Chaste Poems

A poem writes my name. I am trembling on paper like salt. Flowing like moon on the black wound. The lamb and the skull. I know the saint invented by masses. You need a fresh awakening. A vastness from nothing

How to begin the journey of truth? it was moving away from all paths. No concrete answers were there, questions loomed large, a moaning confusion reigned. I moved inward, to open the door, I had to talk to my poems.

I refuse to inherit cruel conditioning I will breathe my own bizarre air Call me a rebel if you wish I don’t deny, nor do I care Bare feet on filthy roads A brutal smile to each stranger I refuse

I belong to the song of the sun Humming the chants of flame I breathe. The sea rests in me motionless With its endless depths I think. Storms of being, clear the chaos Emptiness of chaste silence I hear. A

The flag unfurled, and from within, fresh rose petals Jauntily floated down like gently melting snow flakes. Soon, even the smell of freedom dissipated, losing its Way into the winding lanes and by lanes of our lives. Tell me, which

”You live in a queer world of dreams, Mr. Ahmed Turning odd imaginations to mere fancy words Bejeweled by baffling metaphors and similes That one mightn’t get the hang of with ease Why don’t you eschew the pesky rhyme rule,

My bafflement forces my day to waste, Shall I for them or for my eyes alone Or for a purpose yet abstruse, go on – Another serving of this bitter taste? Yes sinner I am trying to be chaste, fixated,

Let’s be swans in another life, Stand in peace side by side. Touch one another with eyes, Look chaste and princely white. Purity we will symbolize, When we spread up to rise, Become envoys from the skies And sing together

Today I want to take a lethal dose of black lips, confronting the killer on contract. Time dithers to escort. May be a cold-blooded murder of a handful of sick shadows will give a transparent memory. Planting a sad kiss

This bonded fear bids for power, Will I destroy myself in valley of puppets? War in dreams, of sins and morals of masked pretentions wears me off. Time rolls violently near the periphery, before it flies away. One chaste run

When my self , apart roams , My conscience recalls madam Marcelene Gomes. My teacher at St. Bartholomew’s school, Who taught us the virtuous rule. A fine and devoted teacher, Humanity and spiritual preacher. A woman of strict conduct, Employing

There once was an imp whose appearance was vain, his behavior was foolish, even his speech and imposing mannerisms were maimed! From those eastern cannibalistic lands afar he and his kind had once been blessed, indentured to serve the superlative

Audacity to live with your demons, putting up a fake love belief, who was the time, of that dark night? Distinctly alive to what I was not just putting up the shades of death into nothingness of peace in war.

profiling the divine phallus on terraced shrouds of fault the dilemma of arcane notation starts for that succultent rumours, emotively torn asunder, a green room becomes epiphanic, the voice was gone with black sun; buried onto neck in the drenched

Shedding the wholeness of negation you arrive: fear was sweeping the floor when smoke screen of love was hung on blue morning, you groped for a hidden coin, lost in the woods of mania. Distinguishing a chaste word, without thought,

Twined in time and silken shadow Bathed in light and blinded there Lost in rhyme on greenest meadow Confusion, sadness, a cross to bear Can time make end this never-ending? Can future lost e’er be replaced? Can past distort the

The crown he wore weighed him down, his uncertain tone wreathed As his face so stoic hid the storm that surged beneath Its not about my faith in you, for I know your morals are true I know you’re as

Urn was carring the snow unmelted like the soul of night. It was a very strange winter like araucaria puzzle. Who was dragging the evergreens over the chaste cliff? All the incogerent roots have broken the placenta for new gods.

sometime I watch the fear held aloft by you, possessed, you try to protect yourself from you in vain, very thirsty, white hydrangeas on your lips tremble, exhaust their need for clouds in blue eyes, pale fountain gives up tumult

Was it a summer storm of sexuality? Only the chaste statue stood in threads, and then went down the cuticle with nipple rings. The demand of namelessness was rising in the dim shadows of brisk tones. To step down from

