Type: Patriarchian Sonnet
Rhyming Pattern: Abba abba cde cde
Seldom hath this world seen, a sly seraph, so celestial,
On mine weak fingers, the divine dance, invoked thee,
Rheum slips now, consumed by amorous reverie,
Reminiscing the seraph, engulfed is enchantress, enduring ordeal.
Yonder, is thy castle, barricaded and vaulted,
Fiery spirit, is smoldering, in fevered animosity,
Olethrus, in his scarlet passion, lingers, poisonously sweet,
Ruth the enchantress, I prithee, may wish be granted.
Grief clings to sleepless an eye, encumbered soul bemoans,
Inly, is biting guilt, Phantom vision, serpentine, the felonious sinner, viciously encircles,
Vexed is the spirit, wild, unseeing and distraught,
Enow, enough logic has been encrypted afore enchantress’s closed doors,
May thine intellect decipher hidden message, May sailor’s knot, untangle,
Exhausted is poetess’s meager ability, may her Delphic dream be caught.
11:23 am, 28th December, 2009.
Footprints
Footprints on the beachsand, where you once walked,
Are being erased, one by one,
And those lovely moments, so easily stolen,
With the ghost of my past, eyes are swollen.
Are goodbyes mere insignificant things?
Do they disappear, like snow in spring?
Are they so easy, so effortless, for you?
Do you understand how much it hurts, I wish you knew!
Did you fully forget, how much you meant to me?
Do you know how much happiness you bought, you made my gloom flee,
You were special to me, in every sense,
And now in your silence, you make me tense.
I’m suffering, friend, without you,
From the day, you bid your adieu,
I remember you, every single day,
How nice you are, how special, my life, you made.
I committed a mistake, friend, I had no control on my tongue,
I slipped vile words, I did something wrong,
I told my lies, acid words I spoke,
But I’m sorry I did that, is that why, my heart, you broke?
It hurts me, friend, make me escape!
I can’t stand the silence, its killing me, everyday!
That is why I beg you, to make the pain, go away,
Leave more footprints on my beach, please don’t stray….
6:43 pm 27th December, 2009.
Are being erased, one by one,
And those lovely moments, so easily stolen,
With the ghost of my past, eyes are swollen.
Are goodbyes mere insignificant things?
Do they disappear, like snow in spring?
Are they so easy, so effortless, for you?
Do you understand how much it hurts, I wish you knew!
Did you fully forget, how much you meant to me?
Do you know how much happiness you bought, you made my gloom flee,
You were special to me, in every sense,
And now in your silence, you make me tense.
I’m suffering, friend, without you,
From the day, you bid your adieu,
I remember you, every single day,
How nice you are, how special, my life, you made.
I committed a mistake, friend, I had no control on my tongue,
I slipped vile words, I did something wrong,
I told my lies, acid words I spoke,
But I’m sorry I did that, is that why, my heart, you broke?
It hurts me, friend, make me escape!
I can’t stand the silence, its killing me, everyday!
That is why I beg you, to make the pain, go away,
Leave more footprints on my beach, please don’t stray….
6:43 pm 27th December, 2009.
Past Compare
Even poetess’s flair, angel coyly deceives,
As words sprint, to capture his shadow,
He glides past, gracefully transcends,
The written ability, setting my world, aglow.
He puts every learnt skill to shame,
Because to capture his essence, the poetess fails,
Character of such high a caliber,
How can my weak words, ever capture?
The charm of so beautiful, deep set an eye,
How can 14 lines, ever describe?
The blameless honesty, that is his,
How can simple poems, ever reach?
To his quick, baffling intelligence,
Do justice, fails my humble pen,
Coarse, handsome shabbiness,
Makes him more admirable than you could ever guess.
Mind, so sharp and so keen a will,
To explain him, unsuccessful is the quill,
With his casual stance, he silently enamors,
My sentences can’t arrest him, no matter how hard they work.
To one, past all compare,
This song, I dedicate,
I meld my sorry, to my honest praise,
And believe me, I mean every word I say.
Such is the nature of my angel, so utterly flawless,
His every attribute, impresses the enchantress,
He’s too precious to loose, so he is treasured,
I hope he accepts the sorry, my repentance is beyond measure.
6:02 pm, 27th December, 2009.
As words sprint, to capture his shadow,
He glides past, gracefully transcends,
The written ability, setting my world, aglow.
He puts every learnt skill to shame,
Because to capture his essence, the poetess fails,
Character of such high a caliber,
How can my weak words, ever capture?
The charm of so beautiful, deep set an eye,
How can 14 lines, ever describe?
The blameless honesty, that is his,
How can simple poems, ever reach?
To his quick, baffling intelligence,
Do justice, fails my humble pen,
Coarse, handsome shabbiness,
Makes him more admirable than you could ever guess.
Mind, so sharp and so keen a will,
To explain him, unsuccessful is the quill,
With his casual stance, he silently enamors,
My sentences can’t arrest him, no matter how hard they work.
To one, past all compare,
This song, I dedicate,
I meld my sorry, to my honest praise,
And believe me, I mean every word I say.
Such is the nature of my angel, so utterly flawless,
His every attribute, impresses the enchantress,
He’s too precious to loose, so he is treasured,
I hope he accepts the sorry, my repentance is beyond measure.
6:02 pm, 27th December, 2009.
Rainy
Morning birthed of December’s charm,
Cries today, from the heavens, forlorn,
Screams the voice, in thunder and rain,
Echoing the enchantress’s awakening pain.
The enchantress, the angered skies, bewitches,
And with a lordly lioness’s roar, they answer in rumble,
But her sudden pride, with her realization, evaporates,
Collapses the raised hand, and dark turns the December day.
Because tortured is the enchantress, so the skies say,
In drizzle, in forked tongue, in strong a rain,
Slowly, for enchantress, the rain turns storm,
Of her agony, a living metaphor.
In her watery world, no sunshine seeps,
When cherub is gone, the skies only grieve,
In frenzy, the rampant storm shall rage,
Until cherub this way comes, all is frozen in stormy day.
Lightning, of fierce dignity,
With rue, a sorry, bespeaks,
Energy, from the tip, does explode,
Mournful is the melancholic power, the happiness, they erode,
Enchantress, heavyhearted, is swallowed,
By tempest, and rain, joy is disallowed,
The image, of her mind’s eye, constructed,
Shall persist the hysteria, until cherub returns, to clear her conscience.
The songbird spoke at 12:39 am on the 27th of December, 2009.
Cries today, from the heavens, forlorn,
Screams the voice, in thunder and rain,
Echoing the enchantress’s awakening pain.
The enchantress, the angered skies, bewitches,
And with a lordly lioness’s roar, they answer in rumble,
But her sudden pride, with her realization, evaporates,
Collapses the raised hand, and dark turns the December day.
Because tortured is the enchantress, so the skies say,
In drizzle, in forked tongue, in strong a rain,
Slowly, for enchantress, the rain turns storm,
Of her agony, a living metaphor.
