The Poet

October 25, 2012

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

And with a thousand rhymes,
I’ve lost a thousand times
for none of them did last.
Every love I ever wrote
has faded into past.
And every girl I write to life,
I take to higher climes,
with deeper loves and longer verse
but every foray ends the same
– as though I have been cursed –
for every poem ends in pain,
a trend that’s growing worse.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

But for a thousand years
or so it seems,
I’ve written only tears.
And a thousand dreams
have left me only fears,
for none have ended happily.
Just like all my poetry;
When the final line is writ
I am left with only me
and any light that might have lit,
once the poem ends, dies with it.
And the thousand loves I’ve brought to be
have all thus waned inevitably.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

Oh, I have loved a thousand women;
None of them were real.
Not one of them could feel
the love I felt for her.
The heartbeats that I wrote
were never really there
and all the forms my pen caressed
and all the faces fair,
all the golden hair
and all the moments shared
existed only on the page,
the fickle paper stage
I made for them
to dance upon,
for them to love me on –
I, the only one who ever cared.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

A thousand dreams;
a thousand lines;
a thousand rhymes;
a thousand smiling pairs of eyes;
a thousand women
in my mind.
And if my mind’s where they must be,
then what is in this world for me?
Why live on interminably
if I must be so lonely?
A thousand loves I’ve had;
a thousand lives I’ve lived
and yet I’m left so sad.
For they are all behind
but who’s to say that they weren’t real?
And who’s to say that I won’t find
a thousand more in time?
I only need to write another opening line…

I have loved a thousand women;
all of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles.
I’ve lived a thousand lives
and loved a thousand times,
all inside my mind.
So why go back outside?



Read more: Poetry Here and Now


Do not ask the poet.

July 4, 2012

Do not ask the poet
to explain his work to you
not that you avoid offense
but for he can not help.

No poet knows the truth
his works bear forth
for once they have been writ
poet and poem are cleft apart.

Should a poet try to tell you
what his words convey
listen not, dear reader
for he can not but misinform.

The meaning of any poem
can be found only by reading
or else by listening, wherein
it will whisper to you its truth.

And if anyone disagrees
with the truth that you have learned
tell him that that he is not wrong
but that you are right.

For there may be a thousand truths
to any one poem
just as there can be a thousand faces
in any one mirror.

And do not be surprised if,
upon further readings
the meaning of a poem has changed
for this is their wont.

With the reader’s every experience
and with the passage of time,
just like the faces in the mirror,
what we see within will change.

A poem is alive
and it grows and evolves with
every new read
and every new reader.

Thus, the poet can never know
the truth his poem bears forth
as no poet can control the meaning
his works convey.

xvi. Across the World

August 9, 2011

I moved across the world
to where my favorite coffee grew
my favorite flowers unfurled
and my favorite chocolate was made too
and as the dances of fate twisted and twirled
I moved across the world to you.

iv. Prayers

July 11, 2011

My poems
are my prayers
Every time my pen
touches page
my soul lies prostrate
at the feet of my God
for it is God
the almighty creator
that gave me the power of creation
God gave me the vision
to change the world
with my words
and so every time my pen
touches page
I supplicate
I ask for my words to be read,
to be understood
I ask for my readers to be moved
that this world might somehow
come to reflect
my verse
or that my reader might be moved
to improve
for himself or for humanity.

My Poems
are my Prayers
and every time I speak a rhyme
it is a hymn
in honour to my god
for it is God,
commander of the word,
that gave me the power of speech.
God gave me the voice
to command my people –
God’s people.
A voice
to lead a revolution
a voice
to teach a generation
a voice
to sing in veneration
a voice
to show our celebration
of the Universe
we have been given.
Every time I speak a rhyme,
I show the people
how to live
how to love
how to create
for the betterment of man,
woman, child, Earth
and the Universe.

My poems
are my prayers.
Every line I write,
every verse I commit to the page
becomes another installment
to the scriptures of a people
living to understand their god.
Every metaphor
becomes another
name for the creator.
Every metre, every foot
is a prophecy.
Every tear in the eyes of my readers,
every laugh on their lips,
every smile and every frown
is a declaration of faith,
an observation of greatness,
a transcendence,
an ascension.

My Poems
are my prayers.
They are thanks
for the gift
of The Word.

Poet for Hire

June 19, 2011

Poet for hire –
the new generation’s town crier,
finding the beat
of the shuffling feet
out here on the street
and raising the bar a little higher,
spitting words a little flyer
than what you might be used to
from the God is Watching You
and What Would Jesus Do?
street talking crew.
Wordsmith on fire,
writing down words of desire
for shier types
or rhymes of ire
that set the street on fire,
berating the liars
and casting the cheaters on the pyre for
women scorned
or lines adorned with
for people mourned.
The poet for hire
doesn’t tire
as the line grows
because it shows
what he already knows:
that people cannot exercise their woes
the same without a poem
so, as long as there’s a buyer,
this poet will be for hire.
Occasionally, someone aspires
to knock him from his spot
and he admires
as they give it all they’ve got
but invariably misfire –
See, under the pressure,
they start to perspire
and, all out of words,
they’re forced to retire
because, to be a poet for hire
and determination
it takes true dedication
to sit
on the street like this
night after night like this
giving away the words of his
every thought
to those who were never taught
to express themselves
and so, they see the poet for hire
and wander over to enquire
how much he might charge
to put words to the large
black hole he feels when she’s gone
or the way her beating heart
tells her he’s the one
and as the sun rises and darkness falls
and streets buzz and become quiet
he sits and watches it all,
ready to inspire –
Poet for hire.



Inspired by this post from Icarus Also Flew.

Words Unsaid

June 7, 2011

I know you were smitten
while he kept you
and you felt bitten
when he left you
and you turned bitter,
so I help you
with these words,
unsaid but written.

At first,
before you read it,
you wondered why I wrote;
you questioned my motives
and queried what floated my boat
but as you turn the pages
you see the different stages of your life;
you read your every strife
and you realise
that I write
for you.

And as you read my words
you feed them
because what I write,
you’ve seen
and where I’ve imagined,
you’ve been.

This poetry
is what connects you and me.
Without these words
I wouldn’t be inside your heart and in your head;
without these words, unsaid but written,
the memory of me would be dead –
but when I write
I fight to stay alive
and through the words you read
I survive,
I breathe,
I speak.

And though I do not know you,
as I write, I feel you.
With this verse
I immerse you again
in the love that you first knew
when times were good,
before you thought
that he could hurt you;
back when you believed his words were true;
before you knew what love could do –
but now your heart is broken
but with these words,
unspoken but written,
you think you have the token.

And as you read them
they touch you,
they push you
to write too
and when you write
you fight
to keep the light on in the dark
so that your words,
unsaid but written,
may show some other the way
like mine show you today;
might help some other hurting soul
find a way to make themselves whole
like I am showing you.

Because though you’ll never be the same,
you hope that with your art
you can regain
a little part,
at least a grain
of who you were
and maybe start
the flame
inside your heart
and train
yourself to fight
the pain
and play
the game
another round
and with the strength you’ve found
you’re bound
to win this time
and learn to put his crime
behind you;
let someone else find you
and bind you
to their soul
because after all,
that’s your goal –
to be ready to make
the same mistakes again.

xxv. The Arts

April 15, 2011

If paint-by-numbers is art,
then what we have is romance.

If karaoke is music,
then what we have is love.

If this is poetry,
then what we have is passion.