I am afraid to let you in
I am afraid of what this love would bring
I am scared of this unknown light
So with your love my heart daily fights
I am afraid to let your love be
I am scared to set your love free in me
So i close the eyes of my heart pretending not to see
That your love has completely saturated me
Your love got in without a key
And began loving me softly
I am afraid that your loving me
Is just to much for me……. to be
The streets
the surviving trees and
the wandering moon,
are they still the same
or changed?
The dusty locality
with twisted lanes/leaning houses,
the neighbours sitting outside, chatting
in the yellow sun, curs barking, kids fighting
over the ball?
Do the wooden doors always open these days
or shut on your face in alarm?
The summer breeze
evening/night; morning/day/afternoon lazing around
the bends in the uneven streets and crowded bazaars?
Does Ma’s wrinkled visage lights up, when someone
knocks in the late evenings; temple bells chiming in the background; her eyes searching the dim courtyard?
Does she still call out my name in the sedated sleep?
How does the water taste from that rusted hand-pump, near the Tulsi plant?
And the guava tree in the compound?
Do folks automatically smile and greet passing strangers in our dusty town or, have become terrified by the odd looks and dresses worn by them?
Are the old-world courtesies and customs remain the same?
Or, has the sweet town also changed and shut down?
———————————————-
Bio:
Sunil Sharma is Mumbai-based senior academic, critic, literary editor and author with 18 published books: Six collections of poetry; two of short fiction; one novel; a critical study of the novel, and, eight joint anthologies on prose, poetry and criticism. He is a recipient of the UK-based Destiny Poets’ inaugural Poet of the Year award—2012. His poems were published in the prestigious UN project: Happiness: The Delight-Tree: An Anthology of Contemporary International Poetry, in the year 2015.
I edit my life
clothesline pins & clips
hang to dry,
dirty laundry,
I turn poetic hedonistic
in my early 70’s
reviewing the joys
and the sorrows
of my journey.
I find myself wanting
a new review, a new product,
a new time machine,
a new internet space,
a new planet where
we small, wee creative
creatures can grow.
The blurred vision through cigarette smoke
And the slurred reaction of alcohol.
The art told on bodies,
Where lines and stories intertwine.
Where reality and fantasy keep together to close proximities.
The bodily fluid that are shared
The connection of strangers who don’t know the names of their guest.
Where I lose myself
Where “you” is just a meaningless word
and we soon become one, merged by the push of a wand.
My body somehow found itself lost
And I can feel the precision of your presence on my mind.
I no longer see the world I once was a part of.
You’re toxic tongue has influenced me towards the dark end of a never ending trail.
Somehow I’ve found serenity by the deck of cards that love has gambled in my system.
I am in love.
I am at peace.
Gwen kept Charmcaster’s spellbook
As a souvenir
After she and Ben 10 returned
Back into their bodies
Charms of Bezel by Man of Action
Hex’s Charms of Bezel
That he used
To bring about the end
Of the world
Legendary Voice Actor
The man of many voices
A real legend
Who has been in the voice acting
Community
Since forever
Mal’s Spellbook by Josann McGibbon and Sarah Parriott
Maleficent gave Mal
Her spellbook
On her way to Auradon Prep
She had some mischief
While trying to steal
Fairy Godmother’s wand
Lock and Key by Man of Action
A powerful spellbook
Indeed
Kept under
Lock and key
His Other Spellbooks
He bought some spellbooks
To learn how to control his magical powers
After an advanced magician’s charms
Awakened his magic of light
His First Spellbook
He later kept the advanced magician’s niece’s
Old spellbook as a souvenir along with her old bag
Of stone golems and additional magic
Within the dimension of time and space
Put me to sleep before it comes
I pray that everything in me completely numbs
I cannot face it, seeing it coming back
Put me to sleep and don’t wake me up
Sleep is death’s kindred, a kindness
That approaches by night and lets
A weary soul get rest — solace
A way out of pain and sadness
Put me to sleep before it comes
An assault of memories — keeps on
Distracting me from my escape
It insists — keeping me awake
There is no running away in
The night when everyone is kept
Tight by a blanket of arms — so
Put me to sleep before it comes
Wild in the deserts
Of Egypt and Sudan,
Grows hard and bitter fruit
Called gurma in the land.
Harvested and hoarded
Somewhere in the shade,
It holds a fount of water
In green flesh that it made.
Water for dry seasons,
Water kept in storage,
Water for a Pharaoh’s Ba
On his celestial voyage.
The fibrous fruit was pounded,
So water bound would flow.
A gift to desert dwellers
Five millennia ago.
From one gene only dominant
That bitter taste was made,
So if recessive flowers met
The bitterness would fade.
Melons bearing yellow flesh,
By the Common Era’s time,
Rabbis classed with grapes and figs
As sweet within the rind.
The gene for sugar links with red,
Though DNA was not yet spelled,
Medieval farmers bred
A fruit fit for angels.
Ruby slabs of watermelon
Decorate my table,
While in the wild deserts
Its ancestral stock is stable.
Civilization could collapse,
There could be Armageddon.
But in five thousand years,
Survivors could
-Again -
Have watermelon
.
More at https://katerauner.wordpress.com/poetry/
Of the all the kids there had to be,
All but one, not two nor three,
A young tike gone by Jimmy Neverbee.
“For no one can give birth to me,
I create my own destiny,” said he.
And young Jimmy of age three,
Upon after receiving a whipping,
Hissed at his mother ever so sweetly,
“Dear mom, dare not strike upon thee
I am his own, Jimmy Neverbee,
For no one can discipline me,
I create my own destiny.”
And by the time of his teens,
Jimmy went uncontrollably,
Through school without creed,
To get grades, no better than a D.
“For no one can learn me,
I create my own destiny,” said he.
Now one day he, ol’ poor Jimmy,
Ran into the likes of a mean bully,
Named Bobby McGee.
Who happened to be,
In Jimmy’s tree.
Not two nor three,
But one finger so mean,
To Bobby he let free,
Mean Bobby gave Jimmy,
A swift kick to the groin,
And left the fledging,
On the ground laying,
To beg and plead.
“For no one can hurt me,
I create my own destiny,” cried he.
But Jimmy, did ever he,
Never ever come to see,
What creating his own destiny,
Was to mean?
“I am the one and only,
Jimmy Neverbee,
Live by his own philosophy,
For no one can own me,
I create my own destiny,” said he.
And soon he met meaner bullies,
With more than a swift knee,
But rather a knife used for stabbing.
And poor ol’ Jimmy,
Was to be left to bleed,
And upon his body, laying dying,
Did he ever mutter so gently,
“I live easy,
A follower of my own philosophy,
Creator of my own destiny,
I shall always be free,
Of this cruel world’s tyranny.
For I am me, and only shall I be,
The one and only,
Jimmy Neverbee,” said he.
The chains around my body
break.
My eyes open, as I stir from
death.
Sparks ignite from my forming
flesh.
My bones begin to build my
skeletal frame.
I am becoming real once more.
I feel my lungs open up,
and my ribcage rise and fall;
as air fills my female form.
I feel my eyes twitch and my
nerves connect to my brain –
I can see.
I can feel Life’s flames all
around.
The sky is blazing with the
World’s inferno.
It is finally time.
My bones rub together, as I
pull myself up.
I see ruin all around.
I see nothing and everything –
purged from Mother Nature.
Everything is upside down,
as I climb up the stairway;
towards the light.
Pure sunlight, beckoning me
forward.
I feel electrifying…
Death-defying…
Alive.
POETRY FESTIVAL. Submit to site for FREE. Submit for actor performance. Submit poem to be made into film. 