Submissions by Alviola
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
2nd Jan 2023 5:41pm
2nd Jan 2023 5:41pm
The Pandemic Stole My Magic Hour
The poison in the air gnawed
through the time inexorably,
my magic hour now truncated,
the wise and esteemed could not
tell us when the rot would end,
what would remain of my last hour.
The sun did peep after a while,
warily, seemingly chastened,
sniffing for the evil in the air.
But the glisten is gone, the gold
the sun throws at all it sees
during that magical hour,
rooftops and cars, boats at sea
and the irises of children,
that glow, now wan and cautious.
Unlike the sun,...
through the time inexorably,
my magic hour now truncated,
the wise and esteemed could not
tell us when the rot would end,
what would remain of my last hour.
The sun did peep after a while,
warily, seemingly chastened,
sniffing for the evil in the air.
But the glisten is gone, the gold
the sun throws at all it sees
during that magical hour,
rooftops and cars, boats at sea
and the irises of children,
that glow, now wan and cautious.
Unlike the sun,...
#sadness
#sun
#aging
#redemption
#disappointment
85 reads
8 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
31st Dec 2022 1:11pm
31st Dec 2022 1:11pm
There Really Isn't a New Year
The minute hand does a curtsey,
salutes each number on the face
of the clock before gliding on.
We dice and mince time so we see
what we have left and badly spent,
the ticking makes us think we're in charge.
We mark the calendar when to stop
wallowing, in grief, in tobacco
or alcohol, when to start dieting
or whatever we require of ourselves.
We chop time up, cleverly tuck tasks
and mischances into folders:
“uni”, “first job”, "married life",
"alone again”, "new chapter",
"after surgery", "the...
salutes each number on the face
of the clock before gliding on.
We dice and mince time so we see
what we have left and badly spent,
the ticking makes us think we're in charge.
We mark the calendar when to stop
wallowing, in grief, in tobacco
or alcohol, when to start dieting
or whatever we require of ourselves.
We chop time up, cleverly tuck tasks
and mischances into folders:
“uni”, “first job”, "married life",
"alone again”, "new chapter",
"after surgery", "the...
#motivational
#illness
#aging
#wisdom
#NewYear
90 reads
8 Comments
UPBEAT INSPIRATIONAL POEM
Published
9th Dec 2022 3:31pm
9th Dec 2022 3:31pm
What the Poison in the Air Stole from Them
The young lie on the floor, fingers
and marrow fused to phones, they lie there
quieter than the poison in the air
The virus stole nudging in buses,
she fondles the screen of her phone,
limning the boy's eyes as she listens,
her finger is not in range, she knows
he will not see her touching his lips
but hopes he will feel the caress
We must tell them that they will, they will
noisily pull out chairs and seat
themselves around tables of laughter
We must tell them not to worry,
boys will cup...
and marrow fused to phones, they lie there
quieter than the poison in the air
The virus stole nudging in buses,
she fondles the screen of her phone,
limning the boy's eyes as she listens,
her finger is not in range, she knows
he will not see her touching his lips
but hopes he will feel the caress
We must tell them that they will, they will
noisily pull out chairs and seat
themselves around tables of laughter
We must tell them not to worry,
boys will cup...
#love
#loneliness
#teens
#despair
#pandemic
79 reads
7 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
22nd Nov 2022 2:03am
22nd Nov 2022 2:03am
Today I Saw a Man Who Should Not Die
Today I saw a man who should not die,
he wore the cuffs and shackles of white gown care,
thin fingers
fondling the button that triggers the pump
that feeds him smiles.
He bared his chest to show us the pipes
of great science running through him,
the pipes that feed him smiles.
Today I saw a man who sees pain
walking about the room, he has studied
and mastered it: when to press the button
to stop
the demon from jumping onto his bed
and still remain awake -- to dream.
...
he wore the cuffs and shackles of white gown care,
thin fingers
fondling the button that triggers the pump
that feeds him smiles.
He bared his chest to show us the pipes
of great science running through him,
the pipes that feed him smiles.
Today I saw a man who sees pain
walking about the room, he has studied
and mastered it: when to press the button
to stop
the demon from jumping onto his bed
and still remain awake -- to dream.
...
