Poetry – For What It’s Worth

Multiple Choice

Why do you always write love poetry?

(1) Is there another kind?
(2) What we don’t have, in words we hope to find.
(3) Is that all? Options One, Two and Three?

***

Missing

i carry your smile
in my eyes
and your smell
in the pink of my nails.
the breeze that ruffles your hair
travels miles
to cling to my body.
you are more present
in your absence
more alive
in your death.
white is not one, but seven.
this universe, excluding the space i displace
is You.

***

Peace

The quickening of pulse for something new
Is now replaced by the familiar few
Like the rhythmic strum of the six strings
And the deep baritone in which he sings.

***

Boastful

I tried sharing my pain with a stranger
Predictably, I did not like it.
My tastes run different from others’
I cannot talk of pain, I can only boast of it.

***

Trust

Sometimes my shoulders ache
from the sheer effort
of guarding each precious drop
in my cupped hands.

Drink from me, you shall not thirst again.

***

Easter Eggs

Did you know that programmer nerds
hide small pieces of code
(amusing, funny, pleasant messages)
in sane, normal (otherwise drab) commercial programs,
MS Word, MS Excel, yaddayadda
Easter eggs they’re called.
A curious combination of keystrokes
and out pops the Easter egg.

Why am I telling you this?
I am just amusing myself
with this funny little thought in my head,
that God is this cool programmer dude
whose project went awry
when He interfaced it with my thought process.

To console himself He hid
pleasant You’s in its most unpleasant fragments.
So when the program threatened
to crash (and burn)
‘You’ will pop out
to soothe and save.

Save and Exit, rather!

You save, then you exit.
Ain’t that funny?
I think it’s fucking hilarious.

***

Reckless

Look at my hands. My upturned palms. Your presence
is just a mild ice-nip on my life line. Though I wish to fence
you in my boundaries I have done no such thing.
You stay just because I recklessly fling
my heart at your feet. When you leave, the emptiness
on my palms will burn right through my flesh like acid, no less.

***

How do I miss thee? Let me count the ways

How do I miss thee? Let me count the ways

I miss thee; like faded, old tresses
miss the raven black of their blighted youth;
like the zealot does (as he amasses
virtues of gold) those pleasures of untruth.

I miss thee; like pretty virgins’ cheeks
miss the burning flush, of a young man’s touch;
like a grieving widow does – as she speaks
and mourns – ‘his low laugh, his sly grin’ and such.

I miss thee; like boxfuls of crayons
miss a child’s pudgy fingers, his bold lines;
like the mystic does – as his wild summons
fail to lure helpful sprites – his heav’nly signs.

***

Random Thoughts

(i)
You.
I’d hide you
in the darkest corner
of my heart
shackled and bound and well fed,
your dazzle dulled by the soot
of my grimy love.

(ii)
I gouge you out
from
the low lying nimbus clouds
that
hang heavy
about
your divine form.

(iii)
In a stubborn fist
I capture your glory
I open my fingers a tad
for a quick peek.
Your radiance lights up my face
with a ghostly glow.

***

Secret

I hide my love well
But when my death knell
tolls, my love, they’d know.
My mortal remains would show
the truth for all to see.
As the fire dies, there’d be
just ashes and bones left of me.
And then there would be -
in blatant display – your name
imprinted without shame
on stark whiteness of my bones. When
they see that, what then?

***