There is such a thing known as too much or too little;
chalked up
to an over focus on word-play and belief and an under focus
on concept and intuitive emotions,
do they really think we would be accustomed to following rituals blindly?
Empty jars line the counter awaiting this year’s yield
of berries, honey infused, homemade preserves— I am learning
how each bite, that instills gratitude, tells a story.
As the curtains open, the deep gold of the room becomes blue violet,
almost as though the clouds conspiring to tear us away
from the hypocritical claims of this world—a person’s mind,
it’s said has the ability to unleash either panacea or a pandora’s box;
threads of charcoal sketches and petals,
tell me about the space it inhabits, the place your memory
goes to when you are with it alone with your eyes closed.

Religion is the sum total of deeds, a series of events where people
before you exchange smiles in return;
it’s more than prayer, more than the divide currently prevalent.
For only when use of language is directed toward healing
of the wounded, depicting unfiltered truths, can we hope
to become sophisticated cultures—outside the hills of the valley rose
with the jubilant sound of spring filled stream.

How many forests reside in your soul, sweet child?
How many whispers go unheard?
If the emotions of one in need are equivalent to a hurricane,
then religion needs to be such so as to create a space
to slow it down—
anyone who states otherwise is either an extremist or is selling something.
This callous, apocalyptic wraith like doleful screams in the ether,
chrysanthemums forgotten
inside a journal and hushed insanity; it’s tragedy after tragedy
after tragedy.

Come sit with me under the trees, that’s how they think they can accomplish
their agenda, with a smokescreen;
I am sorry, do they really think we wouldn’t use our minds accordingly?
There is a political undercurrent as well,
though this is less explicit—but gives us neither hands nor feet.
We do not make this light, but drink in the relief that true faith gives us,
vague some days
and upon them the art of steer and nudge;
ode to Poets, to the words begging to be said— I am convinced
that it’s forsythia flares from the corner of my eye;
it’s time we pose a question—sour mashed notes and cosmos
soaked poems that make more sense when the night and those during it
are quiet, why?

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: “Green Room,” painting by Jim Holland, Pinterest

Join me, as I host the Open Link LIVE on dVerse at 3PM EST 💝

Posted for Open Link LIVE #290 @ dVerse Poets Pub

And so it is, the way it always has been
since ancient times,
the air, thick with grey smoke and unspoken words and exhausted
clichés;
it’s her eyes that captivate me the most, stoic and somber
the gaze of a lioness
in between ravine of possibilities and homeland possesses a confident,
and unhurried grace—cloaked in longer sultry days.
Comforting myself with the idea, I try and envision myself right there;
when things hurt, let them hurt,
we are refueling ourselves to become a better version,
new day, new sky, the ocean and the hills, ever the same, ever evolving—
embodiment of the moment and eternal combined.
In quietude, I sensed something shattering, but wait, it’s not the glass
from the table,
nor is it from the lounge, what is it then?
A serene detachment, a lioness in every sense displays an endless variety of moods,
lonely and majestic, the right side of the brain is her domain
from where she presides over the left side of the body;
she embodies creativity, imagination, vision and resourcefulness, and
just like that
the source from where the noise came presents itself, the deepest of doubt
will fashion the strongest of believers, give not your goldenrod soul to it.
Like infinite pages of a book,
her paw prints make their way into the subconscious,
digging meticulously; the rest is merely an illusion, melting.

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: “The Love Letter, 1883” by Auguste Toulmouche,
Pinterest

Kim hosts at dVerse and invites us to write in the first person that
compares some trait of ours with something animal. She says the
title should be the same way Marjorie Saiser chose “The Print
the Whales Make.” Come join us! 💝

Posted for Poetics: “The print the whales make,” @ dVerse Poets Pub

Lips are just tinted to serve as portal into the human soul;
rosy-brown and intimate,
I have never quite been able to figure out if softness of his lips is more
than that of association with the words that he speaks—
my wings in raptures
about the ridge of his upper lip, glossy and thin,
fluent in deciphering rainbows in the dark,
a sensual fluidity synchronized
in mind and movement— my breath hitches at mere thought of them.
Warring with sleep, I listen to their song;
as syllables fall like cherry blossoms
spiraling downwards
on my one, my lone trembling sigh, making a Poet out of me.
Upon these lips a sacrament,
a liturgy,  a confirmation, a rite is found; seeing something deep
within the other’s soul and recognizing it
as their own, wet orchids
clothed in spring rain,
there is something undeniably eternal  about them for they too
are a passing point
of deeper communication—some of the most worthwhile moments
on this earth are when lips travel down to
the collarbone,
persistently as the moon glimmers on the waves; trust the vibes
you get from them, for energy doesn’t lie.
This is my confession, my adulation of his softer
than soft lips as clouds overhead immerse themselves; it rained all night.

