the_moustached_poet

www.themouspoet.blogspot.com

Poet/ Author/ Professor PS: Please do not post requests for book or anthology. I am not interested. Thank you.

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  • the_moustached_poet 55w

    the poet's twinkles

    mighty words
    twinkle as thoughts
    and
    create a visual treat
    of nostalgia
    absolved of regrets
    of yesteryears...

    twinkling thoughts
    create a song
    of nightfall,
    undamaged by
    hindering clouds
    willing to leave
    their cloudprints
    on the moonlit skies...

    twinkle of the horizon:
    a goodbye kiss of the sun
    as she prepares to leave
    welcoming another twinkle
    of the moonlit night
    in the poet's creative notes...

    ©the_moustached_poet

  • the_moustached_poet 55w

    Like the cocoon that decays on the birth of a moth,
    all things shall decay after serving their purpose.


    ©the_moustached_poet

  • the_moustached_poet 56w

    The Joy of Writing

    Not all poems are written to be read in the recitals. Some must be preserved in the hearts to sing them on lonely nights when the moon is mischievous. There are moments when you may need them like waiting for your loved ones in the midst of the monsoon rains- the winds splashing drops of rain across your face. Or, you may want to read them when you are waiting in the queue for boarding your airplane.
    What makes a poem special is the purpose for which it is used, and not in the number of claps it receives in a recital. Your poem may bring a smile to your granny, and that purpose is far more useful, or someone may send you roses for it. That is even more useful ().
    The joy of writing a poem must not die for poetry is an outcome of the journey we take. Once the joys vanish, it is poetry without the heart. It is dead.

    ©the_moustached_poet

  • the_moustached_poet 56w

    #oldenglish #wod #pod #romance
    ----
    Thanks @miraquill for the Editor's Choice.
    ----

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    kill me a hundred times

    diction of the old worlds
    where prophecies are common
    unravels mysterious love
    in the flights of the doves.

    as you corner yourself
    among the blueberry baskets
    to steal yourself from
    the sight of this world,
    your beauty evolves
    in your unintentional elflock!

    the world is old...
    measures a soul by attire
    foolish lot...

    and I am carried away by your dusky smiles
    among the blueberry baskets wild,
    where you try to untangle your elflock
    and fail miserably...a humorous sight...
    by the broken pane I stand everyday
    where your beauty kills me a hundred times...
    ...in love!

    ©the_moustached_poet

  • the_moustached_poet 56w

    To, The Mailbox Friend

    You are like the wind,
    nowhere in sight
    and
    yet so crucial
    like the tides which spill
    over the seas of
    a thousand promises,
    untouched, embellished!

    You seem not preposterous,
    absence more fulfilling
    than others' presence-
    the foxtails smile in the spring
    and the vagabond poet basks in
    the glory of nature's treat!

    Will you be here by the summers?
    No...let it be!
    Longingness reveal more joys,
    that tinge of missing you
    is more druggish than
    meeting you as yourself!

    Will letters be sufficient?
    Sufficient to keep that twinkling alive?
    ...
    The optician's daughter has found her dog,
    and ran away with the journalist's son.
    Does that seem romantic to you?
    Or are you a benevolent orthodox
    trying to mend ways through socialist thoughts?

    Will we ever meet?
    No, let it be...again...
    some things are best in whispers,
    cacophony spoils the morning calms:
    send me a postcard next week.
    I will send you mine.

    Yours,
    The Unseen Mailbox Friend.
    ©the_moustached_poet

  • the_moustached_poet 56w

    #inference #wod #pod
    ----
    Thanks, @miraquill, for Editor's Choice
    ----

    Read More

    the failed notions of art

    wilder notions of art
    complicate artistic prejudice,
    which was otherwise serene
    in the creation, in the artist's eyes!

    brushes wither away
    in hopes of creating joys,
    the painting of a colourful ship
    fails to excite the viewers' seas

    poems crafted with sarcasm
    become one-sided evil,
    the poet wished for some smiles,
    but the audience praised the sadist sides.

    social strata inflict wrong intelligence,
    the power to think excessively complicated,
    simple things are beautiful too,
    realize they not;
    what has become of knowing art,
    only evil and painful lot!

    ©the_moustached_poet

  • the_moustached_poet 56w

    #jingle #wod #pod
    ----
    Thanks for Editor's Choice, @miraquill.
    ----

    Read More

    The Miraquill Jingle

    let your thoughts ping,
    let your words sing

    winds of the eastern seas
    or love from the misty streets

    writers build friendship
    of reposts and readerships

    where all except writing comes to a standstill
    that wonderful place, my dear, is Miraquill!

    ©the_moustached_poet

  • the_moustached_poet 57w

    what is a rainbow?
    a rainbow is the dream of a hundred clouds.

    ©the_moustached_poet

  • the_moustached_poet 57w

    #mondo #wod #pod #writersnetwork
    ----
    Puppeteer means 'the One' who composes our life's plays. Along the thoughts of Shakespeare, we are, all, actors of the Almighty's plays.
    ----
    Thanks @miraquill for Editor's Choice.

    Read More

    what choreographs a birdling's first flight?
    threads of the Puppeteer compose its plunge into life.


    ©the_moustached_poet

  • the_moustached_poet 57w

    #pun #wod #pod
    -----
    Wordplay of the words 'love' (romance) and 'love-all' (a point system in lawn tennis).
    -----
    Thanks @miraquill for Editor's Choice.
    Thanks @writersnetwork for the repost.

    Read More

    love-all

    the court welcomed
    her with greenish carpets;
    he then rose to propose,
    his love truer than wizard's rose:
    just then she stopped in the middle
    it was then that his heart beat skipped;
    with dreams of love, he stood up,
    and the chair umpire spoke "love-all"!

    ©the_moustached_poet