ALL ALONE  I AM!

All alone I am in this earthly world

My own shadow is my only friend

Am neither infatuated nor crazy

Have never been a part of any show

Empty paths always hold me far off

Who has the sorrow of destination

Me nothing but a traveller of the heart

A lonely swan leaving the banks of lake

Busy travelling on the crest of waves

The moon and stars do simply inspire

I love myself more than anyone else.

MYTH OF THE NIGHT!

I ask noon if it has met anyone like you

I hunt for the face like yours all around

The buds haven’t found anyone like you

Florists aren’t sure of flowers like you

With that gait on heaven or the earth

The killing tresses, the lotus petal lips

Intoxicating eyes only myth of the night

The Google confirms ‘ur special status

Your uniqueness makes one really crazy

What should I call you,a Beauty or Bomb

If I may say so there is no poem like you .

SCATTERED I AM!

I want to be yours and make you mine

We are bodies intertwined into one soul

Accept this fact for all those moments

They feel like living for centuries to me

Your aroma that delights heart in toto

Slips away from my palm like rain drops

My tears obviously flow to connect you

Being crazy, I rove to find you in my alley

Scattered I am for a moment in the air

By holding your trust, I do walk ahead

My heart, a little emotional , overflows

With words splattering out of my eyes.

THE SOUL OF MY LIFE!

Your soul forces me to keep on walking

In my dejected and gloomy world

Even the seas are thirsty and famished

The nectar is in the beauty of your eyes

Can I paint your image or write a poem

An amalgamation of hues and rhythms

You’re the beat of my innocent heart

And the very soul of my mortal life

Your breath is as fragrant as blooms

Your arms have the softness of lotus

The brightness of sunray is in the face

A deer I do find in your gracefulness

Your love can stitch up my torn heart.

Biography of the Author

Dr. Prasana Kumar Dalai (DOB 07/06/1973) is a passionate Indian Author-cum- bilingual poet while a tremendous lecturer of English by profession in the Ganjam district of Odisha.

He is an accomplished source of inspiration for young generation of India .His free verse on Romantic and melancholic poems appreciated by everyone. He belongs to a small typical village Nandiagada of Ganjam District, the state of Odisha.

After schooling he studied intermediate and Graduated In Kabisurjya Baladev vigyan Mahavidyalaya then M A in English from Berhampur University PhD in language and literature and D.litt from Colombian poetic house from South America. He promotes his specific writings around the world literature and trades with multiple stems that are related to current issues based on his observation and experiences that needs urgent attention.

He is an award winning writer who has achieved various laurels from the circle of writing worldwide. His free verse poems not only inspires young readers but also the ready of current time. His poetic symbol is right now inspiring others, some of which are appreciated by laurels of India and across the world. Many of his poems been translated in different Indian languages and got global appreciation. Lots of well wishes for his upcoming writings and success in the future.

He is an award winning poet author of many best seller books. Recently he is awarded Rabindra nath Tagore and Gujarat Sahitya Academy for the year 2022 from Motivational Strips . A gold medal from world union of poets France & winner Of Rahim Karims world literary prize 2023.The government of Odisha Higher Education Department appointed him as a president to Governing body of Padmashree Dr. Ghanashyam Mishra Sanskrit Degree College, Kabisurjyanagar. Winner of ” HYPERPOEM ” GUNIESS WORLD RECORD 2023.

Recently he was awarded from SABDA literary Festival at Assam. Highest literary honour from Peru contributing world literature 2024.Prestigious Cesar Vellejo award 2024 Completed 200 Epistolary poems with American poet Kristy Raines. Books. 1.Psalm of the Soul. 2.Rise of New Dawn. 3.secret Of Torment. 4.Everything I never told you. 5.Vision Of Life National Library Kolkata. 6.100 Shadows of Dream. 7.Timeless Anguish. 8.Voice of Silence. 9.I cross my heart from east to west . Epistolary poetry with Kristy Raines

Madagascar

He loved dogs, but he didn’t want to deal with the responsibility of owning one, on top of which the concept of  “owning” an animal made him uncomfortable. But he’d always stop to pet a friendly dog on the street or in a shop, and he’d jump at the chance to board a traveling friend’s dog for a few days, even weeks.

