Summertime breeze

Pattern, color and madness
It is summer
the ultimate master of greenery, parks and paths
For strolls, and children and joy budding
The world is overjoyed in green
A happy world never uses emoctions
At the end of its sentences.

Thrill

The thrill of seeing your name
in the pages of the book
Matches to no other,
My name was--
A stamp on your visa of lonesomeness
A validation of your role in the world.

Inside

Maturity
Is the point of no return
No one seeks self affirmation
Amid the shooting stars
because the blossoming poplar has enough birds in it
singing on different wave lengths.

The woods are deep..

They said the woods relief the spirits
of all animal, vixen, elms and old disfigured memories
The trees didn't wash his spirit away from the shades
and trace of the hand of death
As he shed  raindrops over the water
The duck's eye met his gaze,
'Who said it was romantic to cry in the woods?'
He asked, her beak in his mouth.

Native Language

My native language is not poetry
It is not the tongue I was born into
Not the tongue I learnt to speak and think into-
No. My native language is not just spoken in words
Nothing avails me the pitfalls of my native language
The language of the mind.
My native language is the combination of what fits me:
Emotions, words, song lyrics
Crazy cartoons and heartfelt videos--
My native language is the world at large
That's why
Grammar or punctuation just polish, not govern my speech.

Speed poetry

Nothing damages poetry like speed

Trains are its worst enemy

For the trains of thoughts do not run by

The station of poetry before carrying on to their final destination.

Words should be left to walk 

Snail speed into the poet's head

Bullet train onto the paper.

On seeing certain statues

Victims of innocence,
They were both trailed,
Hunted down like little mice--
Her eyes are devoid of hearsay,
His eyes dreamily put to rest
Two roses, tangled they became
Clothed now in pure bronze and flickering of candles.
She a pure shade of white-- inside out
He a pure spice from the east and a tone of the desert
They share a ring
They share a ride
To their final destination among the doves
They fly, away from prying eyes
They lie to rest, in each other's arms
Now they lie statues in a busy town,
In a busy corner
Glorified forever
They've died for the tabloids
When most people fear death by negligence.

D&D (Diana and Dodi) picture copyrights are mine, taken at Harrod's underneath the statues of both.

The Player

He has a mind of his own,
The beige reed
exploding
little larks out of the
ebony and ivory keys.

Waking up with a heavy heart

Today I fell asleep between
the lines of poetry
and the buzz of planes
From Asia to Europe:
Your words echoed in my head
like a metaphor from a dream
Again and again
till I touched down onto a grey piece of earth
waking  up
vigorous
with a heavy heart.

Into the arms

Is there a word other than love
To mean and color things beautiful?
Is there a real reason why the sky is blue?
Other than reflections of earth and water?
Is there a word to describe this wild need,
this rush, this explainable necessity
like a fight for oxygen
to rush into his arms and just stretch enough
to die on that exact spot?
Is there?
She asks herself every time they meet.

The Mona Lisa Doesn't Smile

"Are you warm, are you real, Monalisa?
Or just a cold and lonely, lovely work of art?" Nat King Cole. Mona Lisa.

The Mona Lisa doesn't smile
She is not smiling
she grew tired of smiling through the centuries
The Mona Lisa doesn't smile
with her feet in  muck
Mona Lisa just wants to
turn around to swat
the nearest bug.

Copyrights for the photograph are not mine, obviously. Mona Lisa,Da Vinci

The hold

The perfect hold steadies for the two
Slowly they look like one
Past the gossiping corners and the melting minutes:
She buries her dogs on his shoulders
From her platform she overlooks the world
He breathes atop her flailing hair
He smells the imminent rain
Then offers her a smile and two arms
for an umbrella

Burial

Flowers, bring them women
Lament and weep on the graves of the dead
Cut flowers and pull out your hair --unplug it at the roots.

Coffee, brew it freshly dark, women
Fresh with painted laughter and vicious fantasies
of young cologne and dried up summer nights.

Get naked, women
of all the color and life in you
and water with color, the chalk of the sagged bones.

Lose your rails, women
For we left you the epitomes of misery
Sadness will  draw lines beneath your snow rimmed cheeks

For he, small lies
and lies on a pillow red
He, a beautiful stiff cardboard.

Flowers, bring them forth, women
weep the living
dead.

Drowning men, drowrning women

They say a drowning man will clutch at a 

Straw 

Well, midway through the sea 

She clutches onto

A straw woven basket

One they'd once waved together

before he dove away

head first 

into a shark's belly. 

Yesterday's fears

I fear
Exposition by daylight
Rivers and pens when they dry up
To the rock beds.

