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The Empty ChairThe evening breeze and the extra cup,
A lonely shadow upon the ceiling
And all things “destined” on the up:
Absent from a funeral of feeling.
The cloak of a Sunday in the sun;
Each passing taxi reeks of a plan:
In lieu of nothing, the day is won
Affords to think a better man.
Killing moments, playing tag with the mind:
The first paramour of pagan day;
A second honeymoon of lost fears can find
A love for that familiar blue Bombay.
The erratic world can be rather still:
A man and his betrothed corner of air
A deadbeat verse on a diner bill
Wooing the crevices of the empty chair.
The Sorrow of JoyTill tears bequeath each epoch’s best,
Shelter no bliss in sorrow’s keep;
For wound departs a merry guest,
Fair Sol falls heir to shadows deep.
And mirth in cheer, the laughs of life
As colts of Helios do leap,
Unwary Phaëton’s vaunt in rife
Cannot voyage mid-heaven’s steep.
To crave the everlasting course
Of pleasure’s sunlit, silver sweep,
A golden arc expends its source
As knighted day bows down to sleep.
Laugh gladly, yet in portent laugh
This hour is a downer’s reap,
When time from charm does steal a quaff
Weep gently, for perchance you weep.
The Joy of SorrowWeep gently, for perchance you weep
Cull not the season’s ample rain;
Few ills so slight in sorrows sleep-
-The wise joys in exalting pain.
Weep gently, in passionate silence weep
Bleak tears for form and symmetry,
In nature’s want of balance, weep
And welcome: what must be, must be.
Weep gently, if you have to weep:
Limn crystal woe on a bare face;
What’s lost in loss, in loss do keep
Till Hector is brought home in grace.
Weep gently, weep the mortal’s weep,
Exile old winter from your breast,
Weep gently, in rueful joy do weep,
Till tears bequeath each epoch’s best.
Ode to ChildhoodFree falling carnation, bleed no more!
The cherries of your cheeks your trophies bear;
A jilted summer in amour once bore
The jewels of your eyes, the mirror of your hair;
Afore still floret, revoke that lost spring
When all conception lay in the second;
Recall, reminice your stolen season,
Evoke the world before a fear took wing,
Before a dearth was ever reckoned
And reason was not obliged to reason.
Awake among remembrance the old joys
Of plentyful amidst a world of lack,
When true companions born of dreamer's toys
Would rise from chiffoniers to attack
All the leviathans of the night
Which fed on spectres outside blankets deep
And each sound of nothing enflamed the eyes
Imparting fancy's qualms another flight;
Yet, wicked archfiends in the realm of sleep
Are seraphs in light of tomorrow's lies.
Alas! Pray pine not for those memories cold
Down in the hollows of your weathered soul;
In time, one man's gold is every man's gold
And nature will lend you a clean second scroll;
Furnish it w
Sonnet XXIVMy dearest fiction decorates my days
And plays a succubus to my bound wit,
And as a patron I have seen her plays
Which through my inner eyes do often flit;
Yet I discern their mien untrue for life
Their senseless beauty being can not behold,
Yet who would take sweet reason for a wife
When my betrothed young whims be left untold?
Of all the fancies that alight my muse,
Beloved remain my scruples by far,
And gently through my poetry peruse
To humour my affection for a star.
The final nemesis of humankind
Lies in the furthest reaches of his mind.
Something's MissingI will not miss you like a child misses a blanket
or a year misses a season which has just passed
or as childhood is remembered from furrowed brows;
the parched lips that had once drunk from
the fountain of youth.
nor will I miss you like a widowed lark
that stays up all night believing in
melodic necromancy -
- I do not believe in such things,
as I do not believe in a god I forsook,
when I realized I did not miss him
as I missed the comfort of ignorance,
Nay, I cannot miss you like a poem misses its muse
which miss her till eternity dies
or a juvenile favour that leaves one
benevolent and misses benevolence for all of its days.
Instead I must miss you like an accepted part of every day -
- the ticking of clocks, the buzzing of gadflies,
the first few moments after awakening that misses a dream
or the Korean vase upon the chiffonier
which misses last week's dahlias
or the street dog misses its late keeper-of-crumbs
or an ink quill misses the words it bore
or a poet m
Sonnet XXIIIThese weeks are like our days and nights
Which stars mistake for fireflies;
Yet they would chance a million flights
To 'scape the fever of your eyes;
But I am captive to each call;
Through every glare and every glance,
I see forlorness rolls the ball
And plans all that we leave to chance.