In her watery world, no sunshine seeps,
When cherub is gone, the skies only grieve,
In frenzy, the rampant storm shall rage,
Until cherub this way comes, all is frozen in stormy day.
Lightning, of fierce dignity,
With rue, a sorry, bespeaks,
Energy, from the tip, does explode,
Mournful is the melancholic power, the happiness, they erode,
Enchantress, heavyhearted, is swallowed,
By tempest, and rain, joy is disallowed,
The image, of her mind’s eye, constructed,
Shall persist the hysteria, until cherub returns, to clear her conscience.
The songbird spoke at 12:39 am on the 27th of December, 2009.
Untitled
(The credit to this particular song goes to Miss Anusha Shashidar.)
*The songbird does not claim complete credit for this Screetch. The poetess's sorry is being helped by another songbird, who goes by the name Anusha Shashidar. The songbird is still equally sorry, but is letting its sorry reach you through another voice. Because shadow's friends are just as loyal to her, as she is, to the one who forsake. Shadow has lost her voice for a couple of days, due to the extreme stress it's causing her to build this sorry. She has now asked help of expert hands--of much acclaim, and popularity. Shadow has invited another poetess into her world--a famous journalist, writer,poet and student. Know that the song-bird continues to sing, even though it's voice is crippled for now, through the voice of another. Because she doesn't want to stop singing even if she is voiceless. Because that's how much she cares....because even as she falls into her abyss, she makes sure that her message reaches you, through another.
Why is it that I feel so much for Someone unseen, yet seen?
Why then, did I, in wroth, hurt Someone like Thee?
For Thou bringeth the sugars of life, seen, and unforeseen;
And I, a fool, am too foolish to squash the Mellow You've been!
Why is it that my lashes don’t rest, till ...I’ve read from Thee?
Why then, did I, in wroth, lend the veiled-ghost a key?
For Thou bringeth the cheers in life, elevated and mean;
And I, a fool, am too foolish to note the Spark You’ve been!
Why is it that the pain bites, so deeply a root?
Why then, did I, in wroth, become a vampire in hood?
For Thou bringeth the bliss in life, ardent and keen;
And I, a fool, am too foolish to flout the Glory You’ve been!
Why is it that tears flow now, so fast, they want to slay?
Why then, did I, in wroth, pierce Thy heart – soft as clay?
For Thou bringeth the soul to life, so pure and preen;
And I, a fool, am too foolish to graze the Chalice You’ve been!
*the complete credit for this particular poem goes to Anusha Shashidhar.
19 years.
*The songbird does not claim complete credit for this Screetch. The poetess's sorry is being helped by another songbird, who goes by the name Anusha Shashidar. The songbird is still equally sorry, but is letting its sorry reach you through another voice. Because shadow's friends are just as loyal to her, as she is, to the one who forsake. Shadow has lost her voice for a couple of days, due to the extreme stress it's causing her to build this sorry. She has now asked help of expert hands--of much acclaim, and popularity. Shadow has invited another poetess into her world--a famous journalist, writer,poet and student. Know that the song-bird continues to sing, even though it's voice is crippled for now, through the voice of another. Because she doesn't want to stop singing even if she is voiceless. Because that's how much she cares....because even as she falls into her abyss, she makes sure that her message reaches you, through another.
Why is it that I feel so much for Someone unseen, yet seen?
Why then, did I, in wroth, hurt Someone like Thee?
For Thou bringeth the sugars of life, seen, and unforeseen;
And I, a fool, am too foolish to squash the Mellow You've been!
Why is it that my lashes don’t rest, till ...I’ve read from Thee?
Why then, did I, in wroth, lend the veiled-ghost a key?
For Thou bringeth the cheers in life, elevated and mean;
And I, a fool, am too foolish to note the Spark You’ve been!
Why is it that the pain bites, so deeply a root?
Why then, did I, in wroth, become a vampire in hood?
For Thou bringeth the bliss in life, ardent and keen;
And I, a fool, am too foolish to flout the Glory You’ve been!
Why is it that tears flow now, so fast, they want to slay?
Why then, did I, in wroth, pierce Thy heart – soft as clay?
For Thou bringeth the soul to life, so pure and preen;
And I, a fool, am too foolish to graze the Chalice You’ve been!
*the complete credit for this particular poem goes to Anusha Shashidhar.
19 years.
12:55
Midnight’s behind me, it’s 12:55,
And I’m shrouded in darkness, they’ve switched off the lights,
Leaving the poetess alone, her sorry, to type,
So my fingers advance, continuing to rhyme.
It’s 12:55, friend, an unearthly hour,
But I resume writing, sitting alone, here,
Hoping that one day, you’ll understand the effort it takes me to write,
Another one of my sorries, at 12:55.
It’s 12:55, friend, and my eyes are slightly red,
They’re aching, for sleep, they quietly beg,
Because I’ve been building your sorry since morning,
And all my wild tendencies, for you, I have disciplined.
Now, do you know how sorry I am?
Now do you realize, that all is not fine?
I never put quarrels behind me,
Because that’s the sort of friend I wish to be.
Maybe I’m insane, maybe I am a little too paranoid,
But then, know that my silent effort is sincere,
Will it take more than a 100 poems to make you forgive me?
Even, after 100 times, I repeat my pleas?
It’s 12:55, neither day nor night,
I wish for you to know, that I have stayed back,
To write this sorry for you, at 12:55,
I have gone against my better instinct, for you, I have rhymed even with sleep-deprived eyes….
At 12:55
And I’m shrouded in darkness, they’ve switched off the lights,
Leaving the poetess alone, her sorry, to type,
So my fingers advance, continuing to rhyme.
It’s 12:55, friend, an unearthly hour,
But I resume writing, sitting alone, here,
Hoping that one day, you’ll understand the effort it takes me to write,
Another one of my sorries, at 12:55.
It’s 12:55, friend, and my eyes are slightly red,
They’re aching, for sleep, they quietly beg,
Because I’ve been building your sorry since morning,
And all my wild tendencies, for you, I have disciplined.
Now, do you know how sorry I am?
Now do you realize, that all is not fine?
I never put quarrels behind me,
Because that’s the sort of friend I wish to be.
Maybe I’m insane, maybe I am a little too paranoid,
But then, know that my silent effort is sincere,
Will it take more than a 100 poems to make you forgive me?
Even, after 100 times, I repeat my pleas?
It’s 12:55, neither day nor night,
I wish for you to know, that I have stayed back,
To write this sorry for you, at 12:55,
I have gone against my better instinct, for you, I have rhymed even with sleep-deprived eyes….
At 12:55
Netted
Netted is the heart,
In passing whirlwinds, caught,
Captured is the spirit,
Nabbed, petrified and apprehensive.
The accusations still ring, for sensitive is the soul,
They still pain, those words that didn’t scold,
But did something far greater,
They crucified, unbearable was the torture.