A crooked slanting moon shifts the eye comes under the chaste tree and washes the tainted victory. Wolves start howling at the tomb of unknown martyr, man-eaters recoil on the sugar island and talk about destinies, A mourning crowd walks

At the end of the thought was sadness. When temple lies broken a little white lotus comes up on the tranquil lake. A cute word enters the lone voice, stands down, collapses, retreats into silence. A chaste tree becomes a

Waiting for a chaste bread, whole life under the moon, to speak off the inconsistency of happiness, with a monologue of a needle in eyes for a madness of sublime verse. Canoeing in a frozen lake for a stranded rose,

It was a taxidermal view thousands of fawns on the lake. Can you handle the die-off of the whole truth? I have nowhere to go. Genes are turning on, turning off. Bare hands holding the bruises. Hungry, but cannot eat

Goose-stepping on a soul song you set the sky ablaze, and I was not ready to welcome you. I was hungry and I was thirsty but could not find the road. Back and forth, back and forth walking with the

It was a slant love. Back to back, lips to lips. Lethal and dark strong yet delicate like spider’s web. A dark side of the moon sending conflicting signals to bacilli- of dirty lane, pink and blue. My pug licks

Evergreen Love never bows – to flowers from vixens. Poised by the warmth of two hearts; fighting gossip with kindness. It walks on trust between two souls- tracked by wolves lost to its fragrance! With honesty, it sheds greedy tendencies-

Sperms spilled on thighs When moon was hung over trees To engage reverberations, Contesting erratic moods Outside echoes Stitching white milk into black tears, It was not for the deliverance From pain of separation And drink the eyes: The waves

Winterlude From November to March winter-green and winter-grey for all the things you never say, winter-silver and winter-gold for all the secrets left untold, winter-snow and winter-frost counting all the thing we’ve lost, winter-love and winter-pain washed away in freezing

Feminism is not about you and me, For me it stands for humanity. A little love, a little respect, Is all I crave, is all I expect. You call me a goddess, Fold your hands and pray to me. Yet

Being a poet doesn’t mean you just rhyme at the end of the line. For me it is a chance for readers to relate to the views that are mine. I usually try to write great poems to inspire the

Yes My Lord I am a culprit I made a petty stealing But no one would ever believe I was a “loved” Professor My family loved me very much I was welcomed wherever I went But how on Earth I

Walls slowly closing in So fixated on the seams of the tiles Till they faded Cold and wet Longing for warmth But the lights dimmed And the body left jaded The heat of the fast flowing blood Did not give

Snippets of truth come to you, when you chase the anger and set yourself on fire. An intimate slap of a fall guy rages after the defiance. You are no longer bleeding gold. A windowless home for the defiled, waits

How sweet the Autumn breeze Wafting from my window Before this Winter freeze I could see skies are blue; But how would I to know Or how will I In truth, I lie Even as poets do, Saying life is

Let’s find a new world . . . . Where smile are spread every where, Where if you are sad everyone will care. Where no one is there to poke you, Where you can talk to anyone you want to.

Life, you brute, what do you get causing me pain so? What muck have I raked on you? That makes you avenge yourself on me – Oh! Please let go of me, I’ve had enough It dampens all enthusiasm, It

You’re inside a reality as dripped by Jackson Pollack everything guided, everything only seeming accidental. Straight lines eaten by curves and color as a sense of inevitability. Somehow it turns out as thousands of interlocking narratives, never a single start

His eyes were brown with copper tints She searched in them for a hint Her fingers ran through his hair Across his face and cheeks fair Gently touching his loving lips Pinker than rose bud tips She loved his smile,

Whirling discus thrower controlled precision, spinning presence concentrated energy coiled awareness for that one release Watcher sees and knows at the moment of letting go this one will be good same dynamic for shot putter, javelin thrower conscious complex actions

Want skin as clear as the pearls you wear Garnier’s Blemish Balm shall be your savior Pull down those dark spots, marks and repair Every skin problem with a dab of BB cream Dreams dance in your mind of lips