Those I Stand Upon and Other Poems
Creative Writing, Poetry, Writing

Those I Stand Upon and Other Poems

Those I Stand Upon

They make them lead, who I would follow
They hold the holy grail to lips
Unworthy, tax upon the soul
Those burdens which they dare not foul

I would that solitude seek which
Lies where none else may seek to find
Me, where I may at last confront
Upon those times which I have lost

Four hundred years and months and days
The sun hath flown o’er the ground
The shadows flicker far in the future
Whose mind upon resides no fear

I may, for once, head shoulders reach
To touch that cruel painted sky
Where not yet, if our stars should meet
I tumble grace, and seek thy feet.

It Was An Unearthly Night

It was a most unearthly Night
Not one upon the forest light
Flickering torches in the greenwood
Beside heavens the mountain stood
And shook in wrathful sight.

That earth did trickle down to Sea
Down grassy slope, past bristling tree
Through rocky hills and thirsted lands
With scarce and softly bleeding hands
Scrabbling in decadent debris.

What wind there caressed the fen
Soughing the fugitive of men
Wetland replied in soothing sound
Anchor drifting inward-bound
To lay and rest in ground again.

And amid the heaving rolling swells
Tossed brackish foam and slivering shells
Catching the ever-faithful Moon
Among the rising water dunes
It bid the Dark silent farewell.

Greening

Meaningful sorrow
Betides me every morn.
Upon the cusp of readiness
I await, eager for breath
To fresh awake the lilies
Down by the frog pond.
And yet, day after day
Night beyond fathom,
The buds remain
in their effervescent greening.

In the Woods

One tree
Cut to pieces
Stacked on top of another tree
Cut to pieces by the silver ax—
It’s lying there by the bed.

Mud drawn from the river
Buckets dripping and with sodden breeches
Gently churning to dust.
Chinking the lightly filtering pathways
Keep the outside out.

Dripping wax hanging from the walls
Stalactites built of my secrets.
That no one knows.
The femur of a male giraffe
Bars the door.

Up in the loft, hay-lit sunlight
Seeks purchase among littered cloth and trinkets.
A suitcase thrown in a corner of the ground
Carrying my wishes to the grave
With my will.

February 27, 2023

About Author

Shambhava Srikanth

Shambhava Srikanth Shambhava Srikanth is a musician and aspiring writer who lives in Portland.


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