Simple words, they were, yes, you knew me well,
It took but talking words, you didn’t even need to yell,
To plunge me into misery, I am not head-strong,
When with pointed finger you did accuse, you told me I was wrong.
But please, look this way again,
Please reconsider, I don’t want my efforts to be in vain,
Everybody commits their mistakes, everybody errs,
Because erring is human, I didn’t mean what I did, I swear!
That’s why at midnight, when I’m tired and everyone’s asleep,
I still work, I build your sorry, I weep,
Because netted is my spirit, in so many things,
And it looks like all the vicious coils aren’t untangling.....
Until you forgive, my fingers, in frenzy shall write,
The same sorry, in many different styles,
Through pictures and verses, and hundred different poems,
I shall slowly learn life's greatest lesson.
12:07 24th December, 2009.
In passing whirlwinds, caught,
Captured is the spirit,
Nabbed, petrified and apprehensive.
The accusations still ring, for sensitive is the soul,
They still pain, those words that didn’t scold,
But did something far greater,
They crucified, unbearable was the torture.
Simple words, they were, yes, you knew me well,
It took but talking words, you didn’t even need to yell,
To plunge me into misery, I am not head-strong,
When with pointed finger you did accuse, you told me I was wrong.
But please, look this way again,
Please reconsider, I don’t want my efforts to be in vain,
Everybody commits their mistakes, everybody errs,
Because erring is human, I didn’t mean what I did, I swear!
That’s why at midnight, when I’m tired and everyone’s asleep,
I still work, I build your sorry, I weep,
Because netted is my spirit, in so many things,
And it looks like all the vicious coils aren’t untangling.....
Until you forgive, my fingers, in frenzy shall write,
The same sorry, in many different styles,
Through pictures and verses, and hundred different poems,
I shall slowly learn life's greatest lesson.
12:07 24th December, 2009.
The Simple Sorry Song
Your raw fury whips about,
Lashing back and questioning aloud,
And as countless riddles, you throw at me,
I hang my head, meekly.
Your anger is blistering,
Calescent, Febrile and crackling,
And when you fully unveil your wrath,
I burn with it, inside and out.
Yes, the entire fault was mine,
And yes, you knew how to be kind,
But please, open your eye and see,
How the guilt is hurting me.
I said my sorries, in all the right places,
Doesn’t my sorry mean anything, is there no room for prayer?
Doesn’t my apology ever hold?
Won’t they ever be over-ruled?
Forgivance, friend, they say, is the greatest of virtues,
And I know that you are noble, and true,
When one accepts her mistake, with all her heart,
Wouldn’t it be right, to forgive her, and do your part?
Please, I say, I’m begging,
Please, I say, crying,
Please, I say, in all honesty,
Why won’t you forgive me?
Midnight, 24th December, 2009.
Lashing back and questioning aloud,
And as countless riddles, you throw at me,
I hang my head, meekly.
Your anger is blistering,
Calescent, Febrile and crackling,
And when you fully unveil your wrath,
I burn with it, inside and out.
Yes, the entire fault was mine,
And yes, you knew how to be kind,
But please, open your eye and see,
How the guilt is hurting me.
I said my sorries, in all the right places,
Doesn’t my sorry mean anything, is there no room for prayer?
Doesn’t my apology ever hold?
Won’t they ever be over-ruled?
Forgivance, friend, they say, is the greatest of virtues,
And I know that you are noble, and true,
When one accepts her mistake, with all her heart,
Wouldn’t it be right, to forgive her, and do your part?
Please, I say, I’m begging,
Please, I say, crying,
Please, I say, in all honesty,
Why won’t you forgive me?
Midnight, 24th December, 2009.
Tapestry
Unveil, thou canst,
It’s already buried, Orphic a thought,
Curtained in pensive mind, and tightly enveloped,
Life has tapestry become, cocooned.
A Tapestry, into Rosy petals, melts,
Intricate, beneath benumbed feet doth stretch,
Centuries old is this ornamental tapestry,
And the other one, hasn’t crossed nineteen.
Dissimilar are they both, by material,
The first, made of finest Persian thread, silken,
The other, built of thought and speculation,
But both are worn now, this, they share in common.
The first tapestry, elaborate, is a timeless classic,
And the other, is tattooed with guilt and is coughing sick,
The first tapestry, hides nothing,
The second, a million sorries, is singing.
The former, is fancy and inanimate,
The latter, is not of good taste,
Even if worn by time, the Persian rug shall classic, remain.
The other, designed of nerve and blood, in guilt, shall decay.
My hands do clean the delicate rug,
Slowly, Glamour is regained, as separates dust
But this other one, is still sick,
How can it ever beautiful become, how can it, guiltlessly, speak?
The riddling song-bird spoke at 3:19 p..m on the 23rd of December, 2009.
It’s already buried, Orphic a thought,
Curtained in pensive mind, and tightly enveloped,
Life has tapestry become, cocooned.
A Tapestry, into Rosy petals, melts,
Intricate, beneath benumbed feet doth stretch,
Centuries old is this ornamental tapestry,
And the other one, hasn’t crossed nineteen.
Dissimilar are they both, by material,
The first, made of finest Persian thread, silken,
The other, built of thought and speculation,
But both are worn now, this, they share in common.
The first tapestry, elaborate, is a timeless classic,
And the other, is tattooed with guilt and is coughing sick,
The first tapestry, hides nothing,
The second, a million sorries, is singing.
The former, is fancy and inanimate,
The latter, is not of good taste,
Even if worn by time, the Persian rug shall classic, remain.
The other, designed of nerve and blood, in guilt, shall decay.
My hands do clean the delicate rug,
Slowly, Glamour is regained, as separates dust
But this other one, is still sick,
How can it ever beautiful become, how can it, guiltlessly, speak?
The riddling song-bird spoke at 3:19 p..m on the 23rd of December, 2009.
Lifeblood
Like Oxygen to Lung,
Like taste, to starving tongue,
Like electricity to failing heart-beat,
You were lifeblood to me.
Like shelter to sapling, by storm, battered,
Like the rope that that holds the drowning rafter,
Like quenching water, to desert tree,
You were lifeblood to me.
Like the hemoglobin, in my vein,
Pulsing with vitality, every day,
Like the nectar to the hungry honey-bee,
You were lifeblood to me.
Like hand that grips the dangling mountaineer,
Like Music, to ears that could before, not hear,
Like glimmer of hope, to heart that grieves,
You were life-blood to me.
Like silver-lining to murky cloud,
Like familiar face to one lost in crowd,
Like those miracles, on Christmas eve,
You were lifeblood, to me.
Like vision, to blind an eye,
Like the doctor who doesn’t let you die,
Like an extra arrow to archer’s bow,
You were lifeblood to me.
But alas, how can I live, when lifeblood from system, drains?
How can you hang on, when I give you only pain?
Anemic, I turned, when lifeblood left,
And colorless I shall remain, until in my artery, reviving lifeblood gushes.
