CokeCoke11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Still noon in the paddy fields
in Kerala, we sank a well
to stem the flow of desert,
but came up smelling of dust.
Watched rice plants wither as the slow sun
silenced resolve in angry glare,
and warm dry gusts scattered
hope to the four corners.
In Palakkad, an empty street, sold
to ten million-dollar-a-day death,
men nurse wounds and children.
The women have gone to find water-
when the supply runs altogether dry,
we may find out how to swallow
the dust. Or our pride. Lesson taught,
we shall learn to drink coke.
Still noon in the baking heat
within the walled compound, we
stand around on wounded feet
spreading slurry on the ground.
So here, at least, is water
(to dampen a capital purse)
So here we earn our living -
a litre a day (could be worse).
Outside, the world is barren,
the earth is cracked and bare.
As boreholes tap our reservoirs
at last we've learnt to share.
So desert soil is progress,
and bitter stench is joy.
Infected feet dance to the beat
of the jin
SleepSleep11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a tsetse fly
drinks its next meal
the sun, newborn crying,
is sky ilk
a maze of feathery canopy;
the Bandundu forest,
gives birth to a
litter of bananas-
grass covered savannahs,
stubborn windblown maize
to the river, where
water walking fish farmer
casts a drowsy eye
on a school of tilapia
playing in his bamboo den;
a kihuta viper opens
its razor mouth
while decadent sockets,
hanging by swollen neck,
as he is carried to the garden.
like an old antelope
pulses, waiting to slip
into its last coma,
palm stem walls blanketing
the mind's catacombs
while your planted carcass watches
a tsetse fly
drink its next meal.
BattlefearedBattlefeared10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
The warlords rage, with death their language,
battle-breaking young mens' marrow -
and corpse-ranks swell to widowed anguish.
In lovers' fields once greenly passaged,
where the youthful dreamed of hope -
the warlords rage, with death their language.
Their thoughts are steelclad, grimly savage,
rhythmic with their tireless blows,
as corpse-ranks swell to widowed anguish.
In following their brutal adage -
'fight or die' blood-etched in stone,
the warlords rage, with death their language.
Ablaze, their fires rave and ravage,
scorching land and searing bone,
as corpse-ranks swell to widowed anguish.
The death-knell dirge is sung with sword-edge -
grieving mothers wail in sorrow;
the warlords rage, with death their language...
and corpse-ranks swell to widowed anguish.
Shades of SleepShades of Sleep10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Another blue ceiling, shadow-choked and unfamiliar,
stares back in sympathy - withered paint crackling
with unshed dust and old-man's tales of long ago,
a silent confidante with blown-bulb twilit wisdom -
It's comfort as cold as this half-empty bed.
Cataleptic - a midnight-waker with four hours lost
and the ceiling is shadow-smothered, blue gone grey
like old-man's ashes spread out over this dark grave
of a room - dust unto dust in the throat, and coughing
with all the enthusiasm of russian roulette.
Pull the trigger on the TV remote to no effect -
3am and the damn thing's still dead, the traitor
with screen black like a post-midnight moodswing,
mourning the absence of love, laughter, light-bulbs
and illumination lost to night's darkened thoughts.
No time for sleep, but dreaming away of such escape -
a 5am fugue with pre-dawn gloom glaring intensely.
Black goes to grey and then back to the familiar view
of weeping cracks in the sarcophagus ceiling above -
tortured eyes read their decay
..silhouettes and broken glass..silhouettes and broken glass10 years ago in Erotic More Like This
A boy and a girl, two completely different worlds.
Something was once held so close between them.
But time passes and feelings fade away.
Nothing can bring together a moment that no longer exists.
No matter how many times memories are re-enacted in hazy minds, the truth remains.
We are all alone.
A wine bottle stands open on a table, and glasses scatter around it. Reflections dance off the light from the glass, distorted and discoloured. Each person interacts with others, keeping their most inner thoughts safely hidden. There's a mask we all wear, don't forget to make sure its firmly in place before you step out
Or you just
Back into the past.
A warm room, people laugh. Couples huddle together, feeding off the warmth from each other's bodies and the alcohol flowing through their blood.. Feeding their lust with suggestive looks from eyes that don't quite connect.
