freedom

Freedom tastes like
sweat from the
‘one more’ push-

up that you
now have time
to do when

time becomes
flaccid like the
wrinkled skin

from a guilt-
worthy hour long
shower

 

Post-exam freedom. 

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duinostalgia

I wish I
could go back
to that forgotten

patch of forest
we remember so
well where we’d

sneak away at
night to spin
threads of naïve

lyrics over broken
guitar strings and
shit wine our

eyes
burning fireflies flittering
with the world

in them like
the cackling fire
made from stolen

grocery store cardboard
and still-wet twigs
small but so bright

 

just a memory of a very special place

god hotline

 

if I had
a hotline to
god I’d

probably bother
him so much
with petty

complaints like
the oh-so-tragic-
stressful-empty-

in-constant
existential-flux
life

that’d he’d put
me on
answer phone

but I don’t
so I guess
I can moan

Day 19 of National Poetry Month. a piece a day is hard! like, follow and share to support.

The Cave Part I

He could remember his mother locking his thin limbs in chains. He must have been barely a year old— when he took his first teetering steps. Actually, he doesn’t remember anything, but his mother, who must be his mother because she was chained next to him, told him this every night as a bedside story.

 

Hush. Once upon a time there was a little boy. His mother loved him very much and every day she would ask the Gods of the Wall to bless him. She hoped he would be different. She prayed that one day, he would stand but not turn away from the Wall. But he was no different from all the others before him. One day, he stood, and turned his back on the Wall. His mother had to chain him. It was for his own good. Those who turn away from the Wall never come back. Only their heads do. Hush. Sleep and pray to the Gods.  

 

The Gods were tangible. Concrete. They were alive as well. You could see them moving on the walls, their dull grey outlines shifting perpetually from one end to another on a flickering orange canvas. How could you not believe something so real?

 

The man on the far left of his mother was an Elder. He had owl like eyes that glowed like rubies in the reflected light. He claimed to be descended from a king. But that was so long ago that everybody remembered to forget what kind of king this was. The Elder himself can’t remember. The ferrous memory was made rusty in the river of time, and nobody had the courage to chip away at the flaking surface to reveal the dull truth. All they knew was that whatever king he was, he must have been a good king, as he dedicated his life, and the lives of his family, to the worship of the Gods.

 

Every day, the Elder would recite the names of the Gods of the Wall as they passed by. He was one of the few people who knew all of their names.

 

Pot. Jar. Bust. Figure. Vase.

 

These names were passed from Elder to Elder, taken from the lips of the first king himself. It was during one of these chants that he decided to turn away from the Gods.

 *   *   *

Soldiers I and II walk in tandem. Long line of soldiers slowly walking across stage. Soldier II bumps into Soldier I. Line stops. Commotion.

Soldier I: ‘Hey watch where you’re going!’

Soldier II: ‘Sorry! Any idea where we’re going?’

Soldier I: ‘No idea! I’m just following the guy in front of me!’

Soldier II: ‘Does he know where we’re going?’

Soldier I: ‘Well there must be someone at the front!’

Soldier II: ‘That’s true. These vases and statues are really heavy do you know who they’re for?’

Soldier I: ‘For the Great King! He is the most powerful king in these lands. Our king gives him these things as tribute so we’ll have peace’

Soldier II: ‘I see. What’s with the fire down there? And why are those people chained to the wall?’

Soldier I: ‘Oh those are the descendants of the last king who was defeated by the Great King. That’s their punishment. According to the guy in front of me our orders are to keep the fire burning and throw them our food scraps. If one of them manages to climb up to this walkway we’ll kill them.’

Soldier II: ‘I see. We’ve been walking for days— why haven’t we seen any returning soldiers?’

Soldier I: ‘They’re probably going back on a different route. You ask too many questions!’

 *  *  *

 Outside

The pastures had a lovely scent
The birds sang and the rabbits ran
The seasons all four came and went
oblivious to the acts of Man

 

Day 16 of National Poetry Month. Part I of my attempt at re-writing Plato’s cave allegory. Never tried writing like this before, so I have mixed feelings about the results. Hopefully it’ll work out! Part II will follow very soon. Please like, follow and share to support

 

sketch II

 

Tiredness is when
finally your schedule
is empty all you

can do is sit
and stare at the
invisible tick tock

of the clock echoing
in the space of your
solitude and your

heartbeat (out of
sync with the world)
is not concerned

 

Day 15 of National Poetry Month’s a poem a day challenge. Please follow, share and like to support. 

sketch I

 

The mist came yesterday
and I was made part of an
impressionist painting the light

patchy from a scratched VCR so
old my skin raggedy with broad brush strokes;
if I looked hard enough I could see

Dali’s elephants walking so heavy yet light
on those spindle-like legs, chopsticking
to me a silhouette mess, and yet

I’ve never felt this much of myself

Day 14 and 15 (sorry for cheating deadlines coming up!!) of National Poetry Month’s a poem a day challenge. please like and follow to support

i made a wish

I made a wish:
sat in the field
for the first light

and sealed it in
cupped hands; then
went to collect first

drops of morning dew
added whispered words
and mixed it with

light kisses; then puff,
let go, and see everything
be, as they should be

Day 13 of National Poetry Month’s a poem a day challenge. Please follow, like and share to support.

ritual III

 

I stand on this pier
watching in fear the distant green light
blinking, an infant peering
for the first time into this world
the thrill matched only by first love’s
whirling waves impossible to grasp
I try but first only comes once
and the tears- sunken pearls-
fall into the sea that stays
utterly, pathetically the same

 

Day 12 of National Poetry Month’s a poem a day challenge. enjoy, follow and share to support.