The song-bird sang at 4:54 pm on the 23rd of December, 2009.
Like taste, to starving tongue,
Like electricity to failing heart-beat,
You were lifeblood to me.
Like shelter to sapling, by storm, battered,
Like the rope that that holds the drowning rafter,
Like quenching water, to desert tree,
You were lifeblood to me.
Like the hemoglobin, in my vein,
Pulsing with vitality, every day,
Like the nectar to the hungry honey-bee,
You were lifeblood to me.
Like hand that grips the dangling mountaineer,
Like Music, to ears that could before, not hear,
Like glimmer of hope, to heart that grieves,
You were life-blood to me.
Like silver-lining to murky cloud,
Like familiar face to one lost in crowd,
Like those miracles, on Christmas eve,
You were lifeblood, to me.
Like vision, to blind an eye,
Like the doctor who doesn’t let you die,
Like an extra arrow to archer’s bow,
You were lifeblood to me.
But alas, how can I live, when lifeblood from system, drains?
How can you hang on, when I give you only pain?
Anemic, I turned, when lifeblood left,
And colorless I shall remain, until in my artery, reviving lifeblood gushes.
The song-bird sang at 4:54 pm on the 23rd of December, 2009.
Screaming Silence
Empty is the silence, difficult to bear,
Hollow is the heart, with vivid apparitions, it does scare,
Blank is the mind, as plain as unfilled paper,
Vacant is the consciousness, like Antarctic evening, unfamiliar.
Numb is the spirit, it simply cannot perceive,
In pessimistic tendrils caught, hope is but bleak,
The warm confidence of yesterday is vanishing like thin vapor,
And all is frigid once more, a Siberian vesper.
Haunted are the chambers, aspiration, pale and dead,
Lost as lamb, into Lion’s lair, mislead.
Vaulted is the brain with so many spaces, in between,
The spaces, which you, once used to fill...
Striated, cavernous and sunken,
The soul is deaf, to voice of reason.
Irrational, is this screaming silence, the one but I can hear,
Maddened is the Psyche, robbed of all cheer.
Void, low and depressed,
Is the receding intellect,
When you so fully ignore, friend, when you consciously evade,
It hurts this poor soul, again and again,
When a separate way you choose, when such a cruel choice you make,
I shall be netted by the screaming void, none can liberate.
Indented, notched and pitted, I am no carving,
But, friend, when you are this away and unfeeling,
Into sculpture I shall turn, slowly hardening,
And then shall return the quiet, the silence, screaming.
The depressed song-bird sang at 11:27 pm on the 21st of December, 2009.
Hollow is the heart, with vivid apparitions, it does scare,
Blank is the mind, as plain as unfilled paper,
Vacant is the consciousness, like Antarctic evening, unfamiliar.
Numb is the spirit, it simply cannot perceive,
In pessimistic tendrils caught, hope is but bleak,
The warm confidence of yesterday is vanishing like thin vapor,
And all is frigid once more, a Siberian vesper.
Haunted are the chambers, aspiration, pale and dead,
Lost as lamb, into Lion’s lair, mislead.
Vaulted is the brain with so many spaces, in between,
The spaces, which you, once used to fill...
Striated, cavernous and sunken,
The soul is deaf, to voice of reason.
Irrational, is this screaming silence, the one but I can hear,
Maddened is the Psyche, robbed of all cheer.
Void, low and depressed,
Is the receding intellect,
When you so fully ignore, friend, when you consciously evade,
It hurts this poor soul, again and again,
When a separate way you choose, when such a cruel choice you make,
I shall be netted by the screaming void, none can liberate.
Indented, notched and pitted, I am no carving,
But, friend, when you are this away and unfeeling,
Into sculpture I shall turn, slowly hardening,
And then shall return the quiet, the silence, screaming.
The depressed song-bird sang at 11:27 pm on the 21st of December, 2009.
Miming Pen
Eftsoons thou, to abandon, surmised,
When essential an element, unrightfully died,
Her world, the darkness did triumphantly invade,
Conquering was it, sunless, vague.
In its hypnotic surrealism, the mind did succumb,
Vibrant fantasies of adolescent dream in it were entombed,
Certes, this was simply the case, ...
Mind was drowned in ghastly a vortex.
Inside its electric creepers, slick and flashy,
Is thy empire, stretching for eternity,
Where nothing grows, where nothing is nourished,
Where things are idle and aren’t quick.
In such numb a state, in so wild a kingdom,
In such a nebulous, starless dominion,
How could former talent ever be preserved?
How could, ability stay, on writing fingers?
But in pain, the talent didn’t gladly sleep,
It never dozed, the act, acted catalyst,
Because strangle her voice, the poetess cannot,
Moved her pen, throughout, in you, it was entirely engrossed.
Because when poetess, you decide to fully orphan,
She labors hard to make you immortal,
Because the pen shan’t fail, the words revoke you often,
When writer enshrines you in her Cimmerian portal.
Because in your righteous act, you did provoke,
The latent capacity was sparked, it flowed,
In her world, as magic speaks, as shall be,
And today, she ordains her words to capture every receding memory.
The miming pen knows no day or night,
The hands know no rest, the thoughts, no respite,
Till sorry be accepted, till apology allowed,
The miming pen shan’t ever be slowed!
Sporadic is capacity, the heart, so utterly sorry!
Iron is the will, it shall, for the poetess plead,
Until her days are done, until forever ends,
Know that, poetess's repeated apology shall scream the miming pen!
The song-bird spoke at 1:41 a.m on the 18th of December, 2009.
When essential an element, unrightfully died,
Her world, the darkness did triumphantly invade,
Conquering was it, sunless, vague.
In its hypnotic surrealism, the mind did succumb,
Vibrant fantasies of adolescent dream in it were entombed,
Certes, this was simply the case, ...
Mind was drowned in ghastly a vortex.
Inside its electric creepers, slick and flashy,
Is thy empire, stretching for eternity,
Where nothing grows, where nothing is nourished,
Where things are idle and aren’t quick.
In such numb a state, in so wild a kingdom,
In such a nebulous, starless dominion,
How could former talent ever be preserved?
How could, ability stay, on writing fingers?
But in pain, the talent didn’t gladly sleep,
It never dozed, the act, acted catalyst,
Because strangle her voice, the poetess cannot,
Moved her pen, throughout, in you, it was entirely engrossed.
Because when poetess, you decide to fully orphan,
She labors hard to make you immortal,
Because the pen shan’t fail, the words revoke you often,
When writer enshrines you in her Cimmerian portal.
Because in your righteous act, you did provoke,
The latent capacity was sparked, it flowed,
In her world, as magic speaks, as shall be,
And today, she ordains her words to capture every receding memory.
The miming pen knows no day or night,
The hands know no rest, the thoughts, no respite,
Till sorry be accepted, till apology allowed,
The miming pen shan’t ever be slowed!
