Woke I from an abstract dream of childhood
As I watched her fall asleep.
There is no pain like a silent lullaby
And God works in mysterious ways.
The Cycle of PassionNever knowing eyes never did haunt us
’Tis our own ditty which fails to daunt us;
The amorous rose or the lovebird’s lustre
Leaves but two shades for a season’s fluster,
Yet the poet’s pen is perchance guided
With rabid romance, nature unprovided -
For summer songs are bare conversation
Betwixt life and long winter’s predation:
Pale thirst for passion or higher power
Quenches its quaff in the quiet hour,
The soul’s tragedy is in demanding
Liberty lost from body remanding
Creation’s cold woes and callous joys, cannot grace
Vanity’s visage or the selfsame face,
In vain, we swallow the daily smother
To love ourselves, we love another.
Sleep Well, My SoulSleep well, my soul, the light has passed
’Tis dark, this closing hour,
Rest in peace, sweet life, at last
Let your toils awake a flower.
Dream deep, asleep, of each roving wraith
Which sought a home in thee
And sigh a little, for the wasted faith
Which were born of you and me.
And smile beneath the mourning ground
As the world clasps morning’s glory,
For the moon still dotes the earth around
And the sun gilds another story.
And then, in a squall of rain and rue
Lament life’s sole severance;
For god and men, we wept them true,
Slighting our Reverence.
The Fall of EpithilinonI
Let no man speak of wars whence
No answer graced our call,
Let man remember gods thence
Gods, watchful of our fall;
Speak in silenced sighs, men,
Dead men hither sleep,
No flag here flails, amen, amen!
Who can ever beweep
Our brethren in the deep.
Frightened colours breached the sky,
The church bells played a dirge;
The bustling hills and vales so nigh
In crimson rage did merge,
Archers with crescents held high
Keen arrows fell like sin,
The portcullis in sorrow, shy
Interred our fathers in
The last grave of our kin.
Wailed the night in thunder blare;
The mangonels did come,
Lonely trumpets singed the air
When Earth ravished our home;
The eastern tower, wasting wear
For a trebuchet did bow,
Fallen stone and ballista bare
Broke its stony vow,
As the beadle mopped his brow.
Mildly armoured, men at arms
Stormed the brazen fray,
Howled the castle’s cold alarms:
Ladder men up the brae!
Blazed in ire the fields and farms:
The winter’s yield was spent;
A Slice of EntropyLife is not form or symmetry or a stack of hours
on a dustless shelf
falling, hovering, floating, flailing
feeling comfortably numb
in a lover’s grasp
is the autumn of an ancient anarchy
knowing all these affections are temporary
and as they cease, so shall I
from a star to a star
streaks the dye of the unending night
shedding colour on what is alive
basking in the ambivalence of creation
wondering what is the great purpose
of existence, survival, procreation;
Why must life go on?
life goes on
fantasy, excess, poverty
of objective, of reason
naught lasts a season,
gravity is the do all end all
in the cosmos, time rules god.
Wishes and wills, thoughts, sentiments, impulses,
cannot slow that unforgiving arm,
or plug that black hole of impendence,
victory and defeat
will meet at square 1;
the cheers and the jeers will die away
in the violence of that
Life – 0. Death – 0.
Vita incerta, mors certissima.
My Knight in Formal ArmourNobody loves Monday, but she was not Nobody. Monday mornings meant a host of official emails, a swarm of new themes to gossip about and a cup of tea that couldn’t quite wake her from the torpor instilled by the weekend’s laxness. Her boss would come up to her desk and take a progress report of her current projects and by the end of the day she would have to type it out send over once again. She would often order takeaway to brighten the fated day but it did little to change things when you have to be professional while eating your fricassee or your fries. A potpourri of “social synergy” events often took place on Mondays, but to know that that was another excuse to boost employee efficiency conveyed a heart of emptiness.
She worked on seventh grade textbooks, filtering through its content with the keen eye one develops as an editor and looked forward to that first cup of tea that would give her a few minutes to stare at the day’s excited sensex. The cup of
You Deserve to SmileDo what you have to do to be happy.
Eat an entire chocolate cake,
Swallow all the pills you need to take -
'Medication' isn't a dirty word.
Wear a princess dress
Or a band t-shirt with
Jeans in distress -
Boy or girl or anything in between,
Stand before that mirror
Take a twirl
And see how beautiful you are.
Go for a run,
Have some fun,
Watch Netflix until your eyes burn,
Curl up in bed -
Take a vacation from your head.
Phone a friend
And talk for hours,
Or stay in your room
And wait for the darkness
To end -
No need to pretend,
Just do what you need.
Paint a picture
Or write a sonnet,
Or just sit still
And breathe -
Pick some flowers,
Just for yourself -
You are just as special
As anyone else.
