only tall lines

as I do in the dawn of a dream
grabbing a scene to grieve, to see
the pathos of straight buildings
ready to eat sky, already stroking
the clouds like a cloth against
a rosy cheek, hurting sultry skin.

and every day gets straighter in
my eyes, every curve becomes line
that goes on with no end in sight,
there is nothing that is revealed
in the confounding arms of dusk.

an artist doth sketch the river
of a life, pebbled, pricked, blood-
ied, stabbed, soaking all stories,
like a sponge submerged into
intricacies, that are no longer
there, there are only tall lines.

Image source: Art by Paul Klee

For With Real Toads.

When I’m just a passerby

his head bleeds rivulets of flowers

on the street with few passerby

but there is still naught, not

a worrier, we are all sons of this soil

which has imbued in us the shield

of defense against pain, poverty,

wound and death, we are all idols

of this soil with our open eyes

that see but never could comprehend.

.

we are solemn in our expressions

but only if it could turn into actions

that we have long forgot the story of,

there is pain in every glance, and

that is all there is to it, our hands

clutching our breasts as we pass by,

our eyes squinted with the soil kernels

touched by his blood, fainted of life,

(of alcohol may be) and of lifeless visions.

.

his toes are half hidden beneath a car

(is he just asleep, my eyes ask me,

I have no answer, I pass by: a passerby)

a turbaned man sees through his shield

while speaking on his phone, the lips

next to me tell of the blood I failed

to see or sniff and him being passed out

by alcoholism, those lips wonder if he’d die,

may be he would, we’re all dead, when alive.

.

There is a story to it. May be it is not worth discussion because “what it is” is “what it is”. Words yield power but they do not change things/situations always for that man or for me and for the other passerby.

Image source

Gathering: A Short Story

They gather out of nowhere, like a crowd that drifts towards where blood gets spilled. And the blood is spilled this day, right outside where I fell down, while playing with the neighbourhood guys. I cried many tears and made a puddle out of them on my palms.

I was rushed to the doctor. I do not remember much but for the agony, when he sprayed some liquid which coagulated my blood there and then, which still is circumventing through my mind. I have been acting like a lame person ever since returning back home.

And now they have gathered. I have loved them since as long as I can remember. Mum tells me that it had rained the morning I was born and my first cry was accompanied by the ringing of the temple bells and the morning hymns of the gurudwara, symphonising with the drip-drop of water pearls. So, it may very well be so that we are connected in some way.

“It is going to rain,” my sister says what everyone already knows. She rushes off to the terrace to gather the clothes, hanging to get dried in the sun, but the fate has it that it must rain today.

I cripple along her up the stairs and reach in time to have the first drops to fall down on my cheeks and stream down my throat to the chest. I feel light.

She gets angry and asks me to go back down but I am not the one to listen. I am here to pick at them and gather what I can, hiding them in every possible crevice of my body. I do not joke and thus, my intent is true.

She has gathered the clothes. They are now flung on her left arm and she hands over her right for me to take so that we can go back down. But I rather hold onto the door and crouch because I do not want to be taken away. I want to see my destiny in the few drops that have painted the dust riddled bricks below me. My blood had made stains just like that.

And then, the thunder crackles and the lightning zooms piercing the sky apart and showering blessed pearls. She exclaims in horror and takes me by force and yet, my arms try to reach out to them as she makes me walk down with her.

Stepping down the stairs, I lose my view of them at their gathering. I want to join them. My vision, thus screened, and I am thrust to darkness.

Now, I rise, feeling the trace of those drops on my cheeks that stream along, down my throat to my chest. I feel light.

I clutch at them dotted on my skin where the matchsticks have branded them. Feeling my ribs, I fall down on the bed, zooming through the many gatherings of visions or dreams. It doesn’t matter what they are because they are tangible to me.

.

A 500 word story for Oloriel’s Tale Weaver’s Prompt. It is a blend of reality and fiction… what is what… I don’t know and I won’t tell.

Image source

Gold Pride (Re-Introduction of A Poetry Form)

I’d like to take the opportunity to introduce a poetry form, I created earlier this year. I never named it but included a number of poems written in that style, in my poetry collection which you can download from here.

Rules:-

1. Three stanzas, two quatrains followed by a couplet.

2. Rhyming scheme- abcd/dcba/ee.

3. Theme- Some strong emotion or a powerful act.

4. Optional use of a color for narration.

I am sharing a poem written in this style from the said collection.

Gold Pride

the gold pride of the gods

seeping down the Eden,

penetrating in the soil

and under the ground

.

Hades cry out a shrill sound,

the gore of earth does boil,

the weapons form a redan,

and are activated, the death pods,

.

suffer the mortals, pain and blood,

amidst this amour pro-pre, crud

.

* It is quite a simple form to adopt. I would be delighted if you try writing this way.

Sacrifice Haiku

bleeding crevices

soil enriched with sacrifice

a lifeless body

~

sacrificial pier

stains of grotesque history

fade away with time

~

sacrificing lamb

look of knowing in dark eyes

death is singular

* For Carpe Diem # 241.

Chudail: Creature of the Dark Hours

bright and entrancing

black seductive eyes,

nefarious as night

long flowing hair,

bloodless visage of

the corpse,

smeared red

the swollen lips,

with the torso

of a hyena,

she rises at dusk

walking across

the abandoned lands

on her retral feet,

snarling her

long-pitched intonation,

the young maiden

travels through

the night in her

drab grey apparel

looking out

for the lost souls

to prey upon

and subject them

to her succulent mouth;

the chudail

of the dark hours.

Poetry prompt:- Creature creation