Is it love?
Or just another night to pass the time.
He has his hand on her arm as he looks into your eyes.
Cliff NotesCliff Notes11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Cricket leg serenades
To this Asbach taste that veneers late Tuesday -
Companions to a cork parade
Of characters strolling through the vines;
Residential escape in charmed, young prime
Staving off charge of rolling night.
Fetch your pink,
From recessed cupboards, bottled up
To pour on ice.
Lay the tumbler to the coaster;
Watch condensation droplets
Pool into a question
The modern art above your bed
Grasping for tradition, well-kept
And bred in sound conditions;
A sieve that bled until she cried
From underneath those lines,
And you found heaven
Through that answer in her eyes
Shattering shock of matter melting,
Diluting tonight's pride and worth
As the minutes go by;
Leave rocks behind
To remind of true meaning -
Everything at home is everything that's right.
The Lyrebird and Writing DeskThe Lyrebird and Writing DeskThe Lyrebird and Writing Desk10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It is a frightening lung,
a not-quite-natural red swell beneath feathers,
that grates like a shaken sack of nails.
This bird is a chameleon
of voices, modulating its shriek
to whatever frequent note might rise
through the trees. Today
its cry has become the gargle
of splinters and split wood:
the chainsaw's growling melody.
In my own climate, adapting
to the shift of pages and their stains,
my voice strains; I almost crow.
-The Nightmare--The Nightmare-10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
As I lay in silence sleeping,
Trapped within a mellow dream,
Skillful shadows around me scheme,
While stars above their watch are keeping,
A nightmare ensnares me, I begin writhing,
My heartbeat races, nothing is as it may seem,
I jerk and I tremble, then I wake and I scream,
Clutching my heart as if from my chest it was leaping,
It was simply a nightmare,
A horrifying vision I saw,
Off my mellow dream shadows took their plunder,
So down again I lay, my body consumed by despair,
My nightmare left me awake, in awe,
My mellow dream had been torn asunder,
But at least the nightmare was gone.
an isosceles love triangleIf two angles of one triangle are similar to two angles of another triangle, then the triangles are similar.an isosceles love triangle10 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Recalling the memory of His geometry makes me sick with longing. That's the real reason I don't call Him every night, don't spend hours stuttering out words onto paper in some tremulous imitation of a love letter. The space I have behind conversation and human interaction is where He really lives, ready for me any time I need to remember. I don't even have to close my eyes before His own stare back at mine, revealing the storm clouds and stars that hover around His midnight-black pupils. The angles of His eyebrows, the slope of His nose, the arches of His eyelashes, the degrees of His gait, the radius of His smile when He sees me, the surface area of His strong embrace; sometimes the formulas back me into a corner where I try to understand, try to meticulously calculate every possible equation. I never solve for the answer before I snap out of my stupor, realizing His abs
BlueBlue11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Saxophone smooth in a three-piece suit
enters Blue - cool and suave, disdainful
to those of duller class - the crass
beiges and browns seen down the street
and around the town.
Electric, Blue glides bar-ward, in charge
and smug with martini charm - rhythmic
in conversation, his words slide
like the saxophone ride he came in on.
Red can't leave him alone.
He presses convivial keys, playing
the spectrum with a smug smile -
It's an old game with new names
and people to mix with. He smirks
his way to Ebony.
'How have you been?' and all that jazz,
just the casual quips and usual digs
of the typically hip, tripping
over tongues and each others' ego.
'Hey, gotta run'
Over to Green, and the game is on:
Name drops, topic-hops, the usual
shoptalk of performers at play -
Plucked strings sing a telling tune.
Green leaves with Envy.
Saxophone smooth in his three-piece suit,
Blue waves like the pacific ocean, breaks
the last ice and serenades the senses
with a warm smile directed at the party.
The Colour of TimeThe Colour of Time9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
To the Nihilists that declare Beauty does not exist,
And to the Philistines that declare her to be dead
May I thus present, forthwith, this humble diatribe,
The most offensive thing, that either of them have read.
Simple strokes of ferrous ink, to the writer,
Is like unto the painter, dabs of turpentine,
In the process of the blending and mixing
Of colours, and hues – of rhythms, and rhymes.