Can You Hold on One More Day?I read a poem about a boy.
Who had lost all of his pride and joy.
He wore his heart on his sleeves.
Which were stained red,
From all of the blood that he bled.
The boy died...
By the blade of a knife.
That he ran up and down his wrists.
And I couldn't help but cry.
That poem was fake.
There wasn't such a boy.
It wasn't a true story.
But... Then I began to realize.
That just because it wasn't that specific boy.
There are others just like him.
Begging for death.
Slitting their wrists,
And hoping to die.
Because so many times,
And so many times,
But nothing gets better!
I just wanted to say,
I've been that boy.
At some point.
I felt that way.
And I just wanted to say,
I am so sorry.
I know it hurts but hang on another day.
Please, stay with me dear.
Don't join that boy,
No, not tonight.
Stay with me,
Suckerpunch SweetheartRed lipstick war paint
I am a soldier in my own war;
A force split in two sides.
I am a force of nature
Bring about my own rapture
And I’ll bring you to your knees.
Little girl lost.
Cut off my hair
Cut into my skin
Pretty princess girl
Let me in
Let me in.
Sugar in my veins
And poison in my heart;
I can turn blood
Into a work of art.
I won’t go there again
Won’t do it
A sea of hands
In my head.
A universe inside.
Just what's inside.
quirks.when i was a child:
i loved to steal.
i would go around my neighborhood
and steal lawn ornaments.
at daycare, i would steal money
once, i stole my next door neighbor’s
when my parents confronted me,
the lie was smooth and solid:
i saw so-and-so take it.
when i was a child:
i loved to lie.
i would make up stories
to get reactions out of people.
to see if they’d believe me.
once, i convinced my friend charlotte
that i had twenty-four hours to live.
when she burst into tears,
i had to bite my tongue
to keep from laughing.
when i was a child:
i loved animals.
i would lock my dog in the closet
and in the bathroom.
a lot of my neighbors left birdcages out
during the day
so i set all of the birds free.
once, i imagined what it would be like
to kill an animal.
then, i imagined what it would be like
to run over it repeatedly
with a car
so i did it with my scooter
to a rose i found
because it was red
when i was a
Eternity Comes Only Once
...In a dream of eternal youth
with beautiful eyes and unspoken truths,
dancing on a thin thread drawn by Selena
in a blue night when all four winds talking about peace;
...In that unique poem when love
shines more than the Sun God on your ring finger,
weaving lasting hopes on a delicate cobweb
in a white day of the beginning of all beginnings;
...In a cold afternoon of December
with memories which surrounds the Arctic Circle,
melting everlasting snows that floods the time,
paradoxically, leaving behind them the fire which burns your heart;
....In the black hole of a single moment,
with pain, with answers, with courage, maybe with joy, or Not,
Waltz with the time between seconds,
Eternity comes only once...
i cradle my hope
with both hands,
as if holding it close
will give it the warmth
to stay alive.
when you come near
it flares and rustles,
begging to take flight;
yet i am both caress
we have confused our signals,
mixed our drinks and
closure looms ominous
but i would rather forget
than be caught in this
luminous void of
i am weak
you are blind,
perhaps we could be
if only we spoke.
you have unknowingly
in helical fundamentals
about my identity,
shaped me in
the embers of
i wish i knew
when to release
this frail hope.
we're both drunk
and you're shaking,
caught in a moment
neither here nor now.
bring you back to
the present, and i linger
but you are eager to eclipse
so you run.
i'm too afraid to ask,
but at least the question's
we're both cowards.
Demons Can Feel TooI'll admit that I'm a demon.
I'm cold and cruel,
Hateful and quick to anger.
I prefer darkness over light.
But demons can have feelings too.
I can be hurt, offended.
I can be sympathetic.
I can care for other people
And I can love.
I may be a cruel being.
Excessively so at times.
But that doesn't make me heartless.
Though I may seem so,
I do have a heart.
And I do use it.
Just not often.
Because the problem with having a heart
Is it can be broken.
And I don't want a broken heart.
I think maybe that's why demons seem so cruel and hateful.
They're just afraid of getting hurt.
Malalai heard a child scream once,
and it was the sound of Algebra,
the Cold War,
but also a mango seed
scraping wood to etch grammar rules.
my privilege mirrors bomb threats.
i have three dream catchers in my room,
all of which were created by foreign hands.
my hands tell a well-kept secret,
notebook paper and straight-edged rulers,
pencils with erasers attached.
the mango falls from the tree and the tree
understands its nakedness.
the student drops out of school and the school
understands its cut budget.
Malala nearly died for her right to literacy.
who am i, insignificant, ignorant,
to rebel against a system whose brokenness
is so manically coveted?