Sinful Dips
feminine, life, Literature, Love, Nature, poetry

Abandoned

The fear is not of drowning in your eyes,

nor sinking in those pools of translucent dews but

of being abandoned at the sides of your lips

by the myriad tear-drops.

life, Literature, Love, poetry

Abuse Mechanism

There is no individual as far as I can see who has not been either abused or inadvertently part of abusing someone. Someone brilliantly remarked in life you are abused by some and you abuse some. I don’t know whether, I agree with the statement or not , but I do feel we all need to develop a thick rhino skin to be able to withstand the conniving abuse mechanisms of certain people unfortunately of few who are closely related.

In couples very often children are used as a ploy to threaten each other. I’ve been in a position several times where I’ve been threatened that my daughter will be taken away if I try to leave. Earlier out of fear very often I’ll give in due to fear of being separated from my child but lately I’ve decided not to let the fear paralyze me and allow things to unfold. I guess once bullies and abusers are shown that you don’t fear the consequences, it breaks the whole pattern of abuse. What do you 🤔 think??

As they say there is a bigger victory awaiting after fear… . It’s disheartening that the weakest individuals among choose such mechanisms to intimidate and weaken the spirits of others. Some of us give in thinking that may be this is the end and get caught up in vicious cycle of abuse mechanism. If you feel you’ve been in similar pattern of abuse, I feel you need to first get rid of the debilitating fear and seek help, I’m sure it’s available or talk to near and dear ones.

Most importantly break the pattern of your own fear and anxiety!

History, Legend, life, Literature, Love, Nature, poetry, Self-Help, Spirtual

Devil in a Sea of Men

Disguised in the

hollow curves of

your eloquent words,

do I hear a vicious

hissing ; whispers of

a conniving heart?

Why do I visualize

a serpentine on the rock?

I’m not beguiled by

your deceptive talks.

By the tinkering of your

silver coins.

For I’ve on my hump back

burden of enough winters

to mark a

Devil in a sea of Men.

Legend, Literature, Nature

Ozymandias

PB Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Lunacy
life, Literature, Nature, poetry

Innocent

The ceremony of innocence is drowned.”

W. B Yeats

Out of ceremonial fires emerged,

tiny amber sparks of soot.

Fires were lit to please the

dormant demigod.

Saintly priest offered one thousand

ablutions to the mighty

demagogue , enthroned

on a regal Peacock Throne.

A neck was twisted, a cord broken,

out of hollow spine;

gushed ruby coloured brooks of blood.

A spectacle of blood-bath assembled

to sacrifice an Innocent at the

altar of a strapping few.

Ram's arrival
Legend, Literature, Love, Nature, poetry

Ram’s Arrival (Ramayan)

The sacred sounds of thousand conch shells

piercing through the eerie silences of deafening 

decades, a mammoth Himalayan cloud bursted 

in the Northern horizons over the legendary

kingdom of Ayodhya on the banks of

fabled Sarayu River.

 

The thundering clouds wrestled, the wombs

of giant Earth quivered, the regal blue-eyed

peahens ruffled their gilded

ruby feathers;

 

The sunken plants sprouted, oozing out their

heads to catch a glimpse of the exquisite face

of Sita with a silken complexion of molten-lava

daughter of king Janka of Mithila whose

whose beauty  launched thousand

battle-ships…

 

Adorned in the victory lap of the majestic

embellished golden elephants, swimming

across the seas far-far away from the

ghostly dark dungeons of decadent

Ravana’s sinful Lanka.

 

After slaying  Ravana’s ten monstrous

heads for the atrocious sins of holding,

his young queen captive.

 

Crowned prince Rama step a foot on the lush

lands of Ayodhya, where gilded golden domes

erected bowed to salute his triumphant

arrivals, after the exiles of the fourteen

extensive summers and winters.

 

Ancient gulmohar trees lowered their laden

branches and fluttered leaves like bells of

mythical sun temples;

 

A tear swelled up in the eyes of Rama

looking at the solar dynasty of his fore-fathers

banished by his own kin, reduced to

dwell in sinister dense woods chosen

for menial chores.

 

Rama knew the challenges that lie ahead,

sufferings he must withstand, answers he

must offer, the paths he must trod while 

 keeping his ideals supreme.

( congrats to all the devotees of Sri Ram, on the laying of foundation stone in Ayodhya, what a great day)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Inspiration, Legend, Literature, poetry

The Second Coming By W.B Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Misfortune
life, Literature, poetry

Midnight Poet

A midnight poet,

I sneak into raven

nights when they

give in to bottomless

slumbers , I see what

they turn a blind eye.

I endure much more than

what fall in my share.

I burn midnight oil to

weave sepia colored

webs of words in the

sooty corners of my

imaginary castles .

An undertaker I dig up

the icy pains from my

grey gravish heart.

You accuse me of taking

imaginary flights but

my only fault lies in the

annoying habit to feel more and

understand a little.

Yes I am emaciated and cold,

so I sew every night the cozy

blanket of my words to keep me

warm, the characters I

embroider stay awake to

keep the loneliness at bay

I am the midnight poet.