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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
I AmI am single,
but I am loved.
I am not a genius,
but I am intelligent.
I am not breathtaking,
but I have beauty.
I am not a saint,
but I am kind.
To the world,
I am not perfect.
But for someone,
Don't pick a fight with an Artist
Don't pick a fight with an artist
Wanna fight pussy?
Give me yar best shot
Or will you throw a paintbrush at me?
I'm so scared- not
Excuse me? What did you say?
What is a punch you ask?
Of course let me tell you:
A blow with the fist- it's quite a simple task
Are y' gonna cwyyy?
I dunno what you just said
Why don't you let me show you?
I'll f****** punch you and then- boom- you're dead!?
Pardon? What did you ask?
You need a clearer definition?
Of course, let me show you
I'll demonstrate- with out your permission
Ouch! Hey no fair
Dude you are so gay
You write poetry
I'll make you f****** pay!
Discúlpeme? What did you mutter?
I'm gay? Is that what you said?
Perhaps you need some assistance, let me help
I'll be gentle I promise- I did need new ink! In the colour red<
All Her Little ThingsStop hating her for the littlest things.
The things she can't prevent,
The things she can't save herself from..
Stop demanding her to do things,
Things she can't accomplish,
Things she can't imagine being done...
Stop lying to her,
Telling her you love her,
Want her, need her...
When all you've ever done is make her want to
Stop hating her for the littlest things.
The things she can't prevent,
The things she can't save herself from...
When those little things you've done
Take her down...
The little things won't matter anymore.
lung canceri will die with your name on my lips
because there is nothing else i'll need to say.
you are my coffin, my funeral pyre.
as my bones disintegrate, popping and snapping,
you will greedily swallow my ashes
until nothing is left of me but secondhand smoke.
i've danced with you, love, across hospital tile,
the scent of antiseptic cloying as valentine's chocolate.
you dipped me into unconsciousness,
and i willingly closed my eyes.
the intrusion of your scalpel teeth no longer scares me.
you, my rigor mortis soul mate, always take me under.
your tent of frostbitten shelter pulls me down, an anchor,
while i gag on pills too abstract to save me.
forgive me, lungs, of my cigarette abuse,
but i've found happiness in a reaper's cloak.
i find comfort in these carcinogens.
i've made my nest in a swaying tree,
my body destroyed by the nauseous rocking.
they smile at me with pity in their eyes,
scribbling nonsense on those jaw-like clipboards.
their crisp, stark white world still has faith in me,
you've been dead for a year, my deari met you on december 21st,
the longest night of the year.
you had solstice eyes: cold, dark, alluring.
i knew you were not meant to last,
powerful as a gale but fragile as
the tulip stems you snapped,
a sickening cycle of you,
an overwhelming tidal wave.
they say two wrongs will never make a right,
but i made so many bad choices that
i wound up back where I began.
it was too easy to love you,
but getting you to love me back was impossible.
i clawed at your chest until I struck blood,
until my nails split into shards.
you were born a phantom,
and i, your corpse.
holding onto you felt like drowning in quicksand;
i fought but always sank into your arms.
i breathed in dirt, breathed in dust, and
found my organs choked with you,
smothered by your existence.
you sucked out my breath
every time i kissed you.
i died every day with your hand
knotted in my hair.
You left on june 21st,
the longest day of the year.
i bit down sorrow and deconstructed
the labyrinth within me,
the one you hadn't th
Mirror, MirrorMirror, mirror, on the wall,
Watch it crumble, break and fall.
Look at all the bloody glass,
How it reminds them of a severed past.
Watch a reflection slowly disappear,
Looking at all the shattered, crushed mirrors.
A breathless state of mind goes by,
Am I just alive or did I die?
Confused and in an awe,
Careless people unknown to what one saw.
Throat slit so one can't be unlocked,
Too bad the thoughts have become blocked.
Crimson splatters, dripping, breaking away,
Thou shall not know the feeling of all the pain.
Oh, Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Why did you crumble, break and fall?
Eye of the StormI believed I could make the wind blow,
and force the moon to shine at night,
create rainbows just by thinking,
and hold tea parties for fairies in July,
I was the queen of my own graceful lands.
Yet, I grew old and realized,
I am the kind of girl who'd trip and fall,
often for stepping on her own feet.
My crown of diamond and gold
now a rusted piece of bronze,
I lost my throne to treason, my kingdom to hate,
I became the eye of a hurricane,
loaded with mishaps I need to atone.
I felt the soft touches of angels,
and lost my own wings to demons who could crush stone.
Felt the scorching tears run so often,
I knew I must have hit bottom low.
I had nothing holy, no one to call dear,
but here I am, the starting point of my own storm.
I felt fear, clung to shadows,
encased my heart within marble walls,
and threw the keys that can unlock my soul.
So many chances I've lost with no love to seek,
and so many people I turned my back to.
I let the darkness gnaw through my bones.
A stranger walked up to me today...A man walked up to me and asked me for a cigarette… I told him I didn't smoke anymore, and he asked me why? ––I answered "because the person I used to smoke with, isn't around anymore", and he replied…"that's why I smoke."
A woman walked up to me and asked me for drugs, I replied "I have several in store…his eyes, his smile, his hands"…she whispered, "that's not a drug"…and I laughed as I said.. "if only you knew."
A child walked up to me today and asked me to play a game, I told them I was too tired to play games, i'd been playing for years, they replied…"then you must be a pro!", to which I said "yes…a pro at losing."
An old woman stared at me today, and I asked her…"is something wrong?" she answered "I was about to ask you the same question."
© Rocio Belinda Mendez
Wander to nowhereA ghostly walk on the autumnal pavement
Even my own shadow is gleaming more
Than the empty shell of my body.
As I keep wandering, on this endless pit
Picky starving crows are looking down on me
The leftovers of my thoughts order me to die out.
This path of glory I've kept away from, it might be gone.
My dignity and pride, where have you fled?
I'm searching for the graveyard of redemption
Where my promises are all buried
Shot down by my deceit's gun.
Will you ever forgive me?
As I'm standing there, the icy silence blows ;
As time goes by, the ruthless mutism of yours
Reckons that time for forgiveness hasn't come yet.
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More