Poetry Is a God Gifted Art,
Ain't it?

I commenced composing poems,
as early as eight years
When my first poem

The Truant,

Composed in a class,
was taken away by my Principal
It was about an incident,
when schools kids went a riot....

I don't remember what I wrote
But ever since I have composed
Poetry of my own
And
as you must have noticed
No two poems of mine are alike,
They neither rhyme nor chime
But so many friends,
I can now claim as mine.

the
insistence of memory is limpid time,
limping
persistent little bastard he
that waits
for sunrise,
the death blow, the almighty sting, the fraying coattail
to grasp
to cling to
to not yet be devoured

this anger for these reluctant gods
awakening from our slumber
incessant with the sound,
moving away,
always moving away

like a speeding train, its whistle
cutting through the fog and the density
of the unborn night.

At the balance, a fulcrum
at the crisis, a stasis
as days and nights come equal
may you find power in stillness
and reflect as we move into
the season of night
on dreams and rest and healing
may you have them in abundance

Most Males
Have more breadth
At their waste lines
Than length
Fully sea-able down below

Lovely take some help of trick photography
And
Become your desired one
Pawn....of sexology
And
A modern celebrity
We all love
And
Yet disown

pink and crimson
are your sighs and moans
submerging in the splendor of white
in a rainbow arch you rise to steal
the riot of colors with a squeal

raj (sublime_ocean)

focus sweet
the whisper and this
press knocks the ink
aligned
and the sheet of idealizations
is lifted blazing with contrasts

You were my plate for years
and every day my print
would arrive
like dawn
sullen and drawn
Exhuberant and errant

where has all the resolution
gone
when its change needed
winds heeded

I shall miss the nocturne
standards
the daylong seige
the turning of the plea
and standard borne
principle

A coin for my pocket sir
for something to eat?
with no mum and dad
we beg on the street.
Not eaten for two days
my little sister and me.
A coin for my pocket sir
for a warm cup of tea?

A coin for my pocket miss
to get shoes for our feet?
We haven’t got a penny
or anywhere to sleep.
Our feet are really sore
without shoes they bleed.
A coin for my pocket miss
for something we need?

She hangs a little taut.
Day old dead,
Now her belly bloats.

Her tongue is limp and wet,
Her hair, alive in wisps of air;

A small mockery of her
Still rocking body.

Swing her to and fro,
And watch her lifeless
Limbs dangle like a doll.

Watch her swing, to and fro,
And have a drink of bread and blood.

When she's all drained,
We'll take her down,
And find us another toy.

Tom says "I am not just a slice of pizza, I am the whole pie."
And this is the way words are eaten
when everything is new under the sun.
And this is the way the earth manifests
beauty
unless there is
an imperfect reflection in the eye of the beholder
holding love hostage for another day.
And this is the way we set ourselves free to face a new dawn
that opens the gates of heaven and lifts the corners of a smile.

One Too Many

I have composed countless poems
As you all know
Since I have no fixed mind ,
nor fixture of mind,
I am an unique entity...

No two poems of mine are alike,
as i believe in variety
Loved Style,
All my while .

I stand in no row or queue
of recognition ,
as I know twill never come,
when I am alive .

But then it will be too late
Posthumously
which they will.