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Days ago, I Lost my Dog

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I lost my dog.
Passed have three choleric
and nomadic days,
together with restless, starless
and dreamless nights,
since my globes feasted the sight
of my precious.Likewise,
lost were periods
of breakfasts upon his bland barks,
sleep tangled to sleepless marks,
and prayers roped to his softness
in my toes.
Aye reader, Seen you tither he went?

Black, says people his color is,
rbbing the warmth of every eyeful,
and his honest eyes with same.
How he came of color such?
Wasn’t born so, Sure I am,
but maybe because of me?

Adorable.Amiable.Affable.
Words had leaked the premium miser tongues.
But Had he ever been so?
Before we knotted each other?
No, guess I. It was me.
Reader again, pursing eyes through lines,
look around and along,
he might be left or right to you.

Now lost is my dog and so is me.
What had If lost its identity too?
Barks. Beauty. Blackness.
How am I to spot it across the street?

Furthermore, Am I missing a point?
I missed the dog or he do me?
What if I ad been bestowed
of all greatness poetrised above
for that little of little creature,
and not the way around?
It dwells on certainity, I lost
those the moment my dog lost me.
With myself changed,
How will it run to me across the streets?

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Posted by on December 19, 2014 in Poetry

 

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Read Again

book of books

 

 

A pause mid busy breathings,
or quiescent midnight immensity,
time after time, pages turned slow.
A diplomatic justice to them,
as though eternal,stories are fragile,
and their birth is cautious.

Drawn were ample expanse hitherto,
tremored along yellow maplitho,
lived or died uprightly,
in dreams utopian or states dystopian,
as logic of words demanded.

Lest be said of the comfort, they showered,
likely as of in mother’s lap
which all of is known as lines of
stories or poems or plays.

Within the sentences hung to neologism,
the smell prevailed as Poe’s Raven,
or freezed as Caesar’s tableaux.
Drenching the time and space of entity obscure,
sanguine thoughts sunk in,
let duty they did, be guesswork.
In vicious tempest or tendor breeze,
pages turned slowly, and was read encore.

Page after page, truncheon ideas
cloaked amid lines, rised.
Delirium barked in, ramming
the chastity of silence, there until.
Riveted in strident stanzas,
rhymes were armours, held up.
The hushes of phrases, a revolution.
And those instants, wars fought bravely,
love stirred fervidly,
warmth won in dropped tears,
were freedom.

For inevitable cause, books may finish.
But way up from start to end,
is to begin again,
to read lines read before,
but a story, different.

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Posted by on November 29, 2014 in Poetry

 

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Waiting

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At day’s rest, another dream started.
Strangled in top of mind concealed,
crafted in time transient as avowed,
hymns of dream brimmed in,
mislaid was a part of  her,
long before known, but remembered not.

Where did I subsist?
Stood frozen in snowcapped heights?
Or sat in fried desert sand,
as one of its kind?
Or waded in depth of sea?
Oh, reminiscence of consciousness
bother me less.

And the dream stayed abridged.
Black and white illusions swarm around,
awaiting the part missed,
for it makes them thrive inside me.

Waited me too,
For cloudburst to fall vigorously, forming
branches of  love across  my dream.
And for a roof versus cold and wind,
showing of venus and stars.

Bastilled in ticking of clock,
refined seconds, of which
myself stood stranger to world awake.
I’m still waiting for her part,
that would make us through.

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Posted by on November 22, 2014 in Poetry

 

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Ripples of Love

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Shimmering full moon proliferates
itself unto mix of hushed breeze,
was cause of which,
silent ripples induced in my lake.
Unknown of reason for reasons,
made me think of her,
these very ripples.

Pray luck,
for it incepts from nil,
alike the smile sprouts in her.

Pray luck,
for it convulges to infinity,
matched to love divined in her.

Ripples spanning, it is everywhere.
In words left unspoken
later died tangled to tongue.
In sights she conferred,
illuminating the selfsame as
moon does to lake, tonight.
In love I offered,
or, she seized,
of inside hidden is a
million more loves,
replicating otherselves,
furthermore reflecting the
galaxy of replicas,
and kindred of those in lakes, never ending.

