I still remember her kitchen's promise "No one will sleep without a meal" By throwing off some tantrums And then saying no to food Were some of my customs To rebel, to prove, to brood All but Grandma would go off to bed Instead, she would fix me a meal, As quickly as she could A morsel in one hand And wiping my tears with other She would make me eat out of her hand To that I could never say "Enough" I could see Goddess of food in her Who fed me bites,showered love And every time my lil heart moved a mile "Must you know, I yearn for that nourishment of love ~for you only knew its recipe to cook and to feed"
I travel a million thoughts While hopping between the clouds
Some are as tender as fresh wound A slight touch and a stream would ooze Thoughts dwelling in dark caves are there as well They are yet to see the light of the day, provided they rebel There are lighter thoughts too They love to play only peekaboo And then the heavier ones' are brood and grumpy Canopying the bubbling thoughts of angst and fury At some distance one can see a never ending lane of guilty thoughts They remorse in agony and lay slain in pain Further along, a sparkling corner is there to find Where thoughts of sheer joy cherish the moments of cheerful kind
Yet to my amaze a wake up thought from nowhere would emerge To remind me about this voyage "Darling, your presence in the present is slipping off, whilst pondering plays on. Be here be in now!"
All Rights Reserved 13 Oct 2021 9.55 am _____________________
Poetry sits on my tongue like a pack of camphor and I light it with my own hands, without trembling or quivering. It burns me, bleeds me, cuts me, wounds me but not as much as my heart burns inside my ribs //
I'm someone who hates routine, and discards rules, yet I make love to syllables every day w- hile the Helianthus heals morning mist with a- n upward curve of petals and every night while night jasmine drips honey for a far away moon. I'm someone who abhors principles, yet I shed my thoughts in free verse to seal envelopes of poetries just like the autumn wind shakes the maple leaves to pirouette all the way to land on pavements. I'm someone who abandons legac y, yet I stitch sonnets in the sombre seconds of existence, levitating between life and death, lo- ve and hate, grief and glory.
I'm someone who ignores traditions, yet throug- hout the lane to my hireath, I've planted haikus in hues of a dream palette. I'm someone who g -ets annoyed with similarities and embellishme -nts, but my garden flourishes in similies and m -etaphors. I'm someone who skips side dishes, but my taste buds are acquaintance of tanka a -nd limerick. Repetition irritates me but villanelle and blitz are my rainbows and sunshine. I avoid confessions of all kinds, but odes are a mystery my mind often whispers. I don't try to pen down letters, but love pushes my heartbeats to weave my feelings as a kerchief for my dreamboat. I don't offer wreaths at the gateway of death, but my heart laments in elegies and eulogies.
I have a spot near the valley at the far edge of the waterfall. There's a river flowing inside me that's gushing to reach there, where I sway with the summer breeze and break myself into specks of wishes. To fly with the wind as multiple wings of a dream, while the world is wailing in winter frore, I'd be sipping the honey of spring.
It's the aftertaste of that honey, that time treasured on branches of birches, which burns with the fire dancing on my tongue. I chew some chords of ballads and barf symphonies at the eleventh hour, I bleed some phonemes and morphemes as an epitaph and a last will, before the curfew curse imprisons me in slumber. By dawn, poetries had sprouted around my grave with my signature as flowerets and my fading voice echoes around those oxymoronic daffodils and ironic daisies.
If my poem doesn't rhyme, the feet of every syllable twirling inside the wineglass of my thesaurus glides through my throat until my emotions overflow at a spontaneous symphony. Behind my broken heart, I carry tapes of teary notations and discs of euphonious rhythm, the treasure chest in my soul never empties, as long as my life's lit on this altar.
Poetry is my last hope to revve up the stars falling astray Painting the welkin with broken crayons in my bag of blueth //
Basic shades of RED are 20 / & Coz Red is m y favorite color /
Thank you for EC ❤️ Thank you so much for the read and love everyone. I love you all here ❤️ Thank you so much for Repost ❤️ @writersnetwork Red POD ! Whoa ❤️ I love this the most Thank you so much @miraquill & everyone who loved this ! __________________________________________________________
20 Shades of Red ~
Red ~ I wasn't even five winters old when I first fell in love with red. Beauty, from then was, etched on those tints and shades of red, as if, while every color passed by, red lured my attention and all attraction.
Cherry ~ Kindergarten was a kaleidoscope of rainbow hues yet the bento box with cherry slices sticked to my taste buds. Adolescent days had me fantasizing of cherry kisses that his lips would brush on mine.
Rose ~ I was a toddler springing with bees and butterflies in the park when that scent seeked me. Blossoms that enchanted me with dreamy redolance and beauty was red, a hue that sparked within me such vigour and passion.
Jam ~ Playdates and picnics baskets with Grandma's special fruit jam thwarted homesickness to a limit. After her, someone special also has his favorite jam strawberry, while my favorite part was stealing bites of his breakfast bread.
Merlot ~ Autumn roasted verdant dreams and toasted hopes on grilled grief and nights had me etching my heart onto parchments. Verses soaking merlot memories and dripping metaphors were addictive while amor was so far away.
Garnet ~ Purging pyre polished the stone heart into glittery garnet just like my heart that pains in flames and later let all the light inside. Grieving was prohibited, for glory awaited at the end of trials.
Crimson ~ Sunset ribbons red over the horizon, cloudland blushing a robust rouge. That was my first kiss. Twineyes in the drowning twilight, cried crimson to the careless waves yearning caresses. That was my first heartbreak.
