A Black Dog in a Cemetery

A Black Dog in a Cemetery

 

See a black dog in a cemetery;

It hops around with its tail hanging low.

It sees the names of those that we bury,

And ignores the beings living ago.

See the family mourning for someone;

On a bright sunny day, cloudless as such,

A black dog shines in radiance of suns,

With its tongue out, susceptible to touch.

A black dog licks the tombstone, of no one;

It pees on the graves of those lived and dead.

Flies roam around the ashes clearly won,

A black dog spreads and shreds the ones who bred.

Young and old, we see the black dog in us;

Young and old, we breed the black dog and cuss.

The Scorching Sun

The Scorching Sun

 

The sun whips on the backs of men and women.

The snowy grounds pile with sweats

Of years gone unnoticed by the demons

That created the Creator in a bet.

 

Birds fly high up in the sky,

Just beside the planes that soar the winds.

A doctor cries in the air, for a seat he tried,

That wrought pain, whipped and skinned.

 

The High King of yellow bellowed,

“A great fortress shall erect upon my being!”

The impoverish men betrayed by their fellow,

Save those souls thought freed.

 

A star shone bright, after its combustion;

The perished and the abducted land arrived,

Set up a tent, yet still gods abduct.

Killed in millions, yet revived.

 

For generations, being killed beings,

Unlike all beings that exist on Earth.

For till when shall we persist in fleeing,

When all were born through same births?

Cradle of Days

Cradle of Days

 

As a baby lies in a cradle,

Waiting for its mother do what she is able,

The sunlight shines on the baby’s forehead

And makes amends to day’s end.

The cold breeze from the unbroken windows

Bellows like hurricanes beside its pillows.

Clouds shun away from the scene

As though cowardice has crime seen.

Indistinguishable is the shape of the light

That so chose the baby’s forehead as mine;

The cradle rocks back and forth,

Despite the raging storms of North.

The mother does not notice her throne

Bring usurped under such clones.

The father sees none under his brows,

For none escapes his inattention except arouse.

The sunlight of days gone and to come,

The hurricanes of skins numb,

Do shape the inevitable time of the baby.

Clear as day, its future, maybe.

Light shines bright, yet no one sees;

The bickering plight that waits for thee.

An Old House

An Old House

 

 

I lived in an old house,

Tattered and cracked,

With grass sprouting from within,

And bugs and birds flew everywhere.

 

A family of four, we lived,

The humidity made us suffer,

An old house was not able to

Protect us from the heat.

 

It’s coming down,

It’s coming down.

After all these years of suffering,

It’s finally coming down.

 

It’s coming down,

It’s coming down on us,

Times have been harsh and

We’ve endured long.

 

My mother used to tell me,

Wait, I don’t think she ever did.

My father used to tell me,

He was always out working.

 

My poor little brother and I

Stayed home and played guitar.

We saw one morning

Some cracks on the walls.

 

It’s coming down,

It’s coming down.

After all these years of suffering,

It’s finally coming down.

 

It’s coming down,

It’s coming down on us,

Times have been harsh and

We’ve endured long.

 

Oh, these faithless days,

Those dark, dark days,

Alone in a shelter

That fell into cracks.

 

Two young boys

Submerged in the times

Of how we’ve become

And will become.

 

It’s coming down,

It’s coming down.

After all these years of suffering,

It’s finally coming down.

 

It’s coming down,

It’s coming down on us,

Times have been harsh and

We’ve endured long.

 

Times have been harsh

But times will be harder.

 

Will the Circle Be Unbroken?

Will the Circle Be Unbroken?

 

One asked, “Will the circle be unbroken?”

I do not know.

Not a circle, but a square,

Nevertheless, broken and broken still.

Such a seclusion calls for a circle

Boundless by time and shapes.

Such unbroken vowels resonate within;

The circle of truth and reactions

Unbound by Love.

I do not know.

Circles are never meant to be broken.

Broken circles mend, perhaps, but

Never a circle in the end.

Jaunty and jagged are the lives

Of those striving to survive.

Of families so struggling in families,

We care not of their lives.

I crave for the circle,

Of that we cannot encircle.

Will the circle be unbroken?

No, it will not.

Poems

Poems

 

Poets are everywhere, and yet nowhere.

They may be bus drivers, teachers,

Salesmen, architects, or any flare,

Exist in harmony we all reach Her.

Her, the inevitable Being of poetry,

Sultry in its impiousness, She scatters

The minds and hearts of vicinity.