Leave it to chances

When you walk in elegance,
Like the night
When you are drilled to the bone
One thing stands out
If you'd lift your head to the skies --
The brightest stars are those you notice
by complete chance

Swallow flight

Separate, the tail is bitten into two
they slowly hover over my head
Swallows flying
A spring among their feathers

Striking imagery

“Je verse mon sang dans ton corps” (I pour my blood inside/into your body), Dalida- Je Suis Malade. 

There are songs of need and songs that bleed

and a dead bird, lifeless clothed in crystal 

Cries

'The blond, the blond, the fair' of the earth's weight she dies

She pours her blood, like water into a vase 

She tints with her blood a mark

onto his body, into his body--

He blows the candles and sleeps, 

while she, wide awake receives the dark. 

A face

My skin onto yours
fits like a sea wave onto earth
my hair smells of nicotine
Your eyes shimmer
the light has been dimming, slowly-
but my heart beats Nuttella drops on chipping biscuits
Biscuits floating away
like shipwreck wood in a cup of tea
and I sit to contemplate the night
as if it is, everlasting
No dawn to raise its head in greetings
No ports of call for a comeback
No final destination
but your face.

Sandwiched in between

Above you there are stars and galaxies
Bellow you a world bustles;
friends meeting, people greeting
You
You are sandwiched in between
Two modes:
Staring at a blank screen,
or watching marshmallow sunsets
out of the window.

Bridge

Ropes, wooden planks and a hundred feet
make up a bridge
Words and a million little ideas make up language.

Dehydration

The sun can fade
We can survive the night, they declared
But our aquatic receptors
Still cannot adjust to
Dehydration

Stacked

Stacked on top of each other
Piles
Like books on metal shelves

The shape of Pain

A dried up peach
Dangling into the mouth of fire
Smoking but not burning
That's the root of pain.

In honor of blooms

Today and in honor for the spring blooms that make the first part of this blog I woke up with great news, one of my poetry, short pieces got published on the leaveyouopen tumblr blog. I know it might not be a great deal, but for that I am thankful today.

If you'd like to read it, just click the link bellow:

http://leaveyouapen.tumblr.com/post/81849593378/it-is-the-season-of-love-and-almond-blossoms-while#notes

Thank you readers for your patience with my work.

Stamina

Three over packed shopping bags, hauled for miles
A speaker launched from podiums and a PA system,
These make strong arms to hold the world
Dancing with blisters in the eyes
Avoiding tears at all cost, pushing a bicycle
past racing river banks
these make strong feet, tone thighs
one minute ticks and the other follows
Long nights filled with questionings, endless waiting
for a word, a letter coming with the desert sand blowing from the east
these make a strong heart.

I am building stamina for the world, alone
excluding from all of it a feathery touch
An artistic hand, a brilliant mind
you, and end to the possibilities.

Fifty

He learnt how to become
Fifty, not in shades of tales or bundles of misshapen pages
He grew fifty years and more
Every time he opened the kerosene smelling paper.

Icicles, north winds, icicles

' I am one with the wind and sky'- Idina Menzel, Let it Go from Disney's Frozen. 

I, the uncomfortable,
I, the old well of secrets-- now exposed
I, the hard to reach to,
The hard to open up to --
I am frozen. I am timeless.
An icicle, I am
Sharp around the edges,
I trawl coolness,
crave sunlight but I
 fear
melting
because dissolving into others
unfreezes
my heartbeats.
I fear disappearing into nothing
because I never became
something
or someone-
They said my heart was
white like feathery snow
Our hearts are washed by choice
we white wash them,
then tint them with edelweiss
before they are dipped in nitrogen, frozen.
I poured my heart onto a mirror
One that I chattered
with two bloody hands and drained fingernails
I broke my own mirror, my heart
I splashed it onto little children
Like pus.
A long night of staring at myself in many faces
was all it took to break the mirror
The mirror, that mirror showed
the many shades of Maybeline
I covered up with
I now reek blood, vomit and shame.
Last night I couldn't sleep
I had kissed a boy, twice
Now tears stream into my ears
the soft pillow beneath me hardens my head
My ribs clank,
I shiver, not out of cold
it is my soul that shivers
anti-froze, expose
I am the comfortable,
I am a long array, a ridge
To the winds and the night
I am open.

Confessionals

I used to make my confessionals to the sea
because I guaranteed a wash away of  the feelings
Tide washed my clothes,
Tide washed my heart
Today I confessed my soul to the wind,
To the sick tinged wind
There were no answers and now --
I am devoid of two big secrets
that were packed up over each other,
like a castle made of ice
They have lingered longingly that their presence requires new filings
in avoidance of cavities.

Crunch

No food on the third floor,
A raw peeled pineapple awaits under the light
Crunch and everyone will hear you
that's a library rule
No one speaks about the way the eyes
keep munching and crunching
the books, the words that never erode
in the face of everlasting famine.