Aware

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The soul in a perpetual state of drunkenness
Staggers,
from one trigger to another
grasping for an awareness lost
in its awakening of consciousness


In response to today’s Daily prompt

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In Broken Images

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Ron Hicks, Gray Day, Milan

He is quick, thinking in clear images;
I am slow, thinking in broken images.

He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images;
I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images,

Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance;
Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance.

Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact,
Questioning their relevance, I question the fact.

When the fact fails him, he questions his senses;
When the fact fails me, I approve my senses.

He continues quick and dull in his clear images;
I continue slow and sharp in my broken images.

He in a new confusion of his understanding;
I in a new understanding of my confusion.

Robert Graves

Autonomy

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You must remember Tim,
Tim was the little boy, whom life
handed a blank slate, and when Tim
asked – what should I do with it
Life replied – why Tim anything you like

Tim is also the little boy
The little boy who doesn’t conform
Tim, our Tim, is the Tim, who doesn’t give a fuck

Tim has independent thought
A much scarce resource in our times –
autonomy – he owns his life’s plot
Even if it doesn’t work out some times.


In response to today’s Daily Post Prompt

Aimless

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Mary had a little lamb,
its fleece was as white as snow,
and everywhere that Mary went
the lamb was sure to go.

But, of course, the lamb is just a metaphor
For Mary’s clingy friend Christopher
This timeless rhyme is actually about
How aimless Christopher never comes out

It followed her to school one day,
Which was against the rule;
It made the children laugh and play
To see a lamb at school.

So in the end when the children cry
Why the lamb loves Mary so?
The teacher in her reply, meant to state –
When you can’t dream, you learn to imitate.


Here is an alternate ending to this poem –

Mary had a little lamb,
its fleece was as white as snow,
and everywhere that Mary went
the lamb was sure to go.

But, of course, the lamb is just a metaphor
For Mary’s clingy friend Christopher
This timeless rhyme is actually about
How aimless Christopher never comes out

He follows her to school one day,
And even when the teacher turns him out
He patiently waits about
Till Mary re-appears.

Why does the lamb trail Mary though?
The eager children cry;
Why, if you can’t lead, you have to follow
The teacher thus replies.


Which one do you like ?


In response to today’s Daily Post Prompt
Picture Credits – here.

Perfect

Stand up, sit down,
Do this, don’t do that
Write in cursive,
Speak in bold
Life your chin,
put your chest out
pull up your jeans
button your shirt
don’t gel your hair
don’t laugh so much
cover your mouth
while you sneeze
don’t let your hair
fly in the breeze
don’t lie, don’t cheat
no funny business in the backseat
Be kind to women
and to kids
do not call anyone
a pig
no cussing, no curses
respect the Church
and you must worship
not just your work, but also god
follow the rules, even when
they are flawed
stand up, sit down,
your back, keep it straight
there you go, now you are Perfect.


In response to today’s Daily Prompt

Connected.

“A call for Mr. Hopkins from Mr. Bell,” said the operator
Click. Snap. Click. Done.
“Mr. Bell, you are connected. Go ahead and take the call.”
Mr. Bell, “well this is awkward, I much rather fancy the telegram”

Ting, ting, press, click.
90-912-334
Press phone button.
Really old Nokia Phone.
Connected.
“Hi darling, well this is awkward,
I much rather fancy the phone”.

Speed Dial. Press 1.
Call Tim. Connected.
Tim cannot be reached right now.
Please leave a message after the beep

“Can’t reach you! What is the point of
all this connectedness? ”

<Enter social media mode name>
Click Message. Connected
Type – call me Clara.
One tick, two ticks,
Ticks turn blue.
Clara is typing…
“quite much like modern-day telegram
isn’t this?”

The circle is complete, connected.
Not yet, wait.

In the wee morning hours,
Lying in bed Macy’s lazy hand
reaches for Mike,
Mike is away for a jog.
Macy thinks – I am making pancakes.
Connected.
5 miles away, Mike smiles.


In response to today’s WordPress Prompt

Blank

Tim was given a blank slate.
” What do I do with this?”, asked Tim.
“Why Tim, anything you like, anything”, replied Life.

So, Tim, took a white chalk
and drew, and scribbled, and wrote
Till his friends called out to him
“Lets go Tim, lets go out for a walk”

Life looked at the white slate,
“Tim has done his bit, now so should I”,
And in threw life –
influences, surroundings, experiences ornate

But Tim had free-will, and every time
Life wrote on the slate
Tim said, “Oh no you don’t, that’s mine,
It’s mine to dictate.”

Life wrote, Tim erased,
Tim created, life debased
On it went – Life, Tim and the slate
Back home, they called it – Tim’s fate.


In response to today’s Daily Post Prompt

 

 

Phase

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It’s just a phase
And like all else
This too shall pass,
Said she, when he told
Her – I love you

It’s just a phase
And like all else
This too shall pass,
Said she, when her family
Lost all their fortune.

