Lets-call-her-Lee had long dreamed
of changing her name
and taking a Greyhound
to someplace deemed safe
Lets-call-her-Lee had long dreamed
Embolism, spiral and residue,
Crepuscules, pinnacle pentacle tentacle.
When the surge breaks and births
Glinting in Poseidon’s trident,
The slow knotted crippled mandible
The long night of knives wet.
I promised that I would throw a bag at each resting stop
So he allowed me inside and I boarded the bus with a hop
At the first stop, I threw my bag carrying ‘Comparisons ‘
And the bus started again, leaving that station
On the next stop, I chose to throw the bag containing ‘Expectations’
When I was young, I’d longed to float and fly
Because the welkin charmed, allured me much;
I’d hankered after gladness and pure bliss,
The airy, blue expanse I’d hoped to touch.
In that instance, she ascends as a vulnerable Lotus…
Every molecule of love that she had for her man
Hurtles towards her quavering veins.
She is being prodded by the amorous pitcher plant, she too wants to devour…
Those smouldering sweat gleams dribbling from his lascivious skin.
Many nights those were the only raiments that she would be lapped in!
Such a cruel joke it would seem; as he is already
gone, but actually perfection with all things
considered. Only he can still hold her.
When you were thrown right into darkened, foul pits,
Each of which snatched your chilled-out cheer, chastised charm,
I wept, wondered if ever you’d sense the harm
Caused by ones that laughed, staring at you like kits;
Sunsets on your pale ripped jean
drops of twilights in my skin
such unquenchable longing
for the insatiable thirsts
intruding arteries inside out,
spurious blood of silence has
measured off our infamous hearts
Spring like a deer, one scrounging for lush leaves!
Is that not something you adored to do
When your heart learnt what brought my charmed soul to
You was a force that never weeps or grieves?
What transpired next caused me great harm,
For I learnt I was conned, fooled
By you and those you had valued;
Places you’d been to were revealed,
So were lanes you’d trodden upon;
I smiled though my heart rang bruised bells.
Magical was this Sunset
By the Sea
As the art unfolded
Of the masterpiece
Sunset by the Sea at Twilight Time
As many times
That as l have witnessed
Sunsets and Sunrises
Living by the Sea;
Have l seen such
The snakes sometimes squirmed like worms you’d detest
While en route to work fields that gleamed on Earth,
And like raged, raging winds hoping not to rest,
They oft assailed and harmed and caused great dearth.
My journey has not
been easy or short.
And I have no wish
to beat the hurts
like a dead horse.
Much of my life
has been laid out
in my page end
A cloudy winter morning after a prolonged freezing chill
All these months, not one but three
The burrows emptying their rations
Hearts gathering their paces
Young couple from their frictional warmth
Venturing into balconies hand in hand
A torrid turbulence beset the evening
As mists swirled and leaves blew amok one cold night
While fearsome frosts gathered at the edge of the kingdom
Their assault by stealth to commence
Slowly forth by degrees they did creep
Under the cloak of darkness when all were abed
It’s okay to be broken
And let it all out
All the words you’ve left unspoken
That you’re unable to shout
Cry little girl
You’re not out of place
Go right ahead child
Have the tears roll down your face
There’s a world abiding in each where blooms love;
Nothing great can be gained if yon world dies!
I say rear the world now; never ask when.
Would that you could grasp what in yon world lies!
Author Robert Stubblefield started writing around the age of ten. As a matter of fact, he began composing poems at the time as a way to cope with the loss of his grandmother. Speaking exclusively to The Literary Juggernaut, the twenty-eight-year-old American author and poet, who is currently residing in Maryland, the US, says poetry has always helped him express his feelings towards the world around him. Emphasising that he usually writes when he has the urge to pen down his thoughts and whenever he feels low, Mr Stubblefield, who holds a bachelor’s degree besides two master’s degrees, says he composes poetry so he may articulate the deepest of his thoughts in ways he cannot do when he happens to be speaking.