She… My desire… My illusion

drawing her figure, on canvas of my mind, I lost the rest of her

she sat straight while I stared at her, and when she noticed, I looked away

writing her premise on my wrist with finger quill, I breathed her in

she stood up to leave, twirling her curls; I followed motion of her feet

yearning for her to look back at me, I gulped in rapid drinks of air

she was gone, leaving a trail behind, of her lilac, orange perfume

reclining on the couch, I surmised the baffling curves of her stature

she didn’t appear again, it was the very last I had seen of her

cradling the memory of her image, I hide behind the red drape

she was some one I had desired, but never accepted, it wasn’t love

silencing sound of her laughter, I manipulate myself to sleep

she is somewhere thriving in fine arts, suturing me to random past

reminiscing, I grieve to grudge her, shriek to spite her, dream to daunt her

she reflected a beautiful picture of what could have been crafted

I couldn’t sleep when I had her; I can’t after I had deserted her

she was hoping to be the pivotal pain of my hurtful hard heart

I had an idea, what she was, who she was, she was never been

she was rupturing the nerves of my thought; she wanted me to want her

I didn’t, she was exasperated, she left, she went far, she was gone

she left a trail before which I bowed, the sands of which I kissed for long

I change sides, changing sides, here and there, right and left, I am destitute

she took revenge, I let her go, she let me become a living dead

now Erato winks at my stimulated prudence, I embrace her

but she is an illusion, I have my arms crossed over my shoulders

.

The prompt today at dVerse is to write American Sentences. It is a poetic form created by Allen Ginsberg. The sentences above could be read separately(the reason why I didn’t put punctuation at the end of each one of them) or otherwise together as a single poem.

This is tagged as the poem for 15 November for NaBloPoMo. I have written 15 poems by far this month… to check them all out, just drag your cursor to the drop-down menu above, Home, beneath which you would find the category by the name of Poetry and within which there is the category of NaBloPoMo.

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All these ordinary days

rummaging, through the stacks in my mind,

teeming with the paperwork of all the days,

I have survived, and some that, I have lived

so far, in this inconsequential life, of strife,

I am looking for a routine, usual day, when

I exercised my muscles, to actually smile-

.

that one afternoon, when I toasted my bread,

inundating it with clarified butter, browning it

like my arms, underneath the winter sun,

and those hot turmeric potatoes, wedged

between two such breads, and how I salivated,

smiling, I chucked, into the apexes of appetite;

.

those ungodly hours, of the nightingale night,

my whole being vibrating, with the music

bursting into the hollow of my ears, my eyes

streaked with tears, reflecting the words,

sung by Marx, Dion and Adams, when I was

still unfamiliar of Bowie, Lennon and Mercury;

.

and how to forget, the excursion to the city fair,

my reluctance, to climb onto the Ferris wheel,

all of those who accompanied me went, while

I waved to them, some had closed their eyes,

panicked, but still going on for the ride, and

the way I shivered in my bones and smiled-

.

I am pondering, over such moments of delight,

to be nostalgic, in these dark hours, and beam

and laugh and snigger, and tap my forehead, to

feel my presence in me, and consider these days

I have lived… I live through these ordinary days,

till when it comes, to screen the vision, of my eyes

.

Something light for today. This is tagged as the poem for 14 November for NaBloPoMo. I am also linking it up with Poets United Verse First, where the prompt is to talk about ordinary things.

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Ravenous for Might

ravenous heart, bidding my soul for might,

giving me glitches, skin straining, blotched red,

that could plunge me, into rivers of plight,

.

blinded by nefarious spells of night,

seeking frigidness, writhing in the bed,

ravenous heart, bidding my soul, for might,

.

flaking fungi, of my carcass of blight,

shrapnel of abhorrence, into me bred,

which could plunge me, into rivers of plight,

.

disdained, thrust into the nightmares of fright,

feathers of innocence, having been shed,

by ravenous heart, bidding soul for might,

.

insane ramblings, getting my name ignite,

into a blaze, devouring my life threads,

plunging me, into the rivers of plight,

.

unnamed, my remnants run into contrite

of identity, dissolved in rites, fed

by ravenous heart, bidding soul for might,

not mine, I plunge into rivers of plight

.

This is tagged as the poem for 13 November for NaBloPoMo. I am also linking it up with dVerse OLN.

Please do share your feedback and leave a link to one of your post along with that, which makes it easier for me to visit you. You can directly add the link or you can use the anchor tag to create a hyperlink since wordpress allows basic HTML in comments.

