the sky is falling

it is irresistible
to let the grey matter light up
when the sky is falling into shards
of silver-sighs and golden-rushes
to achieve something, to get there,
somewhere,

without the connivance of the mind’s vault,
where my sensibilities & sincere(&saturated)
goals are locked, as if in a fragile (no ex-
posure) condition
of a lifetime that isn’t passing by,

an unintended way to know what mind
creates and subsumes is to let it be,
building palaces and sculptures out
of ruin, birthing poems without labour,
or perchance (the sky is the colour
of an ink-stained favourite shirt)
it is all already fixed,

this gamble is a faux-irony of living,
i am measuring the length of my silken-
hair with dirt clinging to the strands
that are unwashed but tidy on a rainy
day, when the sky is falling,

and moss is growing through my hair
&beard (lichen, fungi, almond cyanide)
having left the matter to the falling
(fervently dancing, finessing,
fighting without fulfillment)
sky.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 17
(Inter)National Poetry Month

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each spring

each spring, i try to count the gossamer-
seconds of a sun-stricken day, that
is not too long or too short anymore.

each spring, i return to the same old
snapshot, which is only defined by
its heat, against my lengthy heart-
palpitation or recovery of eyesight.

each spring, i try to return where i was,
somewhere down the rainbow mile of
a memory that is now too far behind.

each spring comes with its armored-
chest & wheezing cough, and i look
for a dial on my streamlined life, that
could turn back the flow of time,
encapsulating all these springs in
a needle-hand, pointing right at
the point of my origin or perchance
the drop-dead familiarity of its end.

.
© Anmol Arora

Linking it up with my ‘Open a Book‘ challenge at With Real Toads for the 10th day of the poetry month. I opened at random a page from the Six American Poets anthology (edited by Joel Conarroe) and my sentence of inspiration was the first line from Wallace Stevens’ Anglais Mort A Florence: “A little less returned for him each spring”.

Day 10
(Inter)National Poetry Month

a late-night song

“It is Death which consoles men, alas, and keeps them alive.”
— The Death of the Poor, Charles Baudelaire

when the discordant music of late-night
drops its deep-pitch
of sleep&numbness,

i speak to Death, sitting in her unavailing
darkness, filled with wreaths&dreams,
her crown shattered by the treachery
of man. singular and silent, she sits,

letting time discontinue itself
before settling in.

this night, i cannot see her.
knowing that she is, is enough.

.
© Anmol  Arora

Day 3
(Inter)National Poetry Month

Linking it up with Poems in April ~ Late night conversations with the muse at WRT

Lips’ Conundrum

 

the lips mumble and go silent

when the bricks fall apart,

one by one: a pile of a life,

striking each other to

demolish some and let

the rest create a conundrum

 .

he has been a mook, a chancer

scavenging for gold in garbage

none do understand, none will know

that his is a life lived tomorrow,

present is a hive of expectations,

past is what has been escaped

 .

that has lighted up the bulb:

a 50 watts power, gleaming

when it goes dark, haranguing

to itself, none to listen, none would,

the bricks keep falling, the eyes

drop out, and the lips now mum

to let the story reach its end

.

(Art by Gabriel Neffke)

Written in consideration of Photo Challenge #16 at Mind Love Misery’s Menagerie.

Anm