But a careless line written can strike or kill,
For words on a page are armies of great might –
The pen could be the only thing to put a villain down
Or to finally, heroically, set things right.
For, you see, there never has seemed to be any closure
For the tortured souls, trapped in the glass,
Or for the shapeless white puffs up in the sky,
Or the shooting-stars here and gone, so fast.
They come, and they go, inside a shining beyond
Glanced at but briefly, in this Mirror of Illusion,
Dying in agony when a second passes,
Buried forever in shattered confusion.
Now what if, instead of
ForgottenAm I dead and rotten?Forgotten10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Only to you, whom has forgotten
You left me behind
And now I'm gone
Dead to you and none other
My memory has faded,
My face erroded
Buried away in the sands of time
You never looked back,
Leaving me lost
I still remember you,
But to you I'm nothing but a ghost
A faceless specter of the past
You've forgot who I was, or what i am
I'm no different to you,
Than a corpse in an unmarked grave
They say it's bad to be dead,
But I say it's far worse
.....To be forgotten.
Annie Comes Home to RufusAnnie Comes Home to Rufus11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Annie tumbles from the car
and onto the driveway.
I watch from behind the curtains
as Mother and Father trudge behind,
dragging duffles full of god-knows-what
(sweatshirts, I figure, and a toothbrush, and gallons and jars
of bitter white pills and injections).
"Daddy – keys!" she cries,
and his mouth stretches, baring teeth
(he smiles, he thinks)
as he tosses a jingling cluster.
The latch clacks, and Annie comes home.
I hover in the kitchen –
I never know what to say.
She spots me before even hanging up her jacket and kneels.
"C'mere, mutt," like she expects me to pretend
I'm happy to see her
eight pounds lighter than last Sunday.
Annie is tired.
Only I am allowed in her room,
where the angled light shafts and the dust motes
turn the plastic hairs of her wig
into faceted filaments.
She slides it from her skull
and drapes it on the sleeping styrofoam
asea, tonightasea, tonight10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I'm at your door; can hear the brass and bass,
the snare drum, through the glass. It's jazz, tonight.
You let me in and suddenly I'm in
a room of profound poets, who sing their verse
through shining horns, sweet saxophone riffs.
The solos drift so richly, dance among smoke rings—
tonight, when everyone's somebody's cool cat.
There's a girl whose trumpet weeps when she woos its keys,
those wailing notes like Miles would have played.
And the long-haired bassist pains his face as he plucks
away at the tired shape the body makes,
he sways. And when the guitar's clean strings do sing,
it's melody carries a twang so sweet—it's jazz,
tonight. Tonight!— We can be alive, tonight.
And I'm in the corner, no horn in hand, not even
a cigarette for now. I'm just a shadow this evening,
no harmony for me. Just silent taps
of thumbs on thighs; of a breath before sirens sing.
Tonight, blue tunes knew the way through a smoky
sea—found me… Last I heard they were still awaiting
phutphut10 years ago in Humor More Like This
Beard now meticulously trimmed, remaining follicles on his chilly scalp brought to some kind of order, tie perfectly complementing both handkerchief and socks (exposed a devilish half-inch), "Yes," said mirror "you still cut a dashing figure, Rupert."
Rupert sniffed, his eyebrows rippling a little as he did so. "Today," he announced to his lamp… or maybe his wardrobe… perhaps even his comb, who knows? "Today, (Monday the seventeenth of May, two-thousand and three) is a milestone, in the life of Rupert J. Falt. Today he steps out of his front door for the first time as an executive member of Zest Incorporated! And what is more," he added with an ITV grin "he's rather proud of it."
Rupert J. Falt shooed a fictitious speck of dust from his trousers and trotted down the stairs. As he approached his front door… he faltered. In front of it was a walrus – a large, grey, blubbery walrus with whiskers and tusks and all of the usual walrustic trimmings one would expect from a typical walrus. In
For YouIt is not a regretful time I write in,For You8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
though it is full of half empty coffee cups and dumpsters that smell like
I forgot again. I forgot again.