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Boon of Agersia

the boon of agersia, coursing in him,

greying hair shed, and black spurting in place,

his tan temple creased, folded, frowning grim,

.

being made to keep going, against his own whim,

mistaken path, he chose back in time space,

the boon of agersia, coursing in him,

.

years passed, lost loved ones, light of eyes gone dim,

anguish shrouding  the features of his face,

his tan temple creased, folded, frowning grim,

.

unruffled by wars, conflicts, the prelim

of his journey, judged by the higher mace,

cursed boon of agersia, coursing in him,

.

through millenniums, his existence swims,

past it all, beholds, not leaving a trace,

his tan temple creased, folded, frowning grim,

.

the books of his destiny, marked by skim

of mantras, meant to be a gift from grace,

the boon of agersia, coursing in him,

his tan temple creased, folded, frowning grim

.

This is tagged as the poem for 12 November for NaBloPoMo.

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In time

Forest Terminal, oil on canvas, 122x182cm, 2007, by Mike Worrall

solitary standing on a cross way,

time ticking… tick, tick, tick, ticking,

every trice, a misery, a perplexed

epiphany, figure out, surmise, comprehend,

swift, swifter, amid the railway tracks,

trains coming, but distant, somewhere

concealed in the haze, voices of which

permeating, in the pores of air,

signal- red and green, one halting over,

the other not meant, to be attained,

tick, tick, ticking, still ticking,

solitary standing, on a cross way,

undulating assertions within,

shouting out the names of locations,

of times, past and future, of truths

and lies, of decisions and indecisions,

of memories, forgotten and alive,

move on, moving on, comprehend,

to board or not, the destinations

impassive, they do not care,

shrouded in a black apparel,

to discover the ways to endure it all,

time ticking, ticking, gone,

still standing, statued, entombed

in the instance of that moment,

stagnant, eroding pole of life,

no more ticking, but standing,

bewildered, unknowing, stopped

in the parallels of time, the time gone by,

standing still, at the cross way, ceased in time

.

The Sunday challenge features paintings by Mike Worrall at Imaginary garden with real toads. This poem is written, inspiring from the painting,  Forest Terminal.

I am tagging it as the post for 11 November for NaBloPoMo.

 

May be that was the day I grew up

handed over to me, the manuscript to read-

the name of the historical kings and queens,

the years and locations of their reign and wars,

the politics involved, the artifacts found,

I clasped the bound, yet loose pages,

into my fist to climb over to the roof,

(some 35 feet high, and 18 feet wide)

allotted time was equivalent, to my capability to

record all the words into my eyes, onto my tongue,

(to recite for the oral test later by the tutor),

that day, I was too distracted by the fire streaks,

running through, the evening sky of dull blue,

and even though I had a task to do, I perched

on a thick wall, the boundary of the terrace,

deep in thought, of the thoughts of an 11 year old,

the colours changed, from crimson to lilac, and

in the end, to what blush could be of the embers,

my ears dumb, to the hollering of other kids, who

played beneath my standing, on the street-

hide and seek, iron-wood, i-spy, but I knew little

of them, my conscious aware of those lives,

of the kids, liberated to bawl and call, while

I was captivated, by the free thinking of my own mind,

and I wonder if that was the very moment, when

I grew up and left away, storing the childish things

into the bubbles of memory, and moved ahead

to realize all what is life, who I am, the questions

that would have appeared, so heightened for

my lanky body, I was a little chubby… now I smile

at what came to pass that day, that twilight,

because I am still that same child, who couldn’t

be like others of my age, I am a single player,

just me, as I am with myself, amusing myself,

within my own framework and knowledge,

the act of thinking, that day, had become my new game

.

This is tagged as the post for 10 November for NaBloPoMo. If you want to read the previous 9 poems of this month… just drag your icon to the drop-down menu named Home, within which you would find poetry, within which you would find a category by the name of NaBloPoMo.

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A Curious Dinosaur

curious dinosaur sprinting untamed,

thumping with her whopping claws and nails,

dino goodness of green, within her, flamed,

.

gifted with power of humour, proclaimed

by her immense heart, and a fluffy tale,

curious dinosaur sprinting untamed,

.

dispersing her breath of love, she exclaimed,

seeing them bubble out of her candy scales,

dino goodness of green, within her, flamed,

.

she much adores especially those, claimed

to be the cryptozoological whales,

she is a dinosaur sprinting untamed,

.

though being quite a geek, she is also famed,

for her fun premised blog posts, with details

of the goodness of green, within her, flamed

.

I am writing about her unashamed,

bad rhymes, I could be sent for, in the jail,

and she is a dino rawring untamed,

with the goodness of green, within her, flamed

.

Rarasaur volunteered to be the subject theme of one of my poems. I browsed through her website, looking for tidbits about her. 🙂 And I thought that a villanelle would suit her personality but alas! I just couldn’t rhyme that well.

Please do share your feedback and please leave a link to one of your posts, which makes it easier for me to visit you.

If you would like me to write a poem about something/someone(may be about yourself), I would be glad to do so.

I am tagging it as the poem for 9 November for NaBloPoMo.

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