Sporadic is capacity, the heart, so utterly sorry!
Iron is the will, it shall, for the poetess plead,
Until her days are done, until forever ends,
Know that, poetess's repeated apology shall scream the miming pen!
The song-bird spoke at 1:41 a.m on the 18th of December, 2009.
Frosty Window
When frosty window, reminiscing palm grazed,
In needs of removing gathering haze,
Impulsively, the words, shaky hand traced,
On wintry window, the ghost of a name.
Frosty window, now epithet holds,
Also her life, her dreams, her soul,
Frosty window, cold, with morning dew clinging,
With past concealed in simple a spelling.
To frosty window, wander yearning eyne,
Stopping at the name, forthwith inscribed.
In many moist and teary a letter,
Piety and love are rediscovered.
One word it taketh to tell the tale,
Of prince, who so quickly bade,
Goodbye in so much of a haste,
Never to come back again.
One word, it taketh, to considerably seize,
Flavor of amorous reverie,
In one word, the frosty window bitterly orates,
The story of a girl, in such a sorry state.
No matter the torment, no matter the pain,
No matter hollow promises, no matter her bane,
No matter the woe, no matter the grief,
The name on frosty window is special, so she thinks.
The sun now emerges, he curiously peeks,
With her emotions, playing hide-and-seek,
In fiery determination, he easily steals,
The loving memory on window she had tried to keep.
Erased is the memory, lost is the word,
Clear is the window, laconic, unadorned,
But clouded is the mind, vague and displaced,
Lost in the name on window, so it shall remain.
The songbird sang at 7:56 pm on the 15th of December 2009.
The Lonely Portrait
Long ago, the portrait was made,
With rosewood, sturdy, it was framed,
Picture-perfect was it, so debonair.
And my blank wall, it was used to decorate.
There it is, now, the lonely portrait,
Which with love, to me, you did entrust,
There it is, now, the lonely portrait,
Old, antique and gathering dust.
I was young then, blushing nineteen,
And you must have been no older than diffident twenty,
And together, we looked so lovely,
Back then, when I signed letters with my yours truly.
Just look at the lonely portrait, from which we happily smile!!
Look at your simple a stance, your very brown eyes!
Look at me, all bundled up in soft cotton!
Appearing so callow, girlish and old fashioned!
Aha, do you remember that day, when our picture was taken?
On your high and windy terrace, where with your humor, you had heartened?
Do you recollect squirming, as the picture was clicked,
Did you notice, then, my parting playful wink?
Now hangs the portrait, crooked on plastered wall,
And sometimes, even children don’t recall,
“Excuse me, but who was that?” questions the occasional aunt.
“Oh, it was someone close to my heart,” I ruefully respond.
Lonely is the portrait, that’s true, my dear,
Exposed, the photograph will slowly fade,
But I wanted you to know, that in my heart, the picture remains clear,
In my unforgetful mind, memory is retained; I shan’t forget your keepsake.
The song-bird sang at 12:27 am on the 14th of December, 2009.
With rosewood, sturdy, it was framed,
Picture-perfect was it, so debonair.
And my blank wall, it was used to decorate.
There it is, now, the lonely portrait,
Which with love, to me, you did entrust,
There it is, now, the lonely portrait,
Old, antique and gathering dust.
I was young then, blushing nineteen,
And you must have been no older than diffident twenty,
And together, we looked so lovely,
Back then, when I signed letters with my yours truly.
Just look at the lonely portrait, from which we happily smile!!
Look at your simple a stance, your very brown eyes!
Look at me, all bundled up in soft cotton!
Appearing so callow, girlish and old fashioned!
Aha, do you remember that day, when our picture was taken?
On your high and windy terrace, where with your humor, you had heartened?
Do you recollect squirming, as the picture was clicked,
Did you notice, then, my parting playful wink?
Now hangs the portrait, crooked on plastered wall,
And sometimes, even children don’t recall,
“Excuse me, but who was that?” questions the occasional aunt.
“Oh, it was someone close to my heart,” I ruefully respond.
Lonely is the portrait, that’s true, my dear,
Exposed, the photograph will slowly fade,
But I wanted you to know, that in my heart, the picture remains clear,
In my unforgetful mind, memory is retained; I shan’t forget your keepsake.
The song-bird sang at 12:27 am on the 14th of December, 2009.
Nectar of Agave
Merchant of aristocratic lineage,
In sweet nectar of Agave, chose to trade,
Quickly, his fortune was made,
Thanks to the milky sap of Agave.
Prominent, the merchant, the plant had made,
Ungrateful was the trader, to the humble Agave,
His wealth, he openly displayed,
“I’m rich because I deserve it!” he brayed.
Swollen pride, and bloated ego,
He mothered, and allowed it to grow,
He did not acknowledge Agave’s part,
In bringing him acclaim, in making him prosperous.
When the healing nectar touched his stingy lip,
He fed on its sweetness, relishing,
Unselfishly, the Agave gave,
Money, health, and so much fame.
One day, to the lands, when famine came,
For water, pleaded the dependent Agave,
But the affluent merchant had turned ignorant,
He let the Agave wilt, negligent.
And all of the plant gradually shriveled,
No nectar from it, could be extracted,
And with Agave’s death, downfall befell,
For the penny-pinching merchant, life turned hell.
Robbed was he of fortune, so hastily accumulated,
Gone was the fame, so briefly cherished,
All his products were completely outsold,
The generous plant was then, wistfully remembered.
Of Agave, the merchant still thinks,
At his empty vials, staring,
With juice, sweet, he hopes to fill,
Giving Agave the respect it deserves, the coming spring.
The songbird sang at 11:37 pm on the 13th of December, 2009
Bad Enough?
Pretty I was not,
Of empathy, I was short,
Love, I did not hold in bounty,
I was insolent, I did not know courtesy.
Was I bad enough, for thee?
Stubborn was I, wicked and evil,
Narrow-minded and boastful, I was impossible.
Stone-cold and dormant, did you think I was heartless?
Rotten and fiendish, did you think I knew no kindness?
Was I bad enough, for thee?
Grace, I lacked, in every sense.
But you still called me enchantress.
Was I deceitful, cunning and immoral?
Before you, did I appear vile?
Was I bad enough for thee?
Was I too silly, stupid, a creature?
Beauty, did I lack, in facial feature?
Was I impudent, puerile and guilty?
Was that why you decided to let me be?
Was I bad enough for thee?
Was I immoral, sinful and beastly?
Did I ever appear bossy?
Was I too self-involved and preachy?
Did I laugh at the wrong jokes, was I lazy?
Was I bad enough for thee?
Did I swear too much, Stinging words, did I speak?
Was I imposing, did I force you to stay with me?
Was I a con artist, did I repeatedly cheat?
Did I play a double-game, or secrets did I leak?
Was I bad enough for thee?
Was I barbaric, was I insane?
Was I keen of hurting others, did I believe in sly games?