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Jarek Puczel “Lovers,” Painting Pinterest

An early unveiling of the April Poem-a-Day Challenge, Day 9 🥠

Grace hosts at dVerse and asks us to write a poem about bodyparts (e.g. eyes, hands, feet) as a metaphor and/or story 💝

Posted for MTB: “The Body and Poetry,” @ dVerse Poets Pub

Spiritual olive,
man devoid, extinguished moment. Allure of the sea, whispers haunting
and scent of invocation;
what reason is there, then for pungent yet original statement?
I should ignore the stains of hot-pink profanity;
cries of a thousand hordes, saying  this is not the way it’s meant to be,
who are they to decide the potential of our voice?
In my drunken state
the darkness takes a chance and stops the clock,
from this land,
a great axiom of archaeological heritages begin to be evidenced,
any comparison
that is not strictly factual runs the risk of being interpreted as subjective;
cobbles spattered with chai and wreckage of flowers,
what have we come to?
Karachi, Karachi, on this same square the henchmen killed
the only woman
courageous enough to talk,  how did we let that happen?
At times the wind from the burning would take
dark kites along
and riders on the carousel would be seen catching petals in midair;
but on that day I thought only of the loneliness of the dying,
of how the trees whose fruit
contributes positively to the economy, began
to feel anguish,
anybody who predicts the death of a city must be birthing galaxies of their own—
the prologues are over, it’s a question now.
Karachi, Karachi, violet dreams replace woe in the shades of our minds;
what once was lost is gained
when the blue wind boy and white horse girl met, the first fall of the awakened
they named it.
It takes only a fleeting moment.

 

 

 

Original poem: Carnal apple, woman filled, burning moon
by Pablo Neruda

Photo credits: Alvaro Castagnet Watercolor City, Pinterest

An early unveiling of the April Poem-a-Day Challenge, Day 7 🥠

Lisa hosts at dVerse and asks to choose one of our favorite
poems and ‘flip the script.’ Come join us! 💝

Posted for Poetics: “Flipping The Meaning,” @dVerse Poets Pub

We aren’t meant to be faultless, to be curated in a world
where risotto is compared to lobster;
supple grains of rice perfumed of parmesan and wine
and replete
with butter—we ought to remember this when the rain is pelting
down. What sorrows are you drowning, and why?
Do you ever pause?
Do you think about the commonality of human experience?
I adore salted caramel donuts;
especially when in the process of deciphering the genetic structure found
in the cells of organisms—ha! I am obviously kidding.
The marks left behind are more than often scars,
hot pink against the skin;  we can choose to hide them or don them
confidently, I have hardly ever met
another human devoid of unspeakable pain—
forgive me,
I am on the verge of becoming nostalgic; let us be cornier, let loose,
go for the awful rhyme instead
of settling for verses immaculate, life my darling, isn’t always pretty,
isn’t always ideal.
What sorrows are you drowning?

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: “Pink Cup,” by Jess @ Harper Sunday, Unsplash

An early unveiling of the April Poem-a-Day Challenge, Day 2 🥠

Lillian hosts OLN at dVerse and shares an absolutely delightful
April Fool’s Day tale. Come join us! 💝

Posted for Open Link Night #289 @ dVerse Poets Pub

 

Strawberry stains speak specifically of decades;
slow afternoons
when traffic converts into arteries of light around the heart
of the metropolis,
equal parts exhaustion and hope—
of times when we would lounge in front of the television set for hours
on end, bread sticks and cheese
in the corner cupboard, which one of us
would begrudgingly
get up to get; where, oh where have those days gone?
Of first kisses, awkward and rushed,
I can still recall the fragrance on my cardigan when we’d held hands
and dropped chutney accidentally in the process—
I guess that’s what you get
for not
doing your laundry on time; but knowing me, I’d do it all over again.
How else do you walk such glorious distances together?

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

De hosts at dVerse and invites us to write laundry poems.
Come join us! 💝

Posted for Poetics: “Put your words on Spin Cycle,” @ dVerse Poets Pub