A Child

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Little, immature spaces
in otherwise staid timeline
forgetting life a while
cocooned with felicity
I play a child.

Denounce, stark eyed
they concede improper and inane
grown-up going offhand
brush off, regardless
I play a child.

Elfin, naivete soul
spurting glimmer in adulthood
hidden fragments in us all
but only to few buddying benevolent
I play a child.

More poems await you at dVerse OLN hosted by Grace

Beginning it is, not new

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The day is done,
sun ain’t momently lost
to the mirky clouds,
it has set.

At tomorrow’s daybreak,
whilst shall rise just as before
sun’s mien shall connote
not just another day,
rather a whimsical foray,
for nous wanders,
to the year that was,
calling past to better rescue
future that flavors lost.

Crowd at square,
brave-hearts at club,
have commenced countdown,
subscribed,
to services of unseen time,
gracing, acknowledging arrival,
trusting futurity, and in it, self,
clung to smattering resolutions,
caressing celebratory today,
like tomorrow’s sunshine
would remedy drabness
of cluttered corners,
just like that!

but wager I will
on this creature of jubilation,
better their act,
unlike darn solitary brains
confined to past,
pains they sob over,
unable to shed off.

Realize,
beginning it is, not new,
all called for is another view.

Merry Christmas

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Chirk up! Chirk up!
Roll in the rhythm,
let lips hymn,
tune in thy hands,
can’t hear clack,
louder I tell you!

Reasons don’t matter,
its sound that heals,
cooked in music,
reigning reechoing caroling.
Compelling are delicacies,
from abode, food and thought,
And let be the nativity,
but don’t branch off!

Twined are thy heads,
to the jingle bells,
kids relented chipper,
to this nightly glare.
Come in now Santa,
for the mood is set,
behold thy thrill,
for Christmas attends!

A Carefree dream

It ought to be Sunday,
or, a Monday, probably!

Precisely, just another day,
unusual becoming usual.

Still
earth alight on morning rings,
sleepless trees kissing winds,
nightly passage big on wings
to fly, elude, take distant lift,
for carked times are thing of past,
last night saw it last,
for eyes to wake will be far,
seeking dreams honeyed they are!

but,
present times are wailing back,
theories of past echoing aback,
point is little in going back,
its just, dreams end, a drawback.

tho’ the realm stays alike,
eyes now kindle in delight,
hidden flights to usual tale,
redes, mind off mundane,
for did ride a mind carefree,
in a dream maybe.

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Image Credit: John Yato

The worlds moved on

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Not long ago,
the world was thousand places,
confined.

Nomadic some,
took strides to where land was,
vagabonds.

Stayed those,
prolifically concerting up-keeps,
dwellers.

So were worlds,
scads of outlined discrete crowds,
non-existent.

Gradually indeed,
drifters rose crowds outnumbered,
conversation.

Wanderers no more,
they inter-mediated propositions,
business.

Places bellowed,
staged sell-able product-ware,
marketplace.

And though,
implicit, the worlds moved on,
to-whole.

Sins #1

Lust Lechery

Sociality pelted along,
as civilizations throve, rugged,
with customs, portfolios,
establishing beliefs,
spurring right-wrong,
and
world though beauteous
shunned to colossal lechery,
reasons must I tell?

Though lust not lechery,
to think not act,
indulges not a potent opposite,
but must I tell,
neither attraction, nor love,
craving bodily amazement,
like addicted to the living
like a mere object,
to ideate thoughtful orgasms,
isn’t ill and stupendous?

Though might stand confusion,
amidst horrid dubieties,
if lust were love, attraction,
were marriage,
but must I tell
though not bound to church,
is sanctity of free will,
decorum of consciousness,
and
to heed too much
to something,
as if world is blank,
never is righteous.