Such vocabulary exists in matter.

What matters more than

The existence of such people;

Undiscernible from nature, words planned

East, West, South, North, forming ripples.

Such displays of ultimacy

Reflects the juxtaposition of metaphors

Ingrained in lives so loved profoundly

That blossoms the host of matadors.

Some may disregard their religion,

Some may scorn the faithful and humbled.

Since soar the pride of beings that listen.

So lest faith finds, poetry tumbled.

Lost, are we? Perhaps, perhaps we

Not only have lost, but stained

The very thing we kept clean

And pure. We lost the rhyme.

Until the very words that guided

The likes of poets and lovers,

Shall love live long, lest lost love lied.

Pledge not to works but words covered.

Intellectuality

Intellectuality

 

What seems to be a gift, seems to be a fault.

To fairly criticize the public in the eyes of those

That deem themselves pure and innocent,

To arm against sins prevailing seems

To be the sin itself of worlds esteemed.

Understand not, the likes of those bewitched

By beauties rectified and portrayed insolently,

By torments of perils that comets effaced.

The apple has fallen far from the tree,

And yet the tree has moved away from the apple.

Surely Adam was condemned through intellect,

Wherefore the tree was there since time?

Serpents provided the intellect

That serpents despise so now.

The pyramids of life altered with falsehood.

Criticized are the critics and lowly mobs surfaced.

A bit of the apple caused “peril”.

Perilous are we to think?

Evanescent are the times of dark,

Yet persuaded are we of the dark as light.

The Messiah has a religion after Him;

Who has dared to do so in recent times?

Debatable are the intellects that crucify

Those that are debating against the world.

All by themselves; the world torments

Those who crave for an atom of the apple.

Whoever shall partake in synthesis

Of mankind’s photosynthesis amidst the abyss?

Medicinal Taste

Medicinal Taste

 

My mouth still tastes of bitter-sour medicine;

Tongue-tied with bitterness untouched,

Body smitten with lazy corrosion of age.

Age, I feel, weighs on all,

Though to some, weighs more than all.

Joints creak to ointments of technology,

Grounds shake due to paraphrases of imminent.

For some, a relief through time and space,

For others, a destiny un-destined for space-time.

My mouth still tastes of bitter-sour medicine;

Bitter as it may be, sour it may seem,

The kingdom of Trojan might seem evident

If taken lightly through lips of sick.

A blister forms on my lips,

Much like the furniture set in Heaven.

We not know the casualties of medicine.

End of Volume 1 (Message)

Hello everyone! So it’s been a while since I started posting my poems in here and I thank all of you who have been continuously reading my poems and supporting them. I know that I still have a long way to go and miles to improve and I am always willing to do whatever it takes to make some progress. I am not a professional writer and I am not even employed yet. I am just a university student. But I love writing poems and I love reading poetry too. During February to April I’ve written a total of 73 poems during my spare time and I’ve named it “Volume 1”. At first I wanted to keep the work for my own personal satisfaction but soon I wanted to release some of them into the world. (I’ve been writing poems since I was 12 or 13 and they are stuck somewhere in the house and I’ve not found them all yet.) So I figured, “Why not WordPress,” since I already had a website a few years ago where I posted some short stories for fun. So that’s how I started and honestly it was frustrating at first because I was not getting much views and likes and I didn’t, and still don’t, know how to advertise my works. But as time went by, I began to appreciate what I had. One simple view or like was enough for me because that meant that some stranger who’s living miles and miles away from me was able to read and appreciate my work. It was a weird and yet joyful feeling and I began to enjoy posting my poems everyday. At first I wanted to post just one poem per day but I wasn’t able to resist it. I just decided to post twice per day because I just felt like it. Maybe for Volume 2 I’ll post once a day because I don’t want to force myself to write poems. I believe art is created through time and patience; you can’t force art.

So anyways, I thank you all for reading my poems and I will be back with Volume 2 once I feel it is ready to be published. I have already started my Volume 2 weeks ago and they are turning out better than Volume 1. I guess practice makes perfect. So thank you all again and please continue to support my poems. See ya!

The End

The End

 

Nobody knows but me,

The ending I have stored

For the journey’s departure.

Nobody might read,

Nobody might hear of it.

I shall end this alone

As I have started alone.

Nobody may like it,

It might be rubbish,

But till the end,

I shall return.

To finish the song of life,

To finish the venture.

I shall return.

Or should I?