#sadness
#love
#regret
#death
#cancer
69 reads
UPBEAT INSPIRATIONAL POEM
Published
12th Nov 2022 11:37am
12th Nov 2022 11:37am
Come, Come, We are Too Old to Panic
The clankety-clank of the body
has become like a low rumble
of a running, untuned motor,
the metal-to-metal squeaking
is now a dull, negligible burr,
a hum we can choose to be deaf to.
It is no longer a dash to doctors
when there is blood or a baffling pinch,
quick prayers are paracetamol,
pluck and the bag of ice will suffice
we are too old to worry about health.
I am grateful that I can still choose
what to eat for breakfast (two boiled eggs),
that in the age I pop painkillers
like mints, these hands are...
has become like a low rumble
of a running, untuned motor,
the metal-to-metal squeaking
is now a dull, negligible burr,
a hum we can choose to be deaf to.
It is no longer a dash to doctors
when there is blood or a baffling pinch,
quick prayers are paracetamol,
pluck and the bag of ice will suffice
we are too old to worry about health.
I am grateful that I can still choose
what to eat for breakfast (two boiled eggs),
that in the age I pop painkillers
like mints, these hands are...
#motivational
#illness
#LifeCycle
#weakness
#vulnerability
95 reads
4 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
8th Nov 2022 2:59pm
8th Nov 2022 2:59pm
I Must Barter with My Ghosts
The business and bother
of my fingers are unlike those
of other people, they do not
wait for me in the office.
They are my ghosts: the unformed
the pending and the unshaped,
and they haunt so, begging closure,
“Halá, I am nowhere with this.”
The worry about the year
sidles up on the sofa and watches
as I have my first mug of coffee,
a quiet behemoth regarding me,
The advertising idea for children
needing stents is a wraith seated
in the front seat of the car,
doll's eyes on me, eyes asking,
...
of my fingers are unlike those
of other people, they do not
wait for me in the office.
They are my ghosts: the unformed
the pending and the unshaped,
and they haunt so, begging closure,
“Halá, I am nowhere with this.”
The worry about the year
sidles up on the sofa and watches
as I have my first mug of coffee,
a quiet behemoth regarding me,
The advertising idea for children
needing stents is a wraith seated
in the front seat of the car,
doll's eyes on me, eyes asking,
...
#anxiety
#ghosts
#frustration #job
#frustration #job
78 reads
4 Comments
ANGER POEM
Published
29th Oct 2022 8:54am
29th Oct 2022 8:54am
When a Tree Falls in the Forest...
The yip of a youngish dog can travel far,
reach his owner's ears a mile away,
here in the valley, we hear screams coming
from mountain parts hidden in clouds.
You cannot cut a tree in secret,
the shriek is mechanical, criminal,
you can hear the uneven cackle
of the chainsaw miles and cities away.
Sometimes it sounds as if the tree might win,
flexing its core against the cutting chain,
but we hear a whirr and then a whistle,
saw cutting only air, only where birds were.
Because it tumbles so unwillingly,
the...
reach his owner's ears a mile away,
here in the valley, we hear screams coming
from mountain parts hidden in clouds.
You cannot cut a tree in secret,
the shriek is mechanical, criminal,
you can hear the uneven cackle
of the chainsaw miles and cities away.
Sometimes it sounds as if the tree might win,
flexing its core against the cutting chain,
but we hear a whirr and then a whistle,
saw cutting only air, only where birds were.
Because it tumbles so unwillingly,
the...
#forest
#trees
#dogs
#environment
#greed
84 reads
1 Comment
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
18th Oct 2022 00:40am
18th Oct 2022 00:40am
What Happens When a Copywriter Dies?
The cashier beeping groceries
out the store stops and frowns
at a tin can she thought had vanished,
she hmms and shrugs then beeps it on.
When a copywriter dies, do the bottles
and brands that she put on the airstrip
that is the counter tarry momentarily
in the business of flying out of stores?
In the quiet and cold of the night,
while the watchmen yawn, shotguns
on laps, do the shelves inside rattle
a little, for a second at least?
When the handsomely-labelled
tumble into plastic bags, do they ...
out the store stops and frowns
at a tin can she thought had vanished,
she hmms and shrugs then beeps it on.
When a copywriter dies, do the bottles
and brands that she put on the airstrip
that is the counter tarry momentarily
in the business of flying out of stores?
In the quiet and cold of the night,
while the watchmen yawn, shotguns
on laps, do the shelves inside rattle
a little, for a second at least?
When the handsomely-labelled
tumble into plastic bags, do they ...
