Sunday, January 25, 2009

The Gift of Gabbling

It is wonderful to be able to talk ,
To voice your joys , wails , dreams ;
Day to day mundane chatter ;
To answer if you are thinner or fatter.

Those who love pen and paper ,
Have found worthy company ;
One writes the ravings ;
The other feeds the cravings.

'Once upon a time....' , I can tell you a story ;
Letters I can write , which would have no replies.
One cannot please my literary longing ;
The other bestows praise instead of a hopeful reply.

I know the 'I' is supreme.
It is 'I' who can change my state of being : happy or sad.
I love you , for 'me' ;
I love 'i' - it sounds strange , ugly.
I believe , hopelessly , in 'you' and 'i' yet ;
You cannot have me ; 'I' cannot leave you.

I have been profoundly prolix ,
In showing my loquacious laurels ;
A verbose vagary , so volubly uttered -
With such giddy glibness ,
That you think me surely ,
A garrulous gnome ?

GARRULOUS : talking a lot - about nothing , annoying chatter
LOQUACIOUS : talkative
PROLIX : wordy in speaking or writing
VOLUBLE : characterized by rapid speech
GLIB : speaking or writing with ease, perhaps superficially
VERBOSE : wordy, implying dullness

I wanted to string all these words together , so thus the above was strung.
If anyone can employ these words to a better , humourous effect , let me know : I shall be pleased to read.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

January Blacks

There are days , some hours of those days , when -

the morning full of winter sunshine is devoured into an empty space , a blackhole , that is your heart...

the twitter of birds inspires no poetic delight ,

you want to stop the ticking of snail-paced clocks ,

the prayers you say , tell nothing of prayers...

you cannot cook, with a zest , for those who are the salt and spice of your life ,

you do not feel you love anyone , and doubt if anyone loves you ....

your body should have slept but is conspiring to give you an infernal wakening time ,

you cannot drown yourself in your flooded , numbed , nothingness of thoughts...

books , babies , bars of chocolaty sins seem as if they would fail in consuming your naive hunger ,

there is no one to whom you could reveal just how you feel , every single time you felt like this...

you wish , it was night ,

you wish , you could lie on your bed , draw the blanket , squeeze yourself into the comfort of foetal rest ...

you pray feeble words , hope guilty hopes , seeking Him to hear , to see , to set you free ,
into that Sleep of death ; into that Life of no such days , such hours....