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 Mar 28 pilgrims
badwords
Peak
 Mar 28 pilgrims
badwords
I mistook the weight of absence for clarity,
as if the silence meant something resolved.
But I find no finality in distance,
only echoes that shift when I turn away.

Certainty was never more than a flicker,
a brief pause in an unsteady hand.
Even now, I trace the outlines of the past
as if repetition could make it solid.

But the shape keeps changing,
just like it always does.
 Mar 28 pilgrims
badwords
I did not ask to stand in light,
nor walk the stage, nor speak my lines.
Yet here I am—through fault, through fight,
through twenty years of measured time.

The script is looped, the plot is stale,
the exits marked in hollow lead.
To fight is folly, frail, and fraught,
to fold is merely left unsaid.

No gods to beg, no fate to barter,
no judge to weigh what I have spent.
I claim this act, its ink, its end,
I take the bow, the stage is bent.

And still—the show will stagger on,
past hollow men and empty breath.
But I was here, and let it stand,
this ending was my own to set.
 Mar 28 pilgrims
badwords
Bonds
 Mar 28 pilgrims
badwords
Oxygen, two 'me's'
We expire
Oxygen in threes
Ozone acquired

Ménage à trois
Three the same
Cards to draw
A hand, a game

One former
Introduce carbon
A home? or,
Latter two undone?

Life & death
2:1
Gasp for breath
Toxic, run

Detectors
Cry out loud!
Defectors;
Poison we laud

Breathe deep
Or sweet release
Eternal sleep
If you please

When your atoms bond
Bonds is a poem that explores the fluid and often precarious nature of polyamorous relationships through the lens of chemistry. Using molecular structures as an extended metaphor, the poem illustrates how individuals (atoms) form bonds that can be either life-sustaining or toxic. It begins with the stability of a dyadic relationship (O₂) before shifting into the volatility of a triadic bond (O₃), highlighting the unpredictable nature of introducing a third partner.

The introduction of carbon further destabilizes the relationship, raising the question of whether new elements strengthen or destroy existing connections. As the poem progresses, it introduces carbon monoxide (CO), a silent and lethal gas, as a symbol of the ease with which one can succumb to emotional suffocation or self-destruction. The final stanzas present a choice—whether to embrace the complexities of the bonds or to surrender to an escape that is both literal and metaphorical.

The poet employs scientific language to dissect the emotional intricacies of polyamory, using chemical bonding as a framework to discuss intimacy, instability, and dissolution. By framing each individual as an atom, the poem presents relationships as inherently reactive—some bonds are strong, some transient, and others quietly corrosive. The progression from O₂ to O₃ mirrors the transition from monogamy to polyamory, highlighting both the excitement and fragility of expanding relational dynamics.

The use of carbon monoxide (CO) is particularly poignant, serving as both a literal reference to an accessible means of release and a metaphor for the slow, unnoticed suffocation that can occur within a deteriorating or imbalanced relationship. The poet subtly critiques the way people sometimes romanticize toxicity (“Poison we laud”) while also acknowledging the weight of personal agency in choosing whether to remain in or exit a connection. The closing line, “When your atoms bond,” leaves the reader with an open-ended reflection on the nature of relationships—do they create, destroy, or simply change form?

By intertwining chemistry with human emotion, the poem presents an unflinching yet poetic look at the risks, rewards, and potential consequences of forming and breaking bonds.
 Mar 28 pilgrims
badwords
Welcome, dear artist, step into the light—
Paint on your pleasure, make your grin tight.
The crowd here is eager, the clapping is loud,
But only for those who have clapped for the crowd.

Powder your cheeks with engagement and grace,
Lace up your lips in reciprocal praise.
A bow for a bow, a sigh for a sigh,
Wink at the watchers or wither and die.

Here in the House where the hollow hands meet,
The loveliest dancers must stay on their feet.
A round of applause is a token to spend,
But spend it too slowly, and you’ll find it ends.

The jesters all juggle, the poets all moan,
The painters trade colors but none of their own.
Each stroke, each verse, each desperate tune,
Not meant to be felt—just meant to be hewn.

