with flawless ballets
of graceful, inspired flight.
When his first child was born
they celebrated the birth
by directing sunlight
to enfold the infant
endowing its soul with mirth.
When his marriage ended
and his heart was broken
they hovered near him all that day
singing a song
too sad to be spoken.
When his son died in the war
and his soul was beyond healing
they wept rainbow tears
of impassioned color
to reflect what he was feeling.
Then, one day he came
and they weren’t there anymore.
He waited and watched
but they returned not
to the sky nor to the shore.
Afterwards he became depressed
when he knew his dearlings were gone
he felt deep inside
that they no longer loved him
so he made himself move on.
Many years later
after he drove everyone away
the cancer came
his breathing slowed down
his life-force a fading grey.
Slowly his limbs failed him
and he knew the end was near.
So he asked some neighbors
to take him back
to the beach which he held so dear.
They did as he wished
and left him alone.
So, there he remained
from dawn to dusk
till his body became like stone.
As his eyes began to close
he suddenly heard a sound.
Looked up and saw dozens
of Fairy Terns
slowly circling round.
One by one they descended
and covered him with their wings.
They took his pain
upon themselves
like fluttering heavenly kings.
As they flew off again
to the faraway lands
he held the last one gently
and wept
precious jewels into the sand.
The Sunlight was fading
as he let it be.
And when it flew away
He closed his eyes
as his body set his spirit free.
extra hold
frescos
worlds
beauty
i remember her driving a red ferrari
i remember her nerves done translucent by the sun
i remember the tik tik sound made by her heels
i remember her cartier shades
not fat
not skinny
olive skin and hazel eyes
spoke slowly, softly
with a voice punctuated by red marlboros
she spent a great deal of time with me
taught me life within the confines of locked doors and closed curtains
but
she would go back
go back to her two sons and husband
he was just a decoration piece
this robotic creature with muted lust fixed before the tele
sons were nice
but they despised me
its as if they knew the expanse of their mothers lessons on me
i was never confronted by them
but i was the stench in their lives
the boy outside whose house their friends would see the red ferrari
i exposed them to lockerroom rant
turned their parents into strangers
but what did i do
i was just a good host
a good student
or maybe i was just the quintessential definition of the 'other'
i revelled in being the other
besides the occasional bout of conscience
i just kept on covering every window
window after window i covered
more sheets and more cigarettes
different colored cigarette butts
one day i came across her husband at the drugstore
he looked at me
i looked at him
he smiled
said i think you know me
weird
weird construct of a sentence
we were again behind curtains that night
she said her eighteen year old had asked her that who was i
had further said he knew everything
and that dad was weak
i listened
poured us some neat
but sometimes pleasure and routine defeat self proclaimed consciousness
sometimes what is right is spun by what is necessary
sometimes being together
being together against all odds is necessary
18 x 2 =36
mathematics even doesnt add up
i went up
carried on up the khyber
and unlike those timestained last pages of a novel beset by tragedy
her life also went on
silence and routine were a refuge
and
and
refuge doesnt always need to be correct
Impressions on a Cold Workday
Where the grass pokes out
In punky tufts,
Watch the Spanish Women
On their way to the bus...
They have rags lashed around
Frigid flesh...
There is jagged concrete,
And some sly Winter left...
When the body is cold
Eyes investigate sights
Of sensation and code...
While their sitting upright
In this Waiting Asylum that's
Moored to concrete
The two Spanish women tap
A dance with their feet...
Woman on the right peers at
Structure beyond
Rather high up the hill...
There are words sprawled upon
The ancient bricked business
That's set for the chop...
Pretty soon with construction
There will be a new spot...
She's intrigued by the structure...
The palatial design...
How the framework juts out
Into festive wild lines
Is how her trembling awe
Makes her humble heart lurch...
She is warmed by this vibrance
In the place where wind hurts...
The woman on the left is lost
Within ersatz lights
From her cellphone that she purchased
After chasing status heights...
She is playing a Soduko game,
While trash blows around both legs...
There's an ironed down chicken hut
That she eyes now with distaste...
The bus pulls up at long last,
Revives both the women out of their trance...
The one on right is glowing bright...
She boards & pays with fleeting glance...
Left woman has head slumped down...
She spills out her coins all over the ground!...
The bus driver bends to help field her through her woe...
Seventy five cents remains expected for her toll...
4/14/24
Bunny Villaire
Edit#4
I’m fine
trauma is trapped inside emotion
that sits in the cage of my chest
poison ivy pain wraps around bars
that rattles in the storm
behind the sternum-ed wall
screams that haven’t escaped the prison
lay in iron beds hardened with frost
stopping the seep from chest to tongue
from tongue to lip, lip to air
air to echo to ears that hear
that judge, that shame, that watch
down the diaphragmatic depths
desolation punches the dam
stress coils and entwines with anxiety
its shrieks of mimicry – whispers of lies
the “I’m okay’s” the “I’m fine”
the need to turn yourself inside out
to release and shed the shame
the pain, the blame, the ache of emotional agony
the rage, the guilt, the fullness of everything
of emotion, of memory,
of moments you can feel but can’t quite remember
the trap you can’t free yourself from
being inside your body but feeling outside
being an observer, a nothing
outside, you’d never know
outside, you’d think nothing is wrong with me
inside I feel so full
inside I feel so empty
Imp
A little bit
closer now
hands clasped
frozen
fate
fixed
forward
to ward death
bent to anchor
this new muse
not yet ripened
by age
just a little pin
prick on
a pulsating vein
a mimicking God
flaunting suicide
someone somewhere
thrown blind
into the
deep black abyss
expanding the spores
of pain
these
remaining days
filled with
abstract radio waves
and long dead
pixels of
ghosts
these remaining days
standing fearless
on the heels
of the
devils
hooves
Prosers:
(finish this with one stanza in the comments)
Howl
The way he left bruises on the backside of my arms
The way he rolled a cigarette
That tongue, licking the paper just enough
Looking at me through his lids
Always half-closed
He disappeared for days at a time
Again
Distraught, I nosed through his papers
I was his Saint Bernard
Searching for his scent
In poetry, unspoken
Thoughts shared only to the grave
Woven in leather, and
Ivory tusks rolled smooth and thin
With fibers of reality reminding me
This too shall end.
Oh despair, hung obvious on a can-can girl’s thigh
I loved you too much.
Left behind in the shadow of the moon
With a stray cat and empty wallet
Do you remember me
And the way I made you howl.
days until
window smears the world outside,
no matter if we're in here together.
it's
simple, giving in to simple things.
a line of toy soldiers hidden behind a wall,
guess again.
chocolate cups and crumbly cakes,
mirrors where nobody's watching.
murals of the city on the bathroom wall.
infinite light bouncing back and forth,
like your eyes to mine to yours.
a little bit of rain doesn't scare us,
and there's a cat on the corner that we see sometimes.
it's become a ritual now, looking for it.
how many more rituals will we have?
i think infinite stretch - the mind goes on forever.
arms reaching so far around, springing back.
the lids of your eyes when you look at me.
simple, giving in to simple things.
makes me wonder how many days until i mess it up
or
how many days until i see you again?
4.10.24