We plant that syndrome in our souls
To rid our thoughts of vagrancy,
Adopting each of fancy's foals
To choose hearth over vacancy.
So man would rather Eden leave
Than walk away from libelled Eve.
First BlushThe lordly light disrobes the gentle dark,
In moments bare, swift shorn of drowsy dawn;
The nightly lark revives the quav'ring barque;
Awake the swain, awake the sailing swan.
Ten thousand stars bid their earthly farewells,
Ten thousand lamps succumb to spirit clouds
And life begins a song of dancing bells
And then exhumes the tomb of sable shrouds.
And cod and carp arouse the river run
And kite and tern renew the skies asleep
And man turns down his dreams to please the sun
And scars burn bright to make his conscience weep.
OfficesHow bored were we to invent work?
Ironically its colder around ironed shirts
And you'd expect a touch of grease in polished shoes.
Someone's always having a baby, that's the talk;
How goes your morning? How is that heart?
Lets go have that first cup of coffee.
The economy would fall without Kottayam coffee:
Bitter brown liquid life of work;
No dipping tea bags in the cup of your heart
While you brush nothing off the cuff of your shirt
She's the new Indira Gandhi - so they talk,
As you look for the weekend in the soles of your shoes.
Always polish your Rockport shoes.
And breathe, drink, eat, screw cotta coffee.
And pay attention to the undertone, the talk;
It'll get you promoted, not your work;
Even if you had faxed your loyal heart
To this project, before you were a shirt.
It must be professional to tuck in your shirt
And spend your weekends polishing your shoes
And in your glovebox leave your typeset heart
Which once loved other things besides coffee.
You're one of the lucky o
Linguistic HonestyLinguistic Honesty
No vivid imagery necessary for this kind of poetry,
Just stream-of-consciousness, this is simply linguistic honesty.
I have so damn far to go and I know my mind can get the best of me,
That these worries of failure can sometimes drudge up worn insecurities,
Frightened that society’s norms will keep me from where I really want to be,
But I know that if I continue fighting I’ll surely reach whatever life has destined for me.
So even if I love and hate the obstacles in my path, I know I will eventually pass all of these things.
Sometimes though, I just need a little help and she’s the only one I want with me on this wild journey.
And more than anything else, I just really want to be able to say, “Six generations, my little lovely lady.”
A Freshwater Soulyou didn't dream he'd tear blank walls, whip
furled fists, let partly tattered tales slip
early echoes, and allow
the lonely ships to sink, baring bows.
sail sea. river, remove
yourself far forth. prepare to prove
that you can keep a gruelling grip.
to the girl teaching herself to flyShe is trapped by a moonlit mind,
come silent in the night.
Surrounded by clouds, she is blind
to barren worlds; their light.
Searching for a sign, she survives,
although she knows she cannot thrive.
Searching for a sign.
Searching for a sign.
Anything to remain alive.
Her voice calls out, though no one hears,
screaming for redemption.
A shadow comes to kindle fear,
adding to the tension.
Someone please help me, she shouts, cries,
though on her cheeks, her tears, they dry.
Someone please help me.
Someone please help me.
But her screams turn to desperate sighs.
Weeks pass, and she remains divine,
still searching for escape.
Vines corkscrew themselves on her spine,
leaves curling up her shape.
Borrowing wisdom from her brow,
she learns to
She Is HumanBlood-bathed warrior,
priestess and healer,
she was the fury
the calm and pity.
Heartbeat to deafen thunder,
yet drown beneath whispers,
she swept across worlds
tripped upon the same rock
hurtled through lifetimes
never wanted to die,
scrambled for maturity
defied to grow up.
Saw all on her axis,
chose blindness to the past.
Threw shields before enemies,
opened her heart,
refused to begrudge
forgot not her pride.
The Tangled Webs We Weave...
"Oh what a tangled web we weave,
when first we practice to deceive..."
Bob never really liked his job,
a clerk, in a room full of clerks.
Many a time he'd call off sick,
his unwitting boss- a jerk!
The sun was up, the air was fresh,
those eighteen links were calling.
