a few of my lost poems for your eyes!

the fair

 

The fair has wound up

The hubbub has died away.

Slight poignancy in the air.

And, cold status quo is creeping here.

 

The desertion is a dead light,

Seen through the eyes of a blind.

 

 A monument of still life

                     Drawn on a gray canvas.

Forever crystallized in the

                      Last of the winter.

A wheel that is broken to death

Lied there ,

A monumental inaction.

Only a bright spot light still flickers

                            Whenever a young boy

Comes to his favorite playground

Shadows play with him, hide and seek

A mother’s prescription

 { To Renee (Pres of Baby James Foundation), my friend, dearest.}

 

Sewn lips.

She cannot tell.

Failed words storm the window of heart.

Eyes have all the water

                             Ever flowed under this bridge.

She pouts at her wavy figure,

A disturbed reflection upon filthy river.

Her lips cannot part.

Her body can remember

The crooked fingers Into Her

Touches that goes beyond skin or flesh

Touches from world apart

                                 From an under world of hellish glee.

What will she

                                If, at all, ever do?

 

A filthy creek to jump

As an unknown and untimely departure

       (she has seen on T.V.)

Or

Tell to a tree as per her mother’s advice!

A tree, which cannot do anything, dies.

 

 

Winter

Bowing trees and feet touching winter

 She had a walk with her heart;

 

“It is so tough to decide.

It is a swim through cold sun.”

She uttered about love.

 

The wind passed by her unkempt hair

Rustles heard .

One holiday car passed by her

With a few inquisitive boys.

World’s prolific creativity of love

Is all around .

“Yet, at this age love is hardly found.”

 

Her walk took her past

The great tree with a green ivy, ambitious.

 Winter was the body of the tree,

Clouds were its salve on thorny crown.

The wind cannot say: choose me!

The winter cannot.

 

Only the ivy,

She smiled

She returned

To her 60 plus -old friend.

 

 

 

True blue of dreams

A white pigeon and a black pigeon

On a distant T.V. antenna,

Just now sun comes down upon its wings

Pecks and eats peanuts out of my hand.

One has unveiled the intone of grief somewhere.

The quivering violin

That some one is playing

Waving through the alley.

 The alley of a missing Sunday is quite.

Evil one eye of a tomcat        

That has been maimed by a spirited kitty

Crying out its hunger

From this side to that side of the passage .

A passage of time

None has crossed it ever.

The feverish terrace of old house

Smiles with deception.

This is an alley

With a white pigeon and a black pigeon.

This is the alley

Where roams Cyclopes cats

And, abstract violins.

This is a missing sun

                           Day

                          I have only seen

                             In the bluest of my dreams.

 

 

Satan’ s labyrinth

 

 

 

 

Released from Satan he came out

To do a good work.

A good work?

A good work?

The sun smiled on the face of perplexity,

The run of the day on a city

Saw many a work

A good work?

A good work?

 Like the cookie selling girls?

Like a boy with medals on his shirt?

 

He saw a boy begging,

 Gave him a coin and he had to part it

To his boss.

 

He saw a child left crying, alone

In a bad city.

He tried to adopt him,

Only to be charged

with kidnapping and molestation.

 

He tried to treat an old man only to gather

His ill words and burning temper.

 

Where is all the good will?

 

He walked to the evil

Only to know he was always with Satan

In his labyrinth

 

 

 

 

 

 

police?

 

Police had caught my father,

Took him away.

Where is the police station?

Which is our P.S.?

No sir. I don’t know what is my jurisdiction.

He had to come back today.

My mom is quick with the baby

Sir they had taken her,

To a free place where babies come.

They means: Tepy, Mrs. Sen, John the creepy.

I do not know what the name of the place.

Father would have known.

Had not he carried me in a towel

                                     From there 5 years back

In a winter morning!

He must come today.

No sir I have not had anything

Since last morning.

Good god, I do not want money.

May be, something to eat…

What is it in your eyes?

You are the police?

 

Author's Note

depression dies out.... here i am again!

Reviews

[Rod Zinkel]

I especially like True Blue of Dreams, as my approach to poetry is that of the imagists. Cyclopes cats and violins are good images for blue. Also, should the one line be "The alley of a missing Sunday is quiet"?

[An Ordinary Woman]

Please don't feel discouraged my friend. That makes me sad, too. I know how hard it is ....

[An Ordinary Woman]

Smiles ... I'm so glad you found these. Some were my favorites. Are you still missing more, if so give me a hollar mayb I can help ....