Was I a monster, who simply liked to scare?
Was I unfaithful, did I ever ask for more than my share?
Was I bad enough for thee?
Did I scream too loud, did I only complain?
Did I treat you in disrespect, your character, did I taint?
Was I just too morose, too full of myself and self-centered?
Was I eccentric, did I appear weird?
Was I bad enough for thee?
Was I dishonest, crooked and false?
Your mettle, did I purposely try to mar?
Didn’t I pray for your safety, from afar?
Didn’t I tell you that you were my shining star?
Was I bad enough for thee?
I was not appealing, I was not delicate,
I wasn’t dainty, charming or perfect.
But this I was, a very true friend,
I was loyal and unwavering, but was that insufficient?
Was I bad enough for thee?
The song-bird spoke at 6:53 pm on the 13th of Decemeber, 2009.
Of empathy, I was short,
Love, I did not hold in bounty,
I was insolent, I did not know courtesy.
Was I bad enough, for thee?
Stubborn was I, wicked and evil,
Narrow-minded and boastful, I was impossible.
Stone-cold and dormant, did you think I was heartless?
Rotten and fiendish, did you think I knew no kindness?
Was I bad enough, for thee?
Grace, I lacked, in every sense.
But you still called me enchantress.
Was I deceitful, cunning and immoral?
Before you, did I appear vile?
Was I bad enough for thee?
Was I too silly, stupid, a creature?
Beauty, did I lack, in facial feature?
Was I impudent, puerile and guilty?
Was that why you decided to let me be?
Was I bad enough for thee?
Was I immoral, sinful and beastly?
Did I ever appear bossy?
Was I too self-involved and preachy?
Did I laugh at the wrong jokes, was I lazy?
Was I bad enough for thee?
Did I swear too much, Stinging words, did I speak?
Was I imposing, did I force you to stay with me?
Was I a con artist, did I repeatedly cheat?
Did I play a double-game, or secrets did I leak?
Was I bad enough for thee?
Was I barbaric, was I insane?
Was I keen of hurting others, did I believe in sly games?
Was I a monster, who simply liked to scare?
Was I unfaithful, did I ever ask for more than my share?
Was I bad enough for thee?
Did I scream too loud, did I only complain?
Did I treat you in disrespect, your character, did I taint?
Was I just too morose, too full of myself and self-centered?
Was I eccentric, did I appear weird?
Was I bad enough for thee?
Was I dishonest, crooked and false?
Your mettle, did I purposely try to mar?
Didn’t I pray for your safety, from afar?
Didn’t I tell you that you were my shining star?
Was I bad enough for thee?
I was not appealing, I was not delicate,
I wasn’t dainty, charming or perfect.
But this I was, a very true friend,
I was loyal and unwavering, but was that insufficient?
Was I bad enough for thee?
The song-bird spoke at 6:53 pm on the 13th of Decemeber, 2009.
The Dream
‘Twas midnight soon, and the writing fingers didn’t slumber,
Swiftly they moved, and five poems were authored,
Even the mooning poetess didn’t have an answer,
When you asked her how she did it, in apparent wonder.
Five poems, all dedicated to you,
Were written down, when you didn’t have a clue,
That the poetess still remembered every single sentence,
At midnight, she typed, in remorseful penitence.
When wriggling worm of idea, was off her,
When the creative phase was over,
She curled up to rest, tired.
But in her dreams, returned, wishful desire.
In world, anew, golden sands, shifting,
She found herself, by the ancient pyramind.
Sandstorm, her hair, forcibly whipping,
Calling your name, on rock, she tripped.
The sand, once again, was on her lash,
Particulate, but mighty, they buried her, punishing and harsh,
Even in quagmire, as she helplessly slipped,
To you she called, as her soul, the sand took.
Alive again, but in different a place,
She was about to meet Satan, once again,
Before your trembling hand,a book she did thrust,
Read it, she said, it’s full of my words.
Scaling an impossible mountain is she,
Inexperienced, scared, and weary,
On rock face she stands, stalling.
Your company, silently begging.
But it is only in dreams that she craves,
For you to look to her, to be her friend,
Won’t you forgive the poetess, ever again?
To prove your human, a broken heart, can’t you mend?
The song bird sang at 5:15 pm on the 13th of December, 2009.
Swiftly they moved, and five poems were authored,
Even the mooning poetess didn’t have an answer,
When you asked her how she did it, in apparent wonder.
Five poems, all dedicated to you,
Were written down, when you didn’t have a clue,
That the poetess still remembered every single sentence,
At midnight, she typed, in remorseful penitence.
When wriggling worm of idea, was off her,
When the creative phase was over,
She curled up to rest, tired.
But in her dreams, returned, wishful desire.
In world, anew, golden sands, shifting,
She found herself, by the ancient pyramind.
Sandstorm, her hair, forcibly whipping,
Calling your name, on rock, she tripped.
The sand, once again, was on her lash,
Particulate, but mighty, they buried her, punishing and harsh,
Even in quagmire, as she helplessly slipped,
To you she called, as her soul, the sand took.
Alive again, but in different a place,
She was about to meet Satan, once again,
Before your trembling hand,a book she did thrust,
Read it, she said, it’s full of my words.
Scaling an impossible mountain is she,
Inexperienced, scared, and weary,
On rock face she stands, stalling.
Your company, silently begging.
But it is only in dreams that she craves,
For you to look to her, to be her friend,
Won’t you forgive the poetess, ever again?
To prove your human, a broken heart, can’t you mend?
The song bird sang at 5:15 pm on the 13th of December, 2009.
Enchantress Speaks
I was once called an enchantress,
By the seraph, who upon me did impress,
Words, affectionate, that fondly assured,
That I was loved with a love, genuine and true.
Who was enchanted, and who was the witch?
Whose was the spell and whose the trick?
Who was it, that first unconsciously fell?
The kindly nymph or the unwilling enchantress?
If beauty was time, you had remarked,
The enchantress would have been eternity,
In her tender fingers, you had sparked,
Passion, translated, euphoric, and heavenly.
Who was enchanted, and who was the witch?
Whose was the spell and whose the trick?
Enchantress has today lost her wand,
And the amicable seraph has triumphantly won,
The enchantress, the nymph does not seek,
But enchantress sees the nymph by her talking creek.
To October winds, the failing magician her song, utters,
So that they may carry her wishes to the far-away land,
Where the nymph hides, secure and snug,
She prays her message might find the divine hand.
The enchantress told the winds that she had done a wrong,
But she sent her apologies through her song,
Because she didn’t intend to trick anyone,
Most of all, to the loving nymph that she longs.
Now, you can judicious, fast and quick.
Who was enchanted, and who was the witch?
Whose was the spell and whose the trick?
The final truth, has to be this,
The enchantress was not a witch,
It was the nymph that was exclusive, exotic,
And the “enchantress” was just somebody human—unintentionally erring.
The songbird spoke at 1:22 am on the 13th of December, 2009.
