Published in a magazine.

 

I have been keeping busy off late, Writing and meeting deadlines and then drafting the manuscript for my next novel has drenched my energy almost. My debutant poetry book can be checked here, in case if you find it appealing. Well, I have been writing less on WordPress as I am trying writing various writings online and submitting it to numerous magazine which is a new deal for a change now.

Writing here is always a pleasant feeling as I get to see numerous wonderful writings and you people leave constructive comments always and my blog is extremely precious to me! But for a change, it would be nice if I can interact elsewhere too. Let’s see how will that go as I know it’s a painful path but then C’mon who said being a writer is all roses?

Still, we have to try and learn and with that positive note, I would like to thank the editor of Indian Periodical magazine who considered my poetry good enough to publish in his marvellous magazine.

Here is the link,

http://indianperiodical.com/2017/08/a-daunty-star/

Peace out!



 

The ball of shadow

Image credits- Pinterest

Creating maps, a shadow of present and future,

I am scarlet, red ball of hope,fire with golden skin drooling in my cerebrum.

I hold your forlorn secrets of love, euphoria

Thoughts of tranquility, bewilderement.

The tassels of my veins drop from the abyss to your cascading voice

Voice of unheard owl,

Voice of stale rum from your creaking cabinet

Hear, the roar, then circle around the chords of fire and I shall put my sonder finger,
The soft baby fur in your twinings of eye

I may melt away, like the hot wax after the flamboyance of my stainless charm you see

That flickers on the epidermis of a new born child extending from it’s arm

Hanging to the knee joint of it’s granny.

Her skin, my revealation, my reflection.

You tell your clandestine tales as shackles  to me, yet mingling in the soft comfort of

My nemesis-the Moon.

Curl your spirit, trim the patchy mud

Produce bouquet of roses

A potion of clairvoyance.

A coffin to immortal souls.

Jump on my palpitating marks of grace,

Swallow my gifted praise

Swallow the mercury,

The titanium I wear

the caress of my toes tickling your cold winters shrug

Embracing the pits you produced

The heinous acts of disgust

The conundrum play.

My vigor holds marks of indelible faith,

An alacritous Sirimiri

To compose the monotonous dry days

My nectar, sweet honey-suckle home to wanderes, the bandits, the truth holders

Producing a teacup of auburn rays

An array of shimmery light

The colossal rhythm on fingers

A dandelion kiss.
-myvaliantsoul.

Once Again

Image result for hope paintings

My rapacious soul is satisfied,
The ultimate feckless night is perspicacious now!
The outlandish thought once peevish, are palpable through a bright rainbow now,
My lassitude aura has vanished,
The intricate flustered breath is frisky now.
The embellished intentions once connive are beaming through my eyes now!

I am an ebullient puerile soul now,
Undisturbed by the worldly flaky eyes.
I have built my own roads..which leads to a genial place,
Unconcerned about the judgemental minds…
I am breathing once again now!


 

Blue Light

 

Related image

image credits-google

 

Turquoise skin flowing beneath the
reflection of the concave mirror,
speaking the language of  mammoth desires,
forming marks on the human soul.
The surreptitious lustre blithe the chilly touch
corroding the sides and there I stand
inhaling the crisp blue air,
decoding, unfolding life’s intense
burrows, choking into blue whispers,
I slap my tongue, tapping, brushing.
Pushing my parched mouth to vomit
black ashes and colliding into
this blue velvet dress,
that soaks the vapid apprehensions,
nurturing it to be a cherry-tree
masked as the new light, a feathers’ delight.



 

Newborn Me

 

DSC07013

image credits- my valiant soul

Time: An acerbic motionless protest cling to my feet,
abstruse it lies on my face disguised as the
murky hair-strand, defining today’s black solitude
whiffing tomorrow’s grey death.
Friable snippets of my today’s sorrow still exist,
lying on my wet sheet of the chopped pillow
as the translucent water drops on my oak tree,
Dissonant hangings still sing bliss
while my insipid dulcet arms cross each other in anguish.
I see a black star, death perhaps?
I see a white star, sufferings perhaps?
Convulsions of betrayal paralysis my lower half
in the basket of crooked watermelon slices.
I knead the vacuum of Orion, stepping into the loophole
of the web of time, knots constrain my teeth,
Now, time halts inside my empty stomach
echoing the bulge of a lump of void dust.
Brushing the remnants onto my airy skin,
The striking of pendulum in my upper eyelid
gives the aftermath to a newborn me.

 


©my valiant soul

If I were a shadow.

Through the slices of segmented desire
Where the circumference of my peevish skin expands,
I inhale into the tiny molecules that flourish these numb walls,
Mending a crack,
With a mist of romance,
A point of lust, a point of a dainty smell of you.
I walk through the ruptures of placid walls enunciating your presence,
And I peel the rim of this cucumber time zone
Where my legs fall in the abyss of surreal moments of you,
Like clicking of needles, rainwater puddle upon my iris,
Now beaming
As if I were a shadow of your dream.
A dream worth swallowing the darkness,
Just to produce the moon’s composure, a debonair companion.

Loop Of Hope.

Image result for deep paintings

 

The world is a scorching lie, it gallops the light

swallowing the other half of a stale melon

climbing the stairs in a descending order

rubbing alcohol to one’s eye

the flaccid numb lugubrious eye

throwing dust in the basket of an old lady

And then cherishing the gaze of a falling star

crossing hair strands to form an impeccable knot,

I see, hardened rock in my navel, smothered like a beggar’s face.

The cryptic resonance, the elliptical sunrise

An egg-shaped lie.

Then, I see the light, white light adorning the dark background

forming patterns, jigsaw puzzles

Imbrication of susurrous paths, my eyelids wide open only

to scratch the remains of dirt

to pick up the lost child

and dancing towards the little loop of hope.