I’ve sat by the trickles of en-diesel-ed
days
And played with pebbles in tar,
As bouquets of red and yellow and mauve
Have withered into shades of brown.
Torn into cubicle of antipodal shifts
Ours are tracks that rarely converge –
Halved by the meridian digits on clock.
Packed into cans of unmoving past
We’ve chewed over recollected passions in
freeze.
Digging our hours from albums of still
We play out our acts and crave
Times that are bolted in frames.
13 comments:
Powerful. I, too, wish for those time that stare out at me from my frames. Great writing.
such strong images! i find "albums of still" particularly moving.
tons of talent
Your writing talent really shines in the urban settings. A strong write here, Abin.
Really nicely done.
i know you from the River Journal and i'm glad to once more find your poetry :). you have an excellent hand for verse!
Fabulous, Abin. You have so much to offer, so much to say, and so much ability!
Kay, Alberta, Canada
An Unfittie’s Guide to Adventurous Travel
Thank you Liliana.it was through you that I came to The River Journal.keep visiting!
Abin- Wonderful poem! I especially like the first stanza.
Abin, dense and thoughtful writing. As Judy said, I think many crave Times bolted in frames.
impressive.
love 'cans of unmoving past'
unsettling...true...
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