Sticky

Sticky pic

Should I toy with small flowers the way I do spiders when I spend
hours pulling them from them their dreams until they kick
with their needy legs, enmeshed with petals,
and throw them into nature’s chasm?

Should I play with your daydreams
as I do and make them seem real for hours and hours,
spoiled only by reminiscent rays of cloud etched on my
brow in furrows?

Should I let you down gently
or keep you dangling forever, here on this viscose thread,
stuck in its glue and itching, like me, to be fed, before
I wind you up further into my web?

Should I love you honestly
but tread cautiously among caustic chances?
If satire has a cost per glance and blood is wit and adrenaline,
is this a toxic romance?

Should I remove you?
And extricate us from fate’s tawdry demeanours where we both ebb
free of perplexities. This hindrance and these entanglements
of a needy spider’s web are not for us.

Advertisements

Darkness #Naani

PIA21774-1024x768.jpg

Your spirit
Restrained to a mere particle
A fleck in my eyes
I blink and you’re gone

A Naani is one of India’s most popular Telugu poems. Naani means an expression of one and all. It consists of 4 lines, the total lines consists of 20 to 25 syllables.  Check out a collection of them by Elaine at watermelonseeds.

Weeping Psychedelics

Weeping Psychadelics  picture.jpg

To those who weep when
laughter sleeps,

for those whose days
are stolen by black dogs –

and even to those who keep
sanity all to themselves,

or those who sleep
half jacked up to avoid Mondays

all jazzed up on life, hot on the tail
of a trail behind blazing Mars.

To those who Sunday is the day to bleed,
and for those who wept when Jesus slept,

but sigh for those of us who weep
for humanity on its path to oblivion,

but have nowhere left to go,
I raise my glass.

Hark!

Hark!.jpg

Stark strangers loiter to scavenge thoughts once hid;
both now bustle briskly under this fair poplar

my muse, she blows keenly to rustle up these tired
parchments – not scratched e’er since autumn

closed its eyes to shades of green. Before I woke
under dreaming spires, I wrote a sonnet for you.

Me thinks to keep it safe in heart, away from her prying eyes
and strangers’ judgement, at least until summer comes.

Racism’s Green Thumb

Racism

Should we
smell so sweet
in tolerant nature
when within its walls
lie death and victims’ cries?
To scent this growth would be criminal, yet
we do, and we douse it with water – the flame
that gives it fragrance –
and when it blossoms wide enough to flourish,
we are as doomed as a black thumb should be.