By the seraph, who upon me did impress,
Words, affectionate, that fondly assured,
That I was loved with a love, genuine and true.
Who was enchanted, and who was the witch?
Whose was the spell and whose the trick?
Who was it, that first unconsciously fell?
The kindly nymph or the unwilling enchantress?
If beauty was time, you had remarked,
The enchantress would have been eternity,
In her tender fingers, you had sparked,
Passion, translated, euphoric, and heavenly.
Who was enchanted, and who was the witch?
Whose was the spell and whose the trick?
Enchantress has today lost her wand,
And the amicable seraph has triumphantly won,
The enchantress, the nymph does not seek,
But enchantress sees the nymph by her talking creek.
To October winds, the failing magician her song, utters,
So that they may carry her wishes to the far-away land,
Where the nymph hides, secure and snug,
She prays her message might find the divine hand.
The enchantress told the winds that she had done a wrong,
But she sent her apologies through her song,
Because she didn’t intend to trick anyone,
Most of all, to the loving nymph that she longs.
Now, you can judicious, fast and quick.
Who was enchanted, and who was the witch?
Whose was the spell and whose the trick?
The final truth, has to be this,
The enchantress was not a witch,
It was the nymph that was exclusive, exotic,
And the “enchantress” was just somebody human—unintentionally erring.
The songbird spoke at 1:22 am on the 13th of December, 2009.
Angels Fly And Mortals Die
“Angels Fly and Mortals Die”
Was the unanticipated reply,
To a cryptic query, disputed in whisper,
But all that was before you disappeared.
“Angels Fly and Mortals Die”
Was the phrase that was fed to a mobile,
In a speeding car, in the dead of the night,
In velvety blackness, when nobody was in sight.
Angel was you, Mortal was me,
But that was before you could leave,
True to your name, you flew, on feathery wings,
Angelic, you were, in everything.
Angel were you, that also meant,
Eternal youth, to you, god had lent,
Strength, humor and intelligence,
Shined through you, brilliant.
Pure as nectar, honeyed and sweet,
And beautiful as wet earth, to the eye a treat,
Refreshing as the song-bird’s chirpy greet,
You were to the mortal, a masterpiece.
Angel were you, wonderful and blessed,
With love, a twin, two hearts cared,
You know that you would always be adored,
As you flew, in awe, they beheld.
The mortal was human, filled with empty pride,
She appeared impolite and often lied,
But the mortal assumed that mistakes were small,
She was an unmindful fool, and thought that the angel was tall.
When she broke the treaty, the angel took off,
Into the beckoning azure, never to look back,
And when he left, her mistake, the mortal did realize,
But all was already consumed in wakening fire.
The angel were you, and you did fly,
As promised, you left, elusive and sly,
On your solid principles, you did rely,
You kept your promise, you did not deny.
Guilt-ridden, sorry, and penitent
The mortal was truly repentant,
Her entire life was slowly spent,
In mournful and sad lament.
But the mortal was only alive so long,
Even if she was human, with the angel she belonged,
But time caught up and the mortal died.
And now all that remains is a once upon a time.
Because Angels Fly and Mortals Die….
Because angels fly and mortals die….
The songbird sang at 10:11 pm, on the 12th of December 2009.
Was the unanticipated reply,
To a cryptic query, disputed in whisper,
But all that was before you disappeared.
“Angels Fly and Mortals Die”
Was the phrase that was fed to a mobile,
In a speeding car, in the dead of the night,
In velvety blackness, when nobody was in sight.
Angel was you, Mortal was me,
But that was before you could leave,
True to your name, you flew, on feathery wings,
Angelic, you were, in everything.
Angel were you, that also meant,
Eternal youth, to you, god had lent,
Strength, humor and intelligence,
Shined through you, brilliant.
Pure as nectar, honeyed and sweet,
And beautiful as wet earth, to the eye a treat,
Refreshing as the song-bird’s chirpy greet,
You were to the mortal, a masterpiece.
Angel were you, wonderful and blessed,
With love, a twin, two hearts cared,
You know that you would always be adored,
As you flew, in awe, they beheld.
The mortal was human, filled with empty pride,
She appeared impolite and often lied,
But the mortal assumed that mistakes were small,
She was an unmindful fool, and thought that the angel was tall.
When she broke the treaty, the angel took off,
Into the beckoning azure, never to look back,
And when he left, her mistake, the mortal did realize,
But all was already consumed in wakening fire.
The angel were you, and you did fly,
As promised, you left, elusive and sly,
On your solid principles, you did rely,
You kept your promise, you did not deny.
Guilt-ridden, sorry, and penitent
The mortal was truly repentant,
Her entire life was slowly spent,
In mournful and sad lament.
But the mortal was only alive so long,
Even if she was human, with the angel she belonged,
But time caught up and the mortal died.
And now all that remains is a once upon a time.
Because Angels Fly and Mortals Die….
Because angels fly and mortals die….
The songbird sang at 10:11 pm, on the 12th of December 2009.
Sleepless Wait
Disease doth clamp mine chest,
Wriggling in strange unrest,
Delirious, the mind doth chant,
A nameless word, non-existent.
Sleepless is the primary instinct,
Fatigued is mine faculty, it hath reached the brink,
Patient is the sleepless wait,
The eye shan’t blink, even if thou art late.
Reasons, the sleepless eye hath forgotten,
Insane and tired, it's dependent on intuition,
Burning strong, with wild an ardor,
Sleepless eye neglects even the night’s deathly pallor.
Until angered spirit looks this way,
Restless, mine eye shall remain.
Even if times do change,
The sleepless eye's strength is permanent.
In earnest, the sleepless eye shall await,
A joyful return, it does anticipate.
The song bird sang at 9:17 pm on the 12th of December, 2009.
Wriggling in strange unrest,
Delirious, the mind doth chant,
A nameless word, non-existent.
Sleepless is the primary instinct,
Fatigued is mine faculty, it hath reached the brink,
Patient is the sleepless wait,
The eye shan’t blink, even if thou art late.
Reasons, the sleepless eye hath forgotten,
Insane and tired, it's dependent on intuition,
Burning strong, with wild an ardor,
Sleepless eye neglects even the night’s deathly pallor.
Until angered spirit looks this way,
Restless, mine eye shall remain.
Even if times do change,
The sleepless eye's strength is permanent.
In earnest, the sleepless eye shall await,
A joyful return, it does anticipate.
The song bird sang at 9:17 pm on the 12th of December, 2009.
Blinded
Wasted as unfruitful morn,
of November’s cold curiosity born,
Aimless as the roaring sea,
Hapless as one could be,
Agonized as the struggling salmon,
Wading in waters, bear-ridden,
Threatened as the innocent boy,
By loaded guns, terrorized.
