Tag: writers

Kosher Meat

Today, Tim's birthday, and he slips
down slope of the slippery sanity.
Each word indicates,
he is yet to claw through his sleep

fearing he may see the father he despised
in the antique looking glass near his bed's feet.

An alarm set guts time.
All kosher, salt and pepper sun
burns his skin.

Tim's chickens hatch some one-winged birds.
Feathers choke the wind.
Happy Birthday, he croons while bleeding
one old cock. It quivers as if its body is
the old telegraph lines and death is tapping and SOS.

Metallic Sea
Because that first puff in the morning
still tastes like the Sea-and-metal/
- Rick C. Christensen

I stroll down beach, and my toes
poke through their sandal-shells,
and with their dull and broad nails
I dig up sand's settlement of memory;
It bores me after a jiffy, and I near
the brine light of the morning;
light never belongs to its origine.
Mist sheds the sun, and yet
luminosity sways, wades, stands still
when you close your eyes and imagine
it as a painting - proud and shy with its nakedness.
As if sea has released the light.
Sometimes I walk into the sea
to see if I do not belong to this earthliness,
as if by perishing my flesh I can prove
imperishability, and sometimes, like today,
I see the repetition unworthy. So I drink
the nearest kiosk and gossip
about the ocean level leveling down
the tiny town once made for the tourists.
No one can recall reason for its birth.
You too cannot remember yours, can you?

Full Moon, Springtime 2021
The reflection of the moon at its peak
looks like a before & after photography,
not a pair of fake shots used for selling something,
but one real you stumble upon in a Spring cleaning.

The water seems more smoke and less mirror
one moment, and more mirror and less smoke the next.
Anyways, you would have thought the scene fake,
and yet loved to show the same to your best friend.
You cannot do so in the virus outbreak,
but that doesn't explain why you do not call him,
why sometimes coming out and staring at the lake
is the only thing you do other than washing hands.

Crimson Comes the Gloaming
This means the nightmares
are 3D printed outside,
and my id

empty, the way, if you remember,
our local pub looks like
during the plague quarantine,

waits for angels to seek refuge in the serene hell.

Note to self, stuck on the door
of our whining and rasping refrigerator:

"Don't forget not to wake up!"


Bio: An author and a father, Kushal Poddar, edited a magazine - ‘Words Surfacing’, authored seven volumes including ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, 'A Place For Your Ghost Animals', 'Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems' and 'Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel'. His works have been translated in ten languages. Find and follow him at amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
AuthorFacebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

Wolfpack Contributor: Kushal Poddar

Poetry Showcase from Kushal Poddar

A Poetry Series by Kushal Poddar “Hiraeth Series”