Executioner's Eulogy

"He was a heartless man,
they say, his life a lie
death is a messy business.
they don' realize. 
having lived his life 
making death readily accesible
his death was rather peaceful
He didn't 'pass way' so to say
There was no transition
He died with his boots on
His parting words:
'Peace is the last thing you would want'"

The Fine Print

don't write much,
one, not more.
I have a habit
of reading, 

between

your lines.


which one?

Table for two

It was my handiwork.
I had wedged a pencil
into my corner of the table.
The ugly sunmica gaped
like an alligator and I would
close its jaw whenever 
an unwary ant would enter 
looking for scattered morsels.
I enjoyed playing God, 
taking life out of them.

Sometimes, I could hear
Father's footsteps arriving
and his fragmented, bent
shadow on the floor.
My heart would skip 
a thousand beats,
as I would swiftly 
hide the pencil and
at other times I couldn't.
Most days he would just
smile, but sometimes
he would ruffle my hair too.
And on those days I wondered,
why He had never repaired 
our crumbling ant infested table
in all these years? 

Picture: Some rights reserved by miliokas

The Last Supper

Leaves fear falling,
on paths men tread.
They kill each other
for butter and bread.

They shed not one
of their own blood.
What seeps from swords
and soaks the mud,

Are tears of widows,
children orphaned,
of waning mothers,
a God who's shunned.

When the last of men,
will have thrust his steel,
I'll have my supper,
My very last meal. 

The Whitewashed Room

I wait patiently for what they call, a writer’s block.
Words escape like overcooked noodles through a fork.
And metaphors like the one above, slip past unnoticed,
like the hour hand's movements. For days, I find myself
in an empty room. This room with perfect whitewashed walls,
Not one blemish or cobweb to stare at; infinitely long.
Not even the smell of fresh paint or varnish or a damp stain.
An old woman’s face. Her wrinkles smudged by seeping saltiness.
And then, the crack beneath the door fills up with darkness. 

A scented envelope appears from under the door, unaddressed,

but by the time I open it, You would have been long gone
leaving behind words so exquisite, I could have never written them. 

License

 Some rights reserved by tmschndr

What if?

Would I have loved her just as much,

Had her hair been less than perfect,

that evening or had autumn arrived

a day late? 

Had the warm, halogen glow  

cast an odd shadow

on her freckled face?

Would I have tickled her cat’s scruff,

Had it not purred and rolled  

like my own or had I missed the  black patch

on his left eye?

Had her bed smelled

of suds and dead roses, would I

have bid goodbye?

that night. Would she have noticed me ‘walking-by’,

through the limpid reflections on the pane,

had the smog set in early or had I

lit a cigar?

Had the knot around my neck,  

with the fresh mustard stain revealed

a deeper scar?

Would she have locked the door behind

and left the welcome mat askew,

Had I crossed the dingy alley and leapt over

the fence?

Had I turned the knob clockwise,

She perhaps would have answered

in morbid silence.

Photo Credits:

 Some rights reserved by Daniel Dionne

  

Ratings of a Rational Poet

Sanity, come back later! Let me be!

Let me for once, write in peace.

Take Newton with you, when you leave.

Let Galileo, Descartes follow thee.

  

Strip me down and search me well,

under my skin, within every cell.

Look, where, no light has ever been.

It is here that you hide, unseen.

Beyond the reach of rationale,

With light I look and hence I fail.

Return, when I have penned a verse

Wishing no glory or remorse.

Photo Credits: fotobaba under CC license

The Tram Ride

Today, the tram traveled backwards

The pantograph rope swayed, like her

cat, Misha’s tail, when he walks on

nail, glass and moss covered walls.

She pressed my hand every time,

the bell rang. It startled her, just like

the worn out rope tied to the bell.

Or when Misha stepped on a nail.

‘Two round trip tickets’, she said.

Or so I remember. We untangled

our fingers, to reach for change.

My cold hands still longing for hers.  

‘There he is’, she exclaimed.

 Pointed at two dull red dots  
 and pulled the chafed rope. The bell 

resonated, while she faded in the fog.  

As the empty shining wooden seats,

old bell and cabin door rattled in cold.

I found two laundried, sun dried tickets

in a deep warm corner of my pocket. 

Photo Credits: © Gerard Stolk

Parallelism

Two lines met at

infinity.

And then, diverged

eternally.

Alter Ego

The other one of me,

The one that lives with

the girl next door,

and her imperfections;

Seems happier.

The other one of her,

The one who lives with

me. Makes my bed and

me love her perfection;

Seems happier.

The two of us,

Seem happier,

with the other one.

One that never was

and never will be. 

Dust

The 18^th century mahogany shoe rack,

 finally spilled. Ivory worms savoring on

hollow bones and crimson innards,  

reduced to Dust on fine Italian leather.

A rabbit thump and good as new.

An aging loafer leaves rotten remains,

a lingering musty smell, gathers Dust.

He never thumps, He limps, spreads it far

On grass, wet and never trampled before.  

Walking a Dog

I wish I could, for once, walk like him,
in crooked and curved lines,
                                                           without purpose.

Smell the wet earth or perhaps
filthier things with my moist nose, 

                                                          without inhibitions.

Grimace and growl at adversaries,
men with phones walking them,

                                                          without malice.

  

Make shameless love, while men hang up calls -

embarrassed - hurriedly apologize,

                                                          without intent.

I wish I could, for once, walk like him,

naked, on all fours, in dirt,

                                                         without hesitation.