Bob called in sick (a fevered chill),
his bold-faced lie - appalling!
But as it was his boss had plans,
clients that needed wooing.
So they hit the links at eight-o-five,
"Is that Bob? Who's he fooling?!"
Sad to say, Bob lost his job (sigh),
still unemployed, though he tries.
If only he had told the truth...
he wouldn't have been ensnared by his web of lies!
2. The Affair
It seemed to Joe she worked too much,
overtime almost every night.
He missed their quiet times at home,
he wondered, did she see his plight?
His best friend Ed had tipped him off,
Every little bitNo one noticed the empty chair
They were all busy
Telling each other what had happened over the weekend
People didn’t really notice the chair anyways
Even when it was full
But today is different
The teacher walks in
With a strange look on her face
And she tells them
The girl that filled that chair, is dead
It happened Saturday night
She was driving home
She fell asleep at the wheel
The semi didn’t even get a chance
They pronounced her dead at the scene
The shock comes first
She was such a quiet girl
Always at the back, out of the way, you know?
But not today
The chair is staring at them, with unseen eyes
And that’s when people remember
How polite she was
The small smile she wore
The soft voice
The tired eyes
The boy in front of her,
She used to let him borrow her pencils
Because no one else would
He didn’t even say thank you
Or always give them back
She would help clean out the locker of the girl beside her
Without being asked
Even with the moldy lunches at the
A Well Meaning LieSomeday I will lie
To everyone alive,
And they will never see
That the liar was always me,
Because my words of sin
Will only bring a grin,
To their faces
Which were always so very grim.
I guess I'll be ready
When the wolf comes slow and steady,
But I will not cry out with fears so heavy,
Because this is what a liar gets in the end of the story.
So even if I made you smile,
Just for a little while,
Try to hold onto it when you find out the truth,
That there's no joy in youth,
When it's all you can look back upon
While you lie forgotten and long gone.
You'll always wish to change,
Maybe then things won't be the same,
But isn't it strange,
That you would think that way?
I guess the good memories did nothing for your soul,
Just cause you all this pain while you're growing old.
You pretend it never happened
While you're looking at it,
And you complain that you want that feeling once again,
You want to feel that grin,
But you forgot about the lie
Told by none but I.
So when you're screaming
spadeyou, into my bones
dug marrow with a spade.
my house, filled with cats & combs;
only breathless air can fade.
the points of his nails
raging against her patchwork quilt,
ripped off the ends of my cattails
and my celosia began to wilt.
there are many wicked things
and the spade is most impartial.
swords and daggers will slay kings
but the spade buries the marshall.
Life Of A ConscienceRain slides down the window pane
As I slowly go insane
Falling with tears, down my face
Slowly making an empty space
Fall out the window, float up high
Deeper and deeper into the sky
Dance in sunshine, bathe in clouds
Away from people and looming clouds
Fall into a lake, see into the water
Cut nets and save, fish from slaughter
Spiral up and down, with the waves
Follow the paths that have been paved
Follow the turning twisting bends
Never giving up until the end
Jump over barriers, crawl round mistakes
Sleep and take a decent break
People laugh and people frown
Taking turns to wear the crown
When it’s hard, together we try
We don’t want to say goodbye
We stand together, you’re not alone
The same down to our very bone
We light the day, comfort the night
And together we will make things right
Sonnet XVIIIThere goes another hour;
We have too many to keep.
To hoard away time and sleep
Ha! But we have the power!
Aye, though the sun may glower
In the evenings he will reap,
His warm gaze will lastly sweep
Amidst each field and flower
And perhaps he is thinking,
Though I cannot tell for sure,
What we think is certain cure
For all the defeats tasted,
People with clocks are clinking:
Another hour wasted.
AerosolIt has been a day and a half since the crash, and I have found a cabin. In some ways, this is a relief. I don’t know if I could face another night on the mountain without shelter. Outside, a fire does no good: the heat simply travels upwards. However, this place also raises some difficult questions. I estimate that I’ve put eight miles between myself and the crash site. I don’t know if this will be enough. It Saving...
occurs to me that I don’t really know anything.
The survival manual recommends staying with the plane. It explains that this affords the best chance of rescue. It explains that the wreckage offers warmth and shade. It explains that seventy percent of pilots who stay are located within three days, while seventy percent of those who leave are
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