It’s just a phase
And like all else
This too shall pass
Said she, when her sister
Battled depression and doubt

After the night,
Comes the day
After the day,
Comes the night
Life is in phases
And everything passes.
Everything –


In response to today’s daily post prompt
Image link here

Locked

ron hicks validity

There was a house in the street
this house was always locked
Everyday life moved around it
and no-one ever bothered to knock

Late in the night when life became still
One could hear the house talk
But no-one ever bothered to knock
And the house remain locked

Such is life, it always moves around
And no-one often knows
what resides behind
locked doors –


In response to today Daily Prompt -
Image link - here

The secret

And all the charms of face or voice
Which I in others see
Are but the recollected choice
Of what I felt for thee.

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I loved thee, though I told thee not,
Right earlily and long,
Thou wert my joy in every spot,
My theme in every song.

And when I saw a stranger face
Where beauty held the claim,
I gave it like a secret grace
The being of thy name.

And all the charms of face or voice
Which I in others see
Are but the recollected choice
Of what I felt for thee.

– John Clare

Giving up smoking


There’s not a Shakespeare sonnet
Or a Beethoven quartet
That’s easier to like than you
Or harder to forget.

You think that sound’s extravagant?
I haven’t finished yet –
I like you more than I would like
To have a cigarette.

– Wendy Cope, 1945


 

He called her Carolina

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I want to build a shack on a shore that looks like a shipwreck on sand with a lighthouse on top. She would stand in a slanting titanic position and go by the name Cafe Carolina…
And inside there would be bars, cafes, restaurants with big ass balconies
And cute waitresses in pirate outfits.

And while sad men would gather around the poker table
And while some always won for some lost
Some happier than some not
Breezy still knew all his bluffs from far away
sharpening his cue near the snooker table post.

And yes, She would flick her knife at him from under the hat
And yes, he would kiss an older woman
who would beat all the younger ones by miles at that..
And while strangers would find their world strange
The penthouse would floor itself in Penrose tiles..
The cartoonist around the blue horizon
would still be sketching the comic strip of post modern lives..
The Jazz would still be conspiring without any given lies.

Carolina took in all.. the old, the bald, the tall
the ones judgemental, the ones not at all..
Against the bright orange sunset
Against the all powerful judgemental god
That day Carolina stood tall.


A gem by a friend of mine, yes you have read his works, but in case you haven’t here they are

Do not go gentle into that good night

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Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-Dylan Thomas

Make elephant faces at each other.. and later share a laugh together.

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I miss you, I am a bit stoned, but I miss you none the less.
I see traces of you in the fading memories of our evenings shared
It’s been so long you are almost missing in even the towns of my past
I cannot gather your face and yet I still remember..
I remember how you tilted your head a little every time you smiled
I remember the time we spent beside the pond to later chase the bus
I remember the times when life was still full of possibilities
and how we dreamed of so many that never got found..
I remember you..

I remember the things you said and yet didn’t
And yet I cant find you in the towns of my past..
I have fallen in love with many and have fallen out of love
I have been to lands far, quite far
And I will be there in some period of my life,
In an airport of some part of the world,
I will be there and you will be too, playing with your little daughter
I would be surprised to know you have aged with me too..
For in my memories you are still looking down at a page full of equations that you don’t quite get
And chew a fat strand of your hair in the process..
And while a beautiful girl would be kind enough to bring coffee for her and for me too..
I would see two versions of you..
Make elephant faces at each other.. and later share a laugh together.

– Maverick


 

This friend of mine, a physicist, wrote this poem. He will probably put it up on his blog ( yes, he sketches too, a cartoonist he is) too but then he is very lazy. But if you have really liked his poem, then please like it here.

Her soul lies in a shroud

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Her soul lies in a shroud
of doubt, hurt and loss

Her soul lies still –
but haven’t we been here too many times?

-A thought, a word, a trigger

Green is the path ahead…
a thought, a word, a trigger-


Pic Credit – here

Not Cherishing

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Should would could
sigh…
Most of life is lost between these …these spaces


Anyway, in the last post – Next day, she got in touch with him – I had added a slight shade to the woman which I was really hoping something would dissect ( Sabiscuit, I mean you ) : she was famous, she had power. Now imagine someone you idolize or fantasize about (Clooney, Alba, Mathew, anyone) or for-the-lack-of-better-words-lets-say someone way out of your league, you encounter them, you are obviously fascinated by them, what if they return the fascination, what happens then?

Do you know when I was 16

Do you know when I was 16
I would dream and see
My life how it would be, my life now I could see

Now I am 25 and I don’t see
The life ahead or how it can be
Hope has died and left me wanting
Hope has died, thus I am mourning

Here it is, your now

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Is time moving fast for all of us?
Are the moments fleeting a little too quick?
Is time moving fast for you?

Have we forgotten to live?
Are we breathing for the next second?
Are we living for the next second?

Where is your now?
Is it here?
Is it now?


Photo credit – here