A little less

A little less sugar and a litte more
spice,
within these we do the rounds,
spinning like dice.

Bring in the winter
Break away from  the heat,
Nothing lasts forever,
The world looks bleak.

Their world isn't round,
their words do not resound,
they follow the lines,
they've never seen signs.

Little living,
full of sinning,
bigger thoughts,
with lesser meaning.

No space for passion,
no intrinsic satisfaction,
The buck moves here,
the creations know fear,
heartfelt is nothing,
just walk along, strutting.

SOMEDAY

Maybe some day we'll give up,
waving our hands,
shrugging off that builds around us,
with shifting of sands.

Maybe some day we'll give up,
chanting that line,
"nothing can change today,
maybe tomorrow is the time."


Maybe some day we'll give up,
cursing our lives,
blaming those past sillouttes,
for years we make the same jives.

Maybe some day we'll give up,
shunning the right,
smirking at the sight,
of the ones who lead and guide


Maybe some day we'll give up,
hammering us down,
killing that light,
inside us that survives.

Pages of white

Wasted living,
crazed up oblivion,
rivers of blood,
lovers all cut.
All living inside the sheets of white,
upon which I write my mind.

Jumbled lives with
kniving wives,
wild childhood,
and a million strifes.
All living inside the sheets of white,
upon which I write my mind.

Blue mates green
shadows senere,
A picture so perfect
painted on the surface,
of a man who wills his destiny alone
waits for none, has a heart of a stone.,
All living inside the sheets of white,
upon which I write my mind.

The 'mirror mirror on the wall',
tells the fate of the big and the small,
later grimaces at the lies it weaves,
day in and day out for hearts to keep.
All living inside the sheets of white,
upon which I write my mind.

All living inside the sheets of white
all hidden inside, and out of sight,
the reflection of the minds alike-
the mind, the pen, and soul inside.
All connected with a string of words,
without these drugs, the world is sore.
Come peel the sheets,open up the folds
what you find insde may never have been told.

Phoenix

When the towers tumble,And all around is rubble,I look around the barren bounty,And think.

Its silence leans in to whisper,A lament, a cackle, and dewy jumble,I shrug those notes, a new melody now bodes,Like the rise of a phoenix, my song thus goes -“All gone away,Broken down this way.Who cares, I ask,My happiness I never mask.Of what is left behind is more than I need,To be happy I feed my mind with a seed.Of joy,That's buried in my smile for long,Till the time my last breath finally dawns.”

When the canvas holds the reflections of your storied soul,The shadows, the strokes hide inside the tiny pores.The vulnerable beauty gently wrapped in paints,Now lost in their words, jives and hateYou splash the vibrance once more,On the white,with a songOf your heart,That sings with might-"of that art that has washed away,From the soul,The dust of everyday.The coloured spectrum of my thoughts have,A will to see the bright in the black,So I smile at them, I happily gloat,And in that all, I make my hair daringly toss.”

When your life and its ordinariesChar your heart with grey,When the dark in your heartClouds the light of the day,You throw your worriesLook to the world to sayThis song that plays in my heart, all the way-"A bleak living now I say,But for a long life I pray,Each day I wake with a melody that says,It’s a new day now, all wrong will fade.Live, love and let all go.What is gone is gone.Let the ‘winds of change’ flow."

A beautiful young nymph going to bed- Jonathan Swift

There are some poems that are unforgettable. Purely because of the courage of the writer to express grotesque truths through the powerful medium of words.

I remember reading this in my second year of college. Almost moved us to tears.

Corinna, Pride of Drury-Lane,
For whom no Shepherd sighs in vain;
Never did Covent Garden boast
So bright a batter'd, strolling Toast;
No drunken Rake to pick her up,
No Cellar where on Tick to sup;


Returning at the Midnight Hour;
Four Stories climbing to her Bow'r;
Then, seated on a three-legg'd Chair,
Takes off her artificial Hair
Now, picking out a Crystal Eye,
She wipes it clean, and lays it by.
Her Eye-Brows from a Mouse's Hyde,
Stuck on with Art on either Side,
Pulls off with Care, and first displays 'em
Then in a Play-Book smoothly lays 'em.
Now dextrously her Plumpers draws,
That serve to fill her hollow Jaws.
Untwists a Wire; and from her Gums
A Set of Teeth completely comes.
Pulls out the Rags contriv'd to prop
Her flabby Dugs and down they drop.
Proceeding on, the lovely Goddess
Unlaces next her Steel-Rib'd Bodice;
Which by the Operator's Skil
Press down the Lumps, the Hollows fill,
Up goes her Hand, and off she slips
The Bolsters that supply her Hips.
With gentlest Touch, she next explores
Her Shankers, Issues, running Sores,
Effects of many a sad Disaster;
And then to each applies a Plaister.


But must, before she goes to Bed,
Rub off the Dawbs of White and Red;
And smooth the Furrows in her Front,
With greasy Paper stuck upon't.
She takes a Bolus e'er she sleeps;
And then between two Blankets creeps.
With Pains of Love tormented lies;
Or if she chance to close her Eyes,
Of Bridewell and the Compter dreams,
And feels the Lash, and faintly screams;
Or, by a faithless Bully drawn,
At some Hedge-Tavern lies in Pawn;
Or to Jamaica seems transported,
Alone, and by no Planter courted;
Or, near Fleet-Ditch's oozy Brinks,
Surrounded with a Hundred Stinks,
Belated, seems on watch to lye,
And snap some Cully passing by;
Or, struck with Fear, her Fancy runs
On Watchmen, Constables and Duns,
From whom she meets with frequent Rubs;
But, never from Religious Clubs;
Whose Favour she is sure to find,
Because she pays 'em all in Kind.


Corinna wakes. A dreadful Sight!
Behold the Ruins of the Night!
A wicked Rat her Plaister stole,
Half eat, and dragg'd it to his Hole.
The Crystal Eye, alas, was miss't;
And Puss had on her Plumpers p---t.
A Pigeon pick'd her Issue-Peas;
And Shock her Tresses fill'd with Fleas.


The Nymph, tho' in this mangled Plight,
Must ev'ry Morn her Limbs unite.
But how shall I describe her Arts
To recollect the scatter'd Parts?
Or shew the Anguish, Toil, and Pain,
Of gath'ring up herself again?
The bashful Muse will never bear
In such a Scene to interfere.
Corinna in the Morning dizen'd,
Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison'd.

'Pop' it goes

Round and round,
the rhythmic banter.
swirling of liquids,
within each vessel....

Sub humans,
Semi-sonic voices.
Half pair of visions,
Diminished perceptions
Scattered deceit,
Tattered pretense.....

....Round and round,
the rhythmic banter.
swirling of liquids,
within each vessel...

with..

Sprouted sprint of,
adoration.
Budding rise of,
misconceptions...

..And
....Round and round,
goes the the rhythmic banter.
swirling of liquids,
within each vessel.


But,
some pure projections,
and thoughtless confessions.
Pretty strings of,
glued up oblivion


Tea.

The high nosed worthies.

And splash go the cubes.

Secret Lovers

Hide and watch.
Smile and dodge,
Blush and hide,
The hands gently slide.

A thousand stolen glances,
Missed a million spoken chances.
Faces and voices swim around,
Incomprehension of others build around.
Inane conversations create an outer shell,
two eyes, although, are in a different spell.

Within a few moments, they celebrate a lifetime,
A world of kindred bonds, promises and newborns.
Really, who knows what the future holds,
there's true beauty in unplanned goals.

The secret is open,
To a few who haven't spoken,
Ignorance is a mask many choose,
Behind that screen, the lovers often let loose!