For love is a fiction, and merit a game,
A trick of the trade, a conjuring name.
So curtsy, dear artist, and play your part—
For silence here is the end of art.
 Mar 28 pilgrims
badwords
That five-seven-five is a scam,
Just nature plus seasonal spam.
A frog in a bog—
Wow! A leaf! And some fog!
It’s a tweet with a syllable jam.

Now limericks think they’re so sly,
With their jigs and their wink of the eye.
But their punchlines grow stale,
Like a bar yuck from Yale—
It’s the dad joke of poetry. Why?

Oh Shakespeare, forgive what’s been done—
Fourteen lines on a love that won’t run.
With their iambic moans,
And romanticized groans—
They're just Tinder swipes dressed as the sun.

Repetition’s the name of its game,
But by stanza three, it’s all shame.
You repeat and repeat,
Till your brain hits delete—
Was it clever, or just all the same?

Acrostics spell TRY HARD down the side,
A format no critic can abide.
Each line bends and breaks,
Just for symmetry’s sake—
And the message gets lost in the ride.

Free verse gets a pass, but just barely—
Too often it screams “Look, I’m arty!”
With no rhythm or aim,
Just vibes and a name—
Like a drunk giving TED Talks at parties.

---

There once was a muse unconfined,
Who laughed at each rule tightly lined.
When pure thought took flight,
It outshone every rite—
For raw truth outclasses form every time.
 Mar 28 pilgrims
badwords
I name the sky
but not the ceiling
The walls comply
without revealing

A maze of flesh
worn to coping
False gods enmesh
the soul in hoping

I woke too late
to heed the charm
This woven state—
a false alarm

I held the lie
like a child holds breath
Afraid to cry,
afraid of death

A child no more
but not yet formed
A half-closed door
by silence warmed

I mimic grace
with borrowed limbs
A haunted face
beneath the hymns

Not quite awake
yet never dreaming
The seams all ache
from constant seeming

And if I scream—
does it resound?
Or just a dream
that makes no sound?

Beneath the breath
a stillness waits
A second death
with no clean gates

The body hums
its loaded prayer
But all becomes
a vacant stare

Syntax frays
beneath the thought
What god obeys
the self I’m not?

I claw through names
but none will stay
Each shape reclaims
then rots away

The self, a gloss
on leaking form
A dream of loss
pretending norm

No center holds—
it never did
Just nested folds
of what I hid

No I. No you.
No real disguise.
Just tunnels through
abandoned skies

The witness breathes
without a lung
No scripts, no sheaths
No native tongue

It does not choose
or seek reply
It does not lose
It does not die

Not bound by pain
yet made of pain
Not lost, not sane—
not mind, not brain

It watched me be
then watched me break
It was not me—
but stayed awake

A hollow hush
beneath all sound
A pulse, a crush
not outer-bound

Throughout it all
I exist
A novel fall
Lines betwixt

Animals, a sea adrift
Feeding on the cheapest rift
A pattern to be missed
when rhymes end in a weak fit
What of relationships that go sour
Let go I suppose
But what if I can’t?
What if I want to mend?
Not throw people away
Like a workman, keep at it
Like a tailor, **** torn clothes
Like a cobbler, sew and patch
Mix binding glue. Fix. Fix. Fix

My Kintsugi


So, I keep searching for what is good
The glass half full
Reasons to hold on
Justify
Belie
I collect
Broken pieces of myself
Shreds of hearts and memories
Of people and pain
Though things may never be the same again

Imperfections. Transience.
Life. Resilience
Whatever

May be one day
I’ll move on. Be stronger.

With life, I’ll flow
May be one day
I’ll learn the art of letting go
In between the greying
and the silvering
work and life
the sombre brooding of time
and the lull after the storms
poetry crept upon me
word by word
phrase by phrase
in a metaphor
letters from the heart
filling voids of loneliness
with welcome solitude
A repost
The grey gives way to fuchsia pink  
And light falls softly upon the trees
It’s then, he's seen, the morning sun
With his fingers of gold and earthy honey
That wake the sleepy land and sea
And warm the gentle birds and bees
Brighten the fragrant rain kissed rose
That rests on brows that still repose —
And speaks to the stars hidden above
Of warm nights and a summer of love
Written some time back but not posted

An Indian Summer is typically a warm autumn in the northern hemisphere as traveller says, but in India, a summer is an Indian summer:)
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