Borrow those
Happy hours
I want to count
The time layers
Smell the minutes
And tiny seconds
Float like petals
In dense tequila
under the blue
Death light
Soaking in
past images
And late evening
metaphors
More at https://gopallahiri.blogspot.com.
Loneliness at midnight,
Like a sharp blade.
Scratched but no trace.
Stop but no peace.
It’s quietly approaching behind.
Like putting fire in oil.
If a meteor does not fall,
Darkness will not draw.
Always hovering in
front and back of the intersection,
It seems that everything is not far.
But the result is faint.
When everything,
It has already begun.
And everything,
But it’s just beginning.
The shivering hands and shaky voices are left alone, nowadays.
The days are unpleasant, perilous and grave for the old.
Having been deserted and left
he is avoided like an abandoned house
with its broken doors and sagging porch.
Poor old, considered as an oxidised lock,
is now felt unsafe, unsound, and fallible for the new dwelling.
Although he is like an old peepal tree, the bodhi tree
Which offers no food but offers the shade from the scorching sun.
That’s why it is deserted, not being able for the fertility ceremonies
Like marriages and childbirth,
But in the reality he is the soul like the peepal tree,
never dying, never renewing itself.
Welcome back to summer,
ice cream on hot days,
watermelon isn’t just a phase.
Hot dogs on a grill,
Ice tea gives me a chill.
I open my door and find you waiting
Amongst autumn and falling, failing light
Dressed in the thickness of a dun overcoat,
The verdurous twine of ancient forests
Un-scrolling as you speak.
Your cracked lips shape islands and words isolate
The truth of your visit and the sickness
Of plastic churns grey in our ocean guts.
Inside I offer pain-killers and recycle
Panaceas of wisdom.
We analyse the figures
And skate through thinning ice against
The brooding night as the as the drift of damp moss
Grows through our conversation claiming
A small victory against the great highway.
Did you call too late?
Outside the concrete is spread and setting.
More at https://www.jmiddletonpoems.com/.
My mind a sky tumbled; a glass of thought.
I want to pour on to paper pearled drops
Of dew to quench the hungry, thirsty pages.
Bluely burned and lit words are forming you
Into a being of strange landscapes glowing
Dangerously; death darkly brooding and rank.
Each mental recess an avenue of despair.
You channel rivulets of words pain-bound
To a sea of messages sliding silver-grey
Beneath my hands. Pain, loss and soft beauty too
Shivers and something silk and richly woven
Has begun to sew itself to my clouded
Mind, despite the angry disapproving
Unbelieving staid stares and prying glances.
Past is alive and a throbbing agony
And all memory is vermillion.
It is dusk
Not yet dark
Like the north sky
Stars are preparing
For the evening conference
She will walk along with her love
At anytime for their rendezvous
With a red rose in one hand
The other hand will remain free
Although the evening is special
Also for the stars
As they are gearing up
For the heated debate
The lovers have no idea
About these developments
They are so composed
In their secrecy
Eyes remain locked
Desires are dancing
With mutual understanding
They are so familiar with
Yet the debate
Continues without
Any conclusion
About love and desire
She is now glowing hot
The vowels start humming
Pages of histories-
Unfolding secret stories
It grows darker
Stars are now very agitated
She starts to unfold her alphabets
The primordial Womb
Will take over soon