His wife was somewhat indifferent to dogs, but she always welcomed the temporary visitor, as long as he did the feeding and walking. She was even happy to steal the occasional stomach pat, or to receive a brief lick.

The friend’s dog, a medium-sized male of unknown lineage, was called Winslow. The friend referred to it as That Winslow Boy whenever it did something naughty.

He was walking Winslow one morning when a passing neighbor said, “Oh, got yourself a dog?”

“Just for a couple of weeks,” he said. “I’m caring for him while his owner is in Madagascar.” He regretted having said “owner.”

“Oh, Madagascar, marvelous!” the neighbor exclaimed, and went on to tell him, in voluminous detail, about her own trip to Madagascar the year before.

Hard Times

He received a phone call, out of the blue, from a childhood friend he hadn’t seen or spoken to in decades. This friend had fallen on hard times and was “reaching out” to his old buddies.

He had fond memories of the guy and did want to help, so he asked, “How can I help?”

“I could use a place to stay,” the friend said.

Oh, no, that was out of the question. Not only would his wife never stand for it, neither would he.

“I’d love to help, but we don’t have the space,” he told the friend.

“I understand,” the friend said. There was a pregnant pause and then the friend said, sheepishly, “Maybe you could help me out with a little money for a motel?”

Should he suggest the friend find a shelter, or would that be an insult? Sure he could afford to give his friend a few hundred bucks, but what happens when that runs out? What about the long term?

He told the old friend to meet him at an ATM downtown. He withdrew $500 and handed the cash to the friend.

“Thanks, this means a lot to me,” the friend said.

He was about to say, “Any time,” then he caught himself and said, “Sure.”

Endgame

Before he met his wife, in a college course on postwar European drama, where they bonded over Beckett’s Endgame, he was dating a girl named Josie, but there had been no real spark; apparently the feeling was mutual, because when he told Josie he’d met someone new, she said, simply, “OK.”

That was thirty years ago. He and his wife had not discussed Beckett for the past twenty of them. Like most marriages.

***

man is a fire

every time I burn with shame when I see a bird pecking at bread crumbs at a bus stop

children’s bread and milk are poured from heaven onto the rain earth

minced meat at the meat market screams

***

in the morning I watched fish bones on the shore

autumn crying to the crunch of ears and bones

the heart turns inside out in the hope that aluminum birds

also fly home from warm countries after wintering

***

platinum night in the back of the head

who breathes rose petals into the crown of the cemetery?

perhaps this is another hanged or unborn brother

maybe it’s a local jesus

maybe it’s mom who smiles with raindrops

it would be nice if it was someone good

but black and white don’t exist

there is only a synthesis of colors

it would be nice if such an abstract love corresponded to a non-abstract world

and at night a cemetery emerges from under the pillow

and flowers dream of growing not for the sake of mourning ribbons

the night goes on a journey

morning will never come

***

I press a laptop key unknown to me and hope to summon the spirit of the deceased grandfather in this way

what you do not understand: the life of the elderly is death

I would like to live forever but I’m too poor for that

I would rather not love but I need to fill the void inside my chest

I would like to be an inanimate object but I move like a worm

I’d rather live like a worm with no limbs so I wouldn’t be forced to take death in my hands

my grandfather promised to play with me after work and didn’t come back

the cast-iron milk of the night covered his eyes

after lunch it is very dark outside

***

my feet are stones

I step on the leaves by force

I feel a crunch under my feet

whose bones turned out to be leaves?

why is the tree silent?

why does the bush not wave its branches with its hands?

whom I trample under my sole on the way to death?

The First Love Song

The night is beautiful as an angel is in my arms

She is dancing and singing the first love song

I am trembling with new feeling

I found love fighting against some odds 

I am in the first love song,

Though it is unknown to me.

The night is perfect as it holds her  dreams

In the darkness l can easily read her dreams with love’s light

She says, “Darling, dive in my heart and

 take my heart to fill it with your love.

I have been looking for you for a thousand years

At last I have found you tonight.”

The night is beautiful as all the flowers bloom

The time watch is right

The angel owns my time

I become a timeless boy 

I share my night

She shares her secrets

We  see our future in one another eyes

we sing the first love song in the world.

The night is attractive and l deserve it

I have faith in the first love song

I have faith in the angel

I have faith in the night.

Big Check

A big check weighs us down –

till deposited. Then it disappears

into the realm of business

the business we did before

that big check weighed on us.