Being lost in a crowd is nothing more than not missing you when I sleep and scratching away my first layer of skin when Im awake
and never knowing which way I should take when the traffic lights turn
and Im at a stand still
because theres something that something is supposed to be
and I understand that one day fate will have eaten me fully
and while it gnaws on my long brown hair
I think of all the nightmares where I cut it off
and you were never there.
Ill pull my covers up and count my toes
and take some comfort in the fact that the number never alters
because when things change I dance on my window sills and think of the times
when I wanted to jump and the desolation would dress me
and I always looked like a mourner.
Shiny black patent shoes. I watched them lower you into the ground
A Day Less OrdinaryA Day Less Ordinary11 years ago in Humor More Like This
It was a day just like any other day, insofar as it was not actually any other day than that one, but was probably closely related to most of the others. On this day quite like many other days but not actually another day, James Francis walked down the street with his friend Sally.
The day to him seemed to be like most others. The sky was blue, as it usually was, the grass as always looked green and he found that he could breathe the air and live. As he walked he was going to remark to Sally how nice this day quite like any other day actually was when, to the ordinary day's surprise, something changed.
James fell unconscious to the floor. This could have been an ordinary happening, if not a regular one. However, the circumstances of it were not ordinary. A bowl of petunias had miraculously popped into existence some 40 feet above where they landed on James's head. No one but the Petunias noticed the sudden appearance until five seconds later as they crashed into James's head, with what
Chinese Water TortureChinese Water Torture10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Chinese water torture
I could never figure you out.
Will I ever be able to?
You are…unintelligible to me.
But thoroughly, THOROUGHLY
An unwritten script…
The conclusion….if my discovery process continues on its
course, will not be in
my lifetime. You are
And while you exist, your discovery shall
I shall go
insane, I say…surely I shall
lose my mind if this goes on.
Nothing. No patterns. No signs…
No way for me to tell what will happen with
One day, love…
figure you out.
Will I still be inte
The Demon WithinThe Demon Within10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The demon within, thirsts for blood,
Calls for battle, hungers for souls.
It stares through my eyes,
Using me, wielding me, a puppet unto its will.
Can you feel it?
It's cold and terrible stare?
Staring, thinking, thirsting,
Wanting your blood, your soul, your life.
It hungers, ever more, its dark hunger,
Grows more and more,
Never quenching, never ending.
It's all I can do,
Control it, suppress it,
But I weaken, its grip tightening,
Its rage surging, Tired of being trapped.
Wanting to be free, wanting to control,
I try as I might, It gets stronger,
It wants to fight, It wants to taste blood.
It hates, rages, raves, pulls me,
Trying to take over,
Wanting to escape, to be free,
To cast the world into darkness.
The worst part is…..
The demon is….me
Chocolate Covered RodentsChocolate Covered Rodents10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
My momma always said,
"Life's like a box of chocolates,
you never know what you're gonna get."
and I always used to say,
"Momma, what was life like
before they put chocolate in boxes?"
About that time there was this little girl.
In a strawberry cream square
she found the skull of a rat.
It must have snuck through the clockwork
of that factory,
the one up on the edge of town
where the squatters get high now.
Her neighbours said that she cried
all night for weeks on end.
They say that's what drove her mother out.
And her teachers were so concerned
they held a meeting to discuss
the little girl's paintings
of chocolate-covered rodents.
And her dad! He was so mad
That he came out with a statement,
all emotional and frail looking.
"What's the world coming to,"
and he's quoted to this day,
"when we can't trust chocolate
to be chocolate any more?"
It reminds me of my own little girl.
"Chocolate's like a box of lifes
you never know what you're going to get."
and I say to myself,
What was choco
Three Equals All-and-MoreI open myselfThree Equals All-and-More8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to tell you exactly what
But all that comes out
is this, a riddle
a mess of crumpled pictures
and unclear intentions.
My mouth curves like fingers
around the words I speak
and suddenly it hits me
How these spangled words mean things
I can't ever explain
and all the while I'm hoping
just hoping that you understand
what I don't know how to say.
I still don't understand what happened
and it doesn't matter if I never do.
Can't we just huddle together in our paperback house
let notes and beats carry us to that place where
we're not saying a word and that means
Where each eye-caress and butterfly-touch