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Posted by on October 2, 2014 in Poetry

 

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Lullabies in The Streets Mourn

laila_al_shoa

 

#supportgaza

They say, my lullabies impair plus than
menacing propulsion of lead sling, a lot more.
Oh my poor lullabies! Oh my dear lullabies!
Let these streets mourn your demise.

Sang you was of only the unrequited love,
glittered in this green grass tips,
spraying the revision of peace,
damped to flat by pacing boots, in brutality.

Weep you was of the naivety
in my son’s minuscule fingers forced
to hold on hardness of a grenade,
Forgetting the wimpy elation of dolls
he played on with the past moment.

Praised you was of my mother’s defiance,
bearing the hundreds of bodies,
which on each piercingly labelled
of the frith fruited in the dark redness,
long left unqualified to instigate.

The time had come, oh my lovely lullabies!
A time long awaited to deflower
the mines blossomed in these garden,
to drain the lakes smelling of blood and bones,
to stop the silence from being guillotine.

I pray the lullabies to defiant as ever more,
to echo through these streets no-ever lasting,
to raise hands in unison,
to live in our veins for hope bestowed.

And at this time,
Burying my friends, my mother,
My youth, my humanity,
I hope my lullabies trembles more
louder than gunshots and blasts.
I hope my lullabies are stronger.

 

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Posted by on July 26, 2014 in Poetry

 

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The Fallen

angel_statue_painting_by_ismaellourenco-d30eodm

 

We had a yesterday, me and this statue.

Stone-boned nakedness and grated eyes

of it, I bequeath now.

Lesser dawns flee reluctant before

Our eyes forgathered a glint of acquaintance.

And even lesser dusks failed to pass after

Confessed to it was of my sinned days.

We had a yesterday.

 

Remember I of its bravery, glancing unshaken

to the invincible burning skies, evermore.

More or less liable of recollecting the benevolence

It depicted, in thriving rains and scorching sun.

Disregarded was it by many,

and detested by a few more

for blenched remains of black sheath,

grotesque lone figure, eyesore to a few more.

 

Today, I look a space earlier present not,

once reckoned, a pale statue to summon.

Never far saw anyone I, whom

inferred the variance that was yesterday,

Nor a single soul apart me and stray crows,

empathized on the piece, today wasted.

 

Now, I pose the space,

con the dawns and desks.

I see a fallen, and remembers

a martyr of past, and confides in the

space that once was it.

 

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Posted by on July 4, 2014 in Poetry

 

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Escobar*

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After inwardly went the bouncing of
three whistles, short, short and long,
through my obstinate eardrums,
was I confronted to three choices,
the likes of certainty had left.

First, was of the air inhaled in leather.
And promised me of a death serene,
not unless I let it enter,
to revolt a tempest inside, smelling
of poison to match the traitor’s, as said,
I had breathed in thus far.

Ignored it, then descended in the second.
Affirmed the grass bracing my boots,
to sprout wild on my stampings, and curtain
the identity of a mistake I done;
For all I must confess is fake deliberation.

Came last was the torching red.
And made me relay to scorch away
the misdeeds consigned, along with me,
more or less only if I bear heavily,
the rampant burns of a betrayer.

Negligence, I stood upon,
for I wished to die for my cause.
In a manner, more inevitably passionate
and affectionately patriotic.
Rather of air or grass or sun,
I shall die of a bullet,
powdered with their dismay to the belief
they showered upon me,
coated along emotions of fellow
Columbians favouring football.
I shall die of such bullet, content,
for in heaven awaits me a
ground of lush green and
a yellow jersey, paraphrasing my naivety.
For my name is Andres Escobar.

(*The Columbian footballer who conceded an own goal in 1994 FIFA world cup and shot dead by the fans later.)

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5 Comments

Posted by on June 20, 2014 in Poetry

 

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