But from the bank’s parking lot

through the door, through that

line, lined up to the teller, it still

was part of our mystery of money

heavy in our pocket. We try to look

causal about it all, want the teller

to think that we are used to big checks

earning, carrying, and depositing them.

She takes it, looks it over, checking things

we can only guess at. She never looks our

way. She clicks away, and our big check

even as heavy as we thought it was, disappears.

                     Photo

It saves that moment, one of the many

we pass through every day, every hour,

but this one is caught, frozen and will

never change. The photo captures

a street scene, one we all live through

holds it. The couple at the curb, about

to cross will never cross. They have gone

this far and no farther. We don’t know if

they are happy or sad. They are just this

couple in this moment. What are they

thinking? What did they just say to each

other? Will this action, this about to go

across this street, make a difference in

their lives? Will they look back and say

that this made all the difference? We don’t

know, will never know, but that moment

for them has become part of us, part of

us if we hold this picture and watch it go

through the things the photographer was

trying to convey to us about time and its

mystery, the way we are in the midst of it

and never know what is next for us and for

the people around us – or even that couple

who he or she stopped in the midpoint of

their day out together and made it stay fixed

one foot off the curb, the other about to

follow.

                      Side-Effects

Of course, they warn us about side-effects.

the unintended consequences of taking

whatever it is we’re taking or are thinking

about taking. They’re the stuff of small print.

You could end up with “swelling of ankles or

feet.” How about “confusion, difficulty breathing”

Along with such things as “dizziness, faintness

or lightheadedness.” The things we take come

with their own litany of possible side effects.

Imagine “black, tarry stools” or “bleeding gums”

as you take a daily dose of what they’re selling.

Even TV ads touting the latest meds for public

consumption are weighed down with side-effects

both mentioned by the voice-over and in print

at the bottom of the screen. They give us a group

dancing and singing followed by their warnings.

It’s as if the cure or whatever we’re taking to try

To cure or at least curtail one thing brings on an

Assortment of other candidates for our undoing.

Let Me Relish the Drizzle, the Dude

I get the feeling that every once in a while

You drum up something special just for me,

Whether mundane or whether a minor miracle.

I’m scorching in the field, raking and weeding,

Blinded in buckets of my own sweat. Tired.

Out of nowhere, a cooling drizzle blows in.

I’m helping a friend move a clunky armoire,

And we can’t heft the damn thing into the truck.

Then a biker dude pops out of the hedges to assist.

Is this from You for me? Or am I making it up?

Am I so desperate to find a hint anywhere

Of kin and kindness to ease my aloneness?

However You work, let me think my pleasure.

Let me delude and amuse myself. Let me relish

The drizzle, the dude, and smother You in thanks.

Into Your Folds

There’s a song You sang as a bird flew near.

She heard it and plummeted into Your folds,

Never to be seen again.

Please, can You start over? Repeat it just once?

I only caught the first faint notes,

And am circling back.

World, hush – all thoughts, loves, woes, worries.

I drift into the winds of silence.

There! It begins again.

Delicate chimes strike high above a hum of hope.

The tones beckon, entice, captivate.

I must get closer.

Not All Your Answers

Ill at ease, squirmy,

Sick to my stomach,

Heave-ho.

Anything for relief –

But no, it’s You, Lord,

Replying.

Not all Your answers

Come dripping in joy.

So be it.

A clap of thunder –

A horse rears and bolts.

I hold.

A Trail of Suitcases

I find a trail of suitcases

Stretches out behind me.

Each is broken and drips

Madness and mistakes.

I find my clenched hands

Hefting two new suitcases

Heavy with my sad stories,

Packed full with tragedy.

I find my fingers weaken

And loosen and intertwine.

The suitcases fall away,

Bang, crack, and splinter.

I find my hands reach up

In a prayer for the end

Of all suitcases, trunks,

Storage sheds, and attics.

I find I stand up straight;

I stop staring at sidewalks

And see the clarity of sky.

I find that I beg for love.

Sky Diving Full Naked

I can only relax,

I can only unwind,

I can only laugh,

When I know I’m giving everything.

My seconds to You, Lord,

My days to You, Lord,

My life to You, Lord,

When I know I’m begging for more.

Sky diving full naked,

Topping the Alps full naked,

Sitting silent full naked,

When I know I’m blasting beyond.

