Irredeemable weariness

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Dan Senior in Unsplash (cropped)

the earth sticks to my hands
soggy from the intermittent rain
that falls half-heartedly, now and again;
the cold breeze births gooseflesh
portending another rain;
my heart shivers a little
in anticipation of something new
while my stomach groans
with the imagined weight of
the water i know i’ll swallow,
then callously scatter
over this soul terrain,
this soggy earth that
stores memories of past rains,
jealously guarding
every molecule of salted moisture
ever expended;
it rains, a fine drizzle,
exhausted clouds wrung dry
from repeated battering,
the earth gobbles it up,
eager to hold something,
incapable of holding anything else,
or of fostering life,
it continues to demand rain,
a rain i know will never
be enough to slake its thirst;
yet, i gulp down,
more, more, more;
my stomach distends,
a cheap parody
of what could never be;
i could explode at any second,
but i don’t,
for this soil’s capacity
to bear the full coldness of rain,
is depressingly…


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Javardh in Unsplash

Trib peered into the depths of the container. A thin film was all that was left, not even sufficient to make it until tomorrow. He sighed — it was that time again. Grudgingly, he kitted himself and started trudging up the slope. He toiled up the steep incline, nimbly side-stepping the various loose stones that would’ve sent him to certain oblivion. After four hours, he finally reached the top and peered down into the crater.

A sea of green greeted him. Trib rubbed his eyes and looked again; but it was no dream. There was nothing but green. He squinted, trying vainly to find the tiniest hint of glimmer. …


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Jr Korpa in Unsplash

Sapphic stanzas

muted voices cannot disguise undertones
of malicious glee; her spine bristles; she craves
to remind them, it’s a funeral, but those
with the empty eyes

see only the broken body of one whose
goal had been to be themselves, however much
it ran counter to the accepted version:
they see punishment,

divine fateful intervention ordained to
destroy the example, strike fear, stop change;
smugly they nod in a parody of grief;
she stands traumatised

by the mad-dog-mangled remains of one who
was unduly wise, unwisely courageous;
the bereavement seems to be hers alone, she
yearns to flee, but knows

her visibly shaken self is her armour,
dissimulating her will, lulling them lax,
soon she too would sprint for her freedom, she prayed
she’d make it…


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Florian Weichelt in Unsplash

Time has stolen too much; this year we lost
watching from behind the bars of our own windows
our skies shrunk to the ceilings above beds
we could barely pull ourselves out of

we’ve been petrified into glacially moving automatons
waiting for one scourge to end, only to witness
other banes, normally festering beneath the surface,
rise insidiously into the open, spilling blood,
we erect barriers, us-them, not-safe-anymore

warning words flood the streets, we pay no heed,
the exquisite torture of our fears leaves no room
for the words of the wise to seep in,
and so, the enclosing continues,
with each day, shrinking,
until everything is…


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Evie S. in Unsplash

in everyone’s eyes
it seems simple;
they laugh, tease me
about my inability
to stop delving
deeper and deeper
into what makes it it;
i wish they could see
the (b)looming shadow
of possibility,
of revelations,
of sheer beauty
that lies hidden
behind the façade
of the touchable,
that limitless ocean
which touches,
connects,
all that was,
all that ever would be;
the tang of curiosity
that livens life,
invigorates imagination,
has seeped into my dna;
i’m un(question)ably hooked;
the exasperated sighs
are but background noise
as i pursue
the light ethereal
limning it all

© Indira Reddy 2020


Experimental Free Verse

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Layers in Pixabay

Luck’s collaboration with Time
strews defining moments
haphazardly

acid rain dissolving
carefully crafted psyches

where there’s disassembly
there’s hope for renewal…
we pray so

everything crossed, cramping
from this unaccustomed contortion

bitter desperation, a yearning
to salvage something, anything
as proof that the past was worth it

fragile flesh though gives the lie,
melts away from grasping hands

keening with loss at the crossroads,
perchance to find consolation in memories,
more likely to leave that wound gaping

a constant dirge burdening the air
incessant pain demands full attention

life seeps out with every heaving breath
unnoticed, mistaken for a sob
’til the world itself seems friable

despair settles, a suffocating fur coat,
slowly head bows in resignation

too much was felt to feel anything again
blankness is the only refuge…
will there ever be light again?

© Indira Reddy 2020


Free verse

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PixelAnarchy in Pixabay

stuck in this treacly mess;
this sweet spot
between love and hate,
our emotions roil,
flowing back and forth,
waves of honeyed love
pushed back by
spurts of insecurity;
we each claim
the greater moral share,
oral contortions
meaningless,
insufficient,
flimsily veiling
the naked core
of an us
that only exists
to superficially assuage
the lack of love
we have
for ourselves
in the perceived love
of another

© Indira Reddy 2020


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CHUTTERSNAP in Unsplash

The first plate shattering on the tile floor sounded like an explosion. The larger pieces clanged sharply for a few seconds against the floor before quieting down. Still too big…

She picked up the larger pieces, raised them above her head and let them slip from her fingers. A softer thud, a quicker jangle and a lot more shards. Yes…this’d do…

She selected another plate, threw it up in the air. It arced beautifully before shattering, sending pieces flying everywhere. She waited for all the pieces to fall, for silence to reassert its claim. Too haphazard, too slow…

The next plate went soaring up to punch the ceiling and shower her with shards. Instinctively, she closed her eyes and failed to see their last dance. This too I didn’t…


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Pikist

A man, suited and well-strangled, left thumb flicking phone, eyes crossed in contemplation slows as he approaches that old-fashioned ice-cream stand.

The gaggle of children lounging in bliss reminds him of those days when summer meant something…

Impulsively, he buys a cone, looks at it…work was waiting…but could he??

The first tendril of vanilla bliss wafts into his nose. He surrenders, bows down to the supreme power of aroma and licks the cone.

Sweet elixir melts, flows down to chill the most anxious parts of his stomach.

A grin blooms brighter than sunflowers, as he finds a place to sit and savour his treat. …


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VenomDesign in Pixabay

the brash strutting of city lights
fades velvet black to mouldy grey,
stealing twinkling manna,
still one heavenly gift
continues to spread
its silken inducements
to a poet’s heart

This is a response to Ana-Maria Schweitzer’s prompt — Moon

© Indira Reddy 2020

About

Indira Reddy

Endlessly fascinated by how 26 simple symbols can say so much…

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