Ruby ~ Pale skin infected with infatuation, some butterflies fluttered near hip bones and ruby pimples sparkled on my cheeks while my heart slipped at his feet. Later on at late nights when sleep evades me, I grind some ruby and chew some philosophy.
Scarlet ~ Though A letter in Scarlet print was stamped for shame, it synergized to pride through flipped pages. Dawn welcomed my days only when he spreads some scarlet sindoor on my forehead, and that's where pride glows.
Wine ~ When winter passed without a summer or spring in reserve, dusks lead me astray and some bottled wishes swished in an oval glass to bring me back to the land of undead. Winedrops that parched my momentary thirst knows how deep my drought rooted.
Brick ~ I was twenty two summers when I held his arms and stepped into our cottage in the hills. The brick walls smeared red of our raging scent and tapped our whispers. Those winter bricks sang lullaby to my loneheart clutching to a faded silhouette.
Apple ~ I wasn't going to fall for temptations in this birth and you shouldn't have too. Yet history repeats itself but altered in a way, in the place of single serpent, venomous tongues tracked you. And I couldn't say no when you pushed a poisoned apple into my hands.
Mahogany ~ I was sweet seventeen, scared and shy, eyes searching for alphabets sewed into stories slumbering in mahogany shelves, when his gaze crossed mine and we fell into a new story. Scenery turned sweet to sour while memory remained sweet.
Blood ~ A hue is innate to me within, running circles while blooming life into me. Blood red races as a tapering ivy, branching off beliefs, illuminating illusions and igniting musings. If passion has a color it would be blazing red.
Sangria ~ First grey clouds on our skyline didn't fade away but gifted some purple patches. They lay fuming betwixt frowns and tears. Eventually cascading as burnt red anger. That was our first fight, the one that we couldn't resolve afterwards.
Berry ~ I was as ripe as a pink berry, and kisses were never enough. Some cravings yearned for more than sweetness. We danced through blue to red and reached purple and sour desserts sated souls. One bite of berry and I'd think of your marks on my soul.
Currant ~ And I hide behind black and grey shadows when my own love scares me to death. Red also meant danger, so I lay under the veil of tinted melancholy, my love growing in the shade. My red wasn't really red, it was a mirage of black.
Blush ~ And he never wrote Poetries about my smile or sang songs about my dimple. When the last of my blushes sank, I realized that he did nothing but made my blushes bleed.
Candy ~ I was twelve springs young and ignorant of the taste of kisses but my dreamboat chewed on bubble gums as if obsessed of it. He replaced the flavor of candies and gems and sowed some red seeds that tasted of his breath.
Lipstick ~ Life was too short to stay wilted forever. As the spring of love dried up leaving lipstick smudges as signature of heartbreaks, I gulped some red and saved the rage to ensure my fight. Because even if love ends or not, life sure goes on.
Twice, thrice and toto-frice? I consolidated visionaries and pander to picturesque paper planes my no-muse-phantasm perspired a subfusc syllabic synchronization of thoughts and vexatious turmoil trespassing the point of my lifeless nefarious-nib,
Using a bleaching-burner I shan't efface eulogia which I traveled by my wings, so-called libraries and when I relish that tangy sourdough of inked-journals I morph into so autumnal-auburn-ashes
I have travelled on paper-palimpsests trailing towards the manuscripts meandering on streams of solitude selecting a succored-sauntering synecdoche and bled bonfires to those dark and doused palabras
A safari to hunt the seraph of poetries or a globetrotting to gleam glossaries I've smouldered suffixes and massacred mutilated poetries.
(As I saw in the comments not many people got the actual point of this poem let me give you all a summary about this, This is a poem about a quill which sum up the visionaries to indulge and carve Paper planes through fantasy and trespass through the turmoil of its bewildering sync of thoughts and life which are odious to its nib it will die inside a bleaching-burner will keep writing itself eulogies will travel the hidden libraries and will taste that sour journal of those ole journals it will change into autumn then will be auburn ashes. It will travel on palimpsests, manuscripts, solitude, will succour the selected synecdoche by sauntering on them and will bleed fire to dead words. Whether to hunt the poetries or to travel through the world of glossaries it'll burn the suffixes and maimed poems. Hope this help you all)
I've been there you know, to the place where the sun always shines. To the place where the moon makes its own light. Where it doesn't have to listen to the stars laughing at it and calling it a useless parasite.
I've been there you know, to the place where the sunflower let's other flowers grow. To the place where there are fields of beautiful flowers and bees. Where even when it rains the sky is never gloomy.
I've been there you know, to the place where the air isn't difficult to breath in. To the place where pollution doesn't exist. Where everything is as beautiful as it was made.
I've been there you know, to the place where judgement doesn't exist. To the place where you can be you. Where you're allowed to live your own life without people's meddling.
I've been there you know, to the place where all your beautiful dreams come alive. To the place where there's no doom or gloom. Where the only tears you cry are tears of happiness and joy.
My mother purloined a sunset yesterday from the canvas of Van Gogh's sky, she's draped in orange saree today like saffron horizons at evenings. And there is zeal in eyes and a tinge of nostalgia in voice of hers, each time she addressed me while sipping memories out of cauldron.
When moon sink and dullness take over sky I feel loneliness walking in my shoes for my father apparate through stars, the air smell of his cologne and there's twinkle each time he replies me with a smile, as I sail life a little more everyday, afar.
He called my abstracts bohemian, taught me to summon up hope and succumb to the exclusivity of ephemeral absence, moribund. But my heart is a vagabond so is my mothers' we keep drawing in shelters of whines and pretence. ~Purva