Now I do anything,

Now I walk anywhere,

Now I greet anyone,

When I know I’m all of me for You.

DK Jammin’ is 73 years old and lives in Colorado. He graduated from Yale University with a law degree, raised a daughter, and worked at the Texas Legislative Council in Austin. He is the supervisor of the Words Department for the Center of The Golden One. 

His poetry publishing credits include: “The Coffee Maker” in Macrame Literary Journal, “A Landing” and “A Fly Comes Your Way” in The Accendo Review, “As I Imagine” in Soul Poetry, “She Sails Our World” in Metapsychosis Journal, and “Goddess of My Inner Joy” was published in the Men’s Poetry Journal, “Enkidu.” He has been a playwright, lawyer, and a psychotherapist, but recently he has been inhabited with the muse of poetry and cannot stop writing.

American Male

buys his coffee at 7/11

finds dinner under the heat lamp

at the local gas station

backpacks his belongings

dons shorts on forty degree days

to go with flip flops and white ankle socks

shaves close every morning

to avoid being mistaken for homeless

reads a daily newspaper in the library

calls his mother on Christmas day

cleans his cousin’s office after dark

day dreams about his ex

carries a picture of his infant daughter

in his wallet even though she’s an adult

who refuses to answer his phone calls

pawns his graduation watch when he’s short

sometimes sleeps at the airport

doesn’t smile much–bad teeth

and gray moods that dim the day

admires Robert DiNiro for keeping it real

fondly recalls the old neighborhood

is certain things will get better

and heads to the dollar store for toothpicks

and the stale candy bars he eats before sleep

to help him dream of soft sheets

and waking to the aroma of frying  bacon

which started each day of his childhood

before he left home to be a man

Ask

Ask and you shall receive.

Is that true?

Sometimes a question simply roils the waters

or the answer provided is not an answer at all.

You can ask for too much,

more than your share,

or you might ask for too little.

You may have no right to ask

or you may have an obligation to inquire.

Did Adam ask Eve, “That apple taste good?”

Did Adam ask God, “Why did you expel us?”

Did Adam ask himself, “Did I get a raw deal?”

Did Abel ask Cain,

“Don’t you realize I’m the older brother?”

Does the Pope know everything—or nothing at all?

Are answers more important than questions?

Can we talk about that?

Reflections on the Patio

she grew up with friends who hold government offices

drinks with people who’ve risen to public heights

dines with church vicars administering large sees

former lovers run schools

and relatives control radio empires

while she wades in the backwaters of the urban maze

she sighs with blunted ambition but realizes she also

knew a man who ate his gun

a woman who died homeless on an airport bench

and a once garrulous political heavyweight

who now wears an orange jump suit in early retirement

she pats the hands of those robbed of their past by dementia

and regrets alcohol and drugs have overwhelmed

uncles and aunts and cousins cold in the ground

while the waves of modern life wash away

the footprints of her feckless life

as she stares at the horizon

with puzzled wonder

her life has been

so ordinary

Sunbathing on the Rocks

You lay in the sun

on the rocks bordering the lake,

motionless, like a lizard,

your brown, bare-breasted skin

soaking up the bright

promise of July.

You looked up to find my smile

dusting your curves with desire.

Your calm delight at my gaze

brought me to your side.

You sat up, your palms brushing

your nipples as you lifted the

top of your bikini over your breasts.

I sat down and we crooned

a familiar song of deliberate seduction.

All around us on the rocks,

sunbathers watched our mating

dance like nervous gulls,

edgy at our greedy lust.

I looked back to you

and licked my lips.

You pulled your thong

into the slit between your legs,

took my hand,

kissed my fingertips,

stared into the blue irises

of my balding fantasies,

and asked, “Are you ready?”

I leaned forward

and answered with a kiss,

my tongue probing yours

and the dark distance between us,

while our hearts pounded

with the dangerous tension

that vibrates risky romantics

with terror and bravado.

My Classroom

The room was a garden

filled with young shoots

and waving branches

listing to the sun of

my smile.

The parade of history,

the constellations of numbers.

the periodic table of elements

waved alluringly in fertile fields

of age-ripened wisdom

and my students took

root as I watered the soil

of their quivering, vibrant minds

so they could rise

to inhabit their seedling dreams.