Genie

 Do you hear the people sing?

Yes?

The more i hear

The less i feel. 

I keep rubbing

A phantom gland

Maybe muscle memory

Its no aladdin's lamp

All i feel is sore

Crying for once more. 

Maybe its not a portal 

But a wound 

we have overcome

Maybe now its time

To stop hearing 

And start listening

Begin once again. 

A grown up baby 

is not grotesque

Its just groot. 

So

Inhale the music

The scent of today!

Get goosebumps

Heck! Even enid blyton

Lets catch smugglers in

Mysterious moors

Please just hold that magnifying glass

Very tight 

On the famous five senses

You will be born again

And this time you will dance. 

Written for the what's going on? challenge

And PU prompt of beginning again and again.

Sparse Poetica

 

(My tribute to Ars Poetica by Archibald Macleish which made me sit up and notice a poem) 

A poem is a globed fruit 

palpable yet mute 

Can borrow a few words 

How cute! 

Honest yet not straightforward 

need not be attached to any rhyme scheme

Just needed to externalise the inner scream 

of a once ignored teenager 

Just open the floodgates 

A spontaneous overflow of my repressed emotions

An abstract art of mythical proportions

 makes the melancholy of a monotone 

sound rich like a broadway baritone. 

A poem need not be

A masterpiece , a marvel 

An idea so novel 

that there are odes written to it. 

It can simply be 

A moment in time crystallised with words 

A gasp of the gut 

So well put 

that you thought someone put their hand down your throat

and pulled it out 

like a rabbit from 

a hat 

or a hole 

A poem is a sieve 

which separates the chaff from the grain 

A pensieve 

and a penmanship on pain. 

( In response to What's going on? Blog's Poetry is prompt)