Nothing is quite as rare as a Tuesday evening in May

Our lives are defined by opportunities, even the ones we miss;
crushed petals, missed elevators,
orange marmalade on a morning less than certain,
the mere idea infused with verisimilitude offers comfort to a certain degree,
but here’s the thing, it’s very grounding.
I am not sure that I am actually here,
though incessant humming of city outside the window states otherwise;
abalone sky heart in a world where darkness reigns,
where writing down the truth as opposed to lies is condemned—
eventually we feel ourselves to be forgotten.
People are just a little bit more cold, a little bit more cautious these days,
unable to choose between lavender and oblivion,
can you blame them?
Gone are the days when sod covered knees were met with appreciation,
it’s all about neo-pronouns now; I long for the time
when nobody stared at me for being that odd person taking a picture
of a torn-up piece of paper with a poem on it.
Just so you know,
I have seen the land and heard its tongue enough to realize that nothing
transient ever matters;
only touch and fruits of one’s labor and the way the wind feels
running through hair.
A Poet’s soul is soft and sensual, loud and tempestuous
just like the arrival of a summer storm,
we are forever sifting through the alchemy of sorrows and peace of one moment;
it’s unnerving when you think about it, but I am owning it.

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Plant on a balcony by Daria Shevtsova

Poem inspired by “Our lives are defined by opportunities, even the ones we miss,” from The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, 2008.

Mish hosts at dVerse and invites us to select a movie quote and incorporate it into a poem of any style. Come join us! 💝

Posted for Poetics: “Go ahead,make my day” @dVerse Poets Pub

For Carol Ann Duffy

I have searched for you under many a mulberry moon;
perused an onion,
for what better way to learn a thing or two about intricacies
than to look through your eye?
Take it. Take my wholesome poems and devour as fruit,
we pay up
to a certain extent when we set out to own the truth;
grey smoke billowing,
a gossamer veil
separates us, could it be so that
we would come face to face from behind
a portal of decades—
whatever I have bred,

comes directly from heart, from your English garden.

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Elena Katsyura Oil painting, Pinterest

Laura hosts at dVerse and invites us to write poems
addressed
to our favorite Poet in a direct or indirect
voice. Come join us! 💝

Posted for Poetics: “Poems to a Poet,” @dVerse Poets Pub

Crashing, frothing, ebbing, the tide carries them away

I want to say something haunting about
the tossing white waves;
but all I can think about is blood
staining the walls of Palestine—
orchards severed,
paper,
pencils, pretzels and shuddering breath
not always visible;
May is a wound festering, can you feel it?

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Nicolai Yegorovich Makovsky artwork, Pinterest

Lillian is our hostess today at dVerse and the word is
“Wound.” Come join us! 🥠

Posted for Quadrille #128: What’s in a Word @ dVerse Poets Pub

 

Nectar in a sieve of men

I have met a lot of men while navigating the waters of the world;
soft sky above, soles upon smooth stones and clouds
scattered as chips of an eggshell—a little bit of advice, life is hard,
so laugh a lot,
eat mulberry jam and just follow your instinct.
There is no mystery to them, ruins of civilization which would always
stand, now crumbling by grey smoke and grimaces;
it makes me wonder as to why I was so completely lost in the wilderness
of my youth,
masala manipulation; there are fewer men nowadays who bother putting
on a charade.
Nectar in a sieve of men, no matter the age; taste his mind before
you move on to the core, hold the broken pieces with hands gentle, and
observe as he becomes poetry—these are the ones worth waiting for,
the ones who in a span of few seconds
can weave serenity laced with the dare of a fevered dream;
we are just a choice away from twirling, from dancing under the moonlight.
Hearts like rain soaked magnolias, if you don’t like the echo,
don’t set the tone, men are more like us than we’d like to admit,
I can say with absolute certainty that I did not know this until
a decade later—hollow lullabies
sung in verse, speaking of moments I never shared, choking on roses.
Shallow streams make the most noise,
I tell you plainly, there are many shades to this species, while our needs
are uncomplicated,
but like us they hear every word you say and feel the ones you don’t—
men too are blossoms but in gardens of grey; oh look,
the sky is flirting again.

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Cherry Blossom by Marcel Kodama, Pexels.

Posted for Open Link LIVE #292 @ dVerse Poets Pub

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Night on thoughtful plains finds an echo in the art of time

As the blackness of night comes, I calmly watch myself be erased, the
only evidence being continuous throbbing— dreaming peonies, I hear
them gathering, the world slows and just like that we are plunged into
nothingness.

A lawless region such as this is hard to let go of, soft and damp, yet my
fingers come away dry. Only mouths are we. Who sings the distant heart
which safely exists in the center of all things? I hunger for the light and
other aegean familiarities. When feeling enters into our bodies, it turns
into a fiery substance, a language that coruscates through and through;
and we are left clinging on until the shivery end.

It jumps from me to you, before we even touch, cornsilk conviction that
erupts. A celestial being that resides in the clouds, He’s given us a cup
from which we drink.

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: ‘Apparition of face and fruit dish,’ by Salvador Dali

Join me as I host Prosery Monday at dVerse and ask others towrite inspired by a line from “Heartbeat,” by Rainer Maria Rilke.

Posted for Prosery: Here’s the thing about existing @ dVerse Pub

To what length surreptitious moon

From archives – dated June 14, 2018

Somebody once asked me, what is the moon?
Does it feel our pain?
Does it observe stories as one expects it to?
I wish I’d known the answer,
I wish I’d known the truth.

Perhaps it’s filled with woe which preys
upon the heart,
perhaps it’s patron of darkness and things
that vanish with light.

What is the moon?
Perhaps it’s the cry of lovers who mourn
with solicitous night,
perhaps it’s the scent of betrayal
and of blossoms stripped to bloodless white.

Gently, does the sky disclose before whispers
from the dead
intrude, “the moon who you adore
has skeletons in the closet too,

and though dubious be these clouds,
let not mind defer from seeing through.”

 

Palinode

The moon is burly wood ecstasy;
a tossed up love letter which we hide from ourselves,
yes I wrote, ‘to what length surreptitious moon,’
little did I know
that merely two years later
I would write a plethora of poems dipped in its light,
absolutely naïve was I,
I knew not ache, nor cry of lovers or what it meant;
perhaps the moon is ever present
in subconscious,
part of limb and part of bone, tell me;
how else, how else would my pen have turned from grey
smoke to platinum?

 

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: ‘New York Street Moon,’ by Georgia 0 Keeffe

Grace hosts at dVerse and invites us to write a Palinode,
a poem
in which a the poet retracts a view or sentiment
expressed in a
former poem. Come join us! 💝

Posted for MTB: Palinode @ dVerse Poets Pub