Parched as the infertile earth, barren,
Suffering under sweltering sun,
Helpless as the squirming insect caught,
In between hungry beaks, sharp,
Stung by disturbed bee,
Poisoned, unknowingly,
Withering, as rose in vase,
A slow death, a cruel fate,
Shattered as porcelain,
Dropped, mindlessly,
Broken as an abandoned heart,
Wounded, and shook apart,
Torn as the notebook paper,
Unfortunate as the wool that never became sweater,
Frigid on Antarctic ice,
Cheated as dream built of lies,
I’m blinded, can you ever see?
I mourn you, why were you so indiscreet?
Why did you turn away, when I did plead,
On my agitated knees, in all honesty?
of November’s cold curiosity born,
Aimless as the roaring sea,
Hapless as one could be,
Agonized as the struggling salmon,
Wading in waters, bear-ridden,
Threatened as the innocent boy,
By loaded guns, terrorized.
Parched as the infertile earth, barren,
Suffering under sweltering sun,
Helpless as the squirming insect caught,
In between hungry beaks, sharp,
Stung by disturbed bee,
Poisoned, unknowingly,
Withering, as rose in vase,
A slow death, a cruel fate,
Shattered as porcelain,
Dropped, mindlessly,
Broken as an abandoned heart,
Wounded, and shook apart,
Torn as the notebook paper,
Unfortunate as the wool that never became sweater,
Frigid on Antarctic ice,
Cheated as dream built of lies,
I’m blinded, can you ever see?
I mourn you, why were you so indiscreet?
Why did you turn away, when I did plead,
On my agitated knees, in all honesty?
Tawny
In tawny depths of your eager eye,
The dreamer had once lost her sight,
Now in despair the sable cries,
Blinded by unseeing white.
Bright canary, evening prairie bred,
Dances with the flaming textures of yellow and red,
And even the saffron of sacred thread,
Can’t compete with Tawny’s virtue, I said.
From an old photograph, nostalgic sepia beckons,
With reminding innocence, memories awaken,
But Sepia’s gallant mischief,
Only makes unhealing wounds prick.
From English coats and painted walls,
The classy opulence of beige calls,
But beige’s suave grace fails to enthrall,
Before your elegance, beige is small.
With passion, fevered Amber speaks,
But she’s ain’t the special brown, she lacks your severity.
In her persistent effort, she struggles to reach,
The potency of your hypnotic allure, simply unique.
Lovely fawn of vernal birth,
With fierce pride starts to smirk,
On the dreamer he tries his luck,
But his crafty plans do not work.
Shy plum hiding in fruit, now ripening,
Timidly looks to the dreamer, imploring,
Filled with good cheer, a hopeful song he sings,
But tuneless is his melody, the dreamer finds no meaning.
Attractive is the pomegranate,
With keen intent, wicked, he tries to infatuate,
The juicy richness is used as bait,
But the dreamer is heedless; she skips past him, unaware.
Under the unforgiving Libran skies,
Feeding earth’s damp moisture, greedy maize thrives,
In his effortless beauty, he continually tries,
To match the pulchritude of your invisible eyes.
Peach, dull fallow and peppercorn,
From your rosy benevolence, have something to learn,
In declaring his superiority, canary is stubborn,
But he is not what the dreamer so deeply yearns.
The pleasing turquoise of tortoise-shell,
In the majestic rhythm of oceanic waves, swells,
With a burst of sea-spray, his story he tells,
But the dreamer dismisses him with a cruel farewell.
Apricot cures not, the insatiable thirst,
He is handsome, yea, but offers little comfort,
To the dreamer’s heart, now so hurt,
She misses the tawny in her every breath.
On the spirited falcon’s soaring wings, pure russet can be found,
In the narcissistic lupine backs, she is apparent and bold,
Soil, laterite, sees her presence, glaring and loud,
And yet, what russet does, to the dreamer, does not matter.
Primrose is pretty as she is pompous,
Petite, cheery, she laughs and giggles,
The merry, careless morning chortle,
Makes the dreamer remember fluid eyes, supple.
As the teashops, the dreamer passes,
Chocolate of hot stove, with aroma tempts,
To taste the irresistible cocoa, the ladies gather,
But with shivering bones, continues the dreamer, knowing that tawny was warmer.
Henna, Khaki, Rust and flamboyant Ochre,
In lovely shades, everywhere linger,
Chrome, chestnut and healing ginger,
Simply do not satisfy her.
Vandyke brown on chrysal wings,
Living Crimson to her cheeks, do not bring,
Peach, pear and tangerine,
In making her week-kneed, cannot succeed.
Tawny’s ardent brown is past all praise,
His vivaciousness, topaz and onyx cannot wear,
Brown’s every single shade,
To tawny’s specialty, cannot compare.
For him, the dreamer searches, distraught,
In growing fir, and citric lemon, he is deeply sought,
But even to her searching eyes, tawny doesn’t respond,
Unfruitful, the faithful black weeps, to reach the tawny, now begone.
The song-bird sang on the 12th of December,
3:07 am
Why?
Everything in life is started with a purpose. Like a blog. Like a growing garden. Like a hobby. Like a book. Like this post.
To express, to enjoy, to read, to imply.
Many reasons.
And, similarly, there is a reason why the Riddling Song Bird decided to speak. She wanted to mend a broken heart, through her songs. The song bird just wants to make life beautiful through her songs.
Sometimes, we make mistakes. Big ones. Huge mistakes, that cannot be forgiven.
Until you say your big sorry, in all the right places.
Some smart birds migrate.
Others, stay behind, to help the struggling hatchling with clipped wings.
Shadow stayed behind. And Shadow wants to help. She wants her sorry to reach the hatchling.
So, the riddling song bird decided to sing, her very "sorry" song.
Not one.
But a hundred.
I believe everybody has a song-bird in them. My song-bird is called "shadow". She perches at the edge of my imagination, always ready to sing. Here is where her screetches are recorded, by a vigilant writer, who is listening to her every syllable.
And that's why the song-bird sings.
She sings, through poems. Through words. Through stories. Through pictures.
And she shan't fly away, until the time is right.
Welcome, to shadow's world.
The riddling song-bird earnestly hopes that you enjoy your stay here, that you enjoy her songs.
And I hope so too!!!!
The song-bird is no expert a singer. It's an amateur. But it hopes to learn. To sing better. But one thing, it doens't want to stop doing. It doens't want to stop riddling. It is natural to my song-bird, and Shadow has always built dreams through her riddles. All her songs, pictures and stories are origninal and copyrighted. The Song-bird assums that you will not plagerize!
And the Song-bird thanks you for visiting. For being part of the grand sorry that it's going to screetch.
Thanks for being a part of the difference the song-bird so desperately wants to make.
Welcome, to Shadow's beautiful world!
Sincerely,
The vigilant writer. :)
Singing Along
Shadow's First Award
Beautiful Blogger Award Recipient
Creative Commons License
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About Me
- Shadow
- ""Beauty is truth, truth beauty," – that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know..." said Keats. That, is the essence to the songbird's poetry. Welcome to my perch!