#sadness
#death
#gratitude
#disappointment
#job
134 reads
6 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
12th Oct 2022 8:31pm
12th Oct 2022 8:31pm
We are Born Again as Gods
Why do we deify our dead?
Right from the shock of a slap
on the back of the child to start
the motor that purrs, hums, snores,
right from the rupture,
surfacing blind from placenta,
from the gift of first gasp,
human begins the decay,
the decline to grey and hobble,
the blackening of lung and liver,
the shattering of hipbone,
stubbornness of breathing falters,
the breath one cannot hold
for a minute is held forever,
cavities are now a stage
for the...
Right from the shock of a slap
on the back of the child to start
the motor that purrs, hums, snores,
right from the rupture,
surfacing blind from placenta,
from the gift of first gasp,
human begins the decay,
the decline to grey and hobble,
the blackening of lung and liver,
the shattering of hipbone,
stubbornness of breathing falters,
the breath one cannot hold
for a minute is held forever,
cavities are now a stage
for the...
#death
#religion
#ghosts #aging
#ghosts #aging
131 reads
5 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
30th Sep 2022 6:35pm
30th Sep 2022 6:35pm
Spoons in Mid-air
I will not write of her thinning arms,
of the slowness of spoons, and I ride
every spoon, singing her mouth to open,
I will of her dancing, the jig that
she does when she preens with a dress
on days when aches stay longer in bed,
her fingers fumble inside her large bag
for pills, I see the breathing in her brows,
but she picks a smile from her bag to wear,
she has a cache of smiles in her bag,
fat and fleshy and shrieks at the scale
is the vogue I prefer to see on her,
Each spoon is a movie...
of the slowness of spoons, and I ride
every spoon, singing her mouth to open,
I will of her dancing, the jig that
she does when she preens with a dress
on days when aches stay longer in bed,
her fingers fumble inside her large bag
for pills, I see the breathing in her brows,
but she picks a smile from her bag to wear,
she has a cache of smiles in her bag,
fat and fleshy and shrieks at the scale
is the vogue I prefer to see on her,
Each spoon is a movie...
#anxiety
#love
#wife
#illness
#weakness
187 reads
12 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
27th Sep 2022 1:54pm
27th Sep 2022 1:54pm
Watering the Plants
The trunk, erstwhile fleshy, is almost
desiccated, and every remaining
tendril curls at the air, with whatever
vigor it has left, it lifts itself,
almost untethered, it beseeches
the night for the hope of moisture,
each tendril, a tortured prayer.
I am man urgently intervening
in a natural process, this, after all,
is within the purview of the gods,
I am preventing brown and yellow
and fade and wrinkle from subduing
life and green and vivid and blooming.
Though colossal a task, I must be...
desiccated, and every remaining
tendril curls at the air, with whatever
vigor it has left, it lifts itself,
almost untethered, it beseeches
the night for the hope of moisture,
each tendril, a tortured prayer.
I am man urgently intervening
in a natural process, this, after all,
is within the purview of the gods,
I am preventing brown and yellow
and fade and wrinkle from subduing
life and green and vivid and blooming.
Though colossal a task, I must be...
#flowers
#night
#water #learning
#water #learning
140 reads
6 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
23rd Sep 2022 1:53pm
23rd Sep 2022 1:53pm
We Must Beg the Body to Wake Up, Oh, So Slowly
The groan is the sound effect of the body
bidden to do a little more, it punctuates
the call to stir earlier than accustomed,
before the sun throws a ray across your face.
We must beg the body to stir bit by bit,
to first check the dream if it is dream, and then
wake but by grunts and nudges, rub the eyes,
flex a cramped toe, stretch, yes, practice living.
Is the jiggling of the foot a slow dip
into the unfriendly air of time on earth?
Waking up must be allowed ample time,
for the body is animated by inch,...
bidden to do a little more, it punctuates
the call to stir earlier than accustomed,
before the sun throws a ray across your face.
We must beg the body to stir bit by bit,
to first check the dream if it is dream, and then
wake but by grunts and nudges, rub the eyes,
flex a cramped toe, stretch, yes, practice living.
Is the jiggling of the foot a slow dip
into the unfriendly air of time on earth?
Waking up must be allowed ample time,
for the body is animated by inch,...
#death
#morning
#sleep
#aging
#responsibility
116 reads
2 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by Alviola
