Mr. Desouza's Daughter
the road lay forever
cascading down
from geology
and climbing up
geography
as playful prose
he'd never let his
childish words
meander in
they could only ever
peek out through the
little windows of the poem—
house he built
and lived in with his
wife and twins—
a son and a lovely daughter.
i would write playful
prose
and i sought her
that pretty little thing
but i suppose
he knew better,
Poet Mr. Desouza,
all about a nonchalant pose
of a seventeen year old
down the street
leaning at the side wall
one knee jutting out
rhyming with the cigarette
smoke and doubly again
with the playful line of
auburn hair
and a whimsy in the wind
an a-b-c-b rhymer
he wouldn't let
his daughter
come near
for some deep
primal fear
Gravity
grandma said gravity was
the name of her cat that
died when she was young
she said she knew better
than to bother with poets
albeit grandpa'd read Neruda
and think otherwise— he said
he was a sphinx but grandma
would say he's simply a poet's pun
gone wrong, is more a gryphon
they'd fight over it, omg to
see 'em fight was so much fun—
i often think neruda said it—
when he said we are in all
our lives, at once
and that's it— the real
mystery— like waking
in the morning—
like many overcoats
worn together on a
cold, December evening
KUSH ARORA was born and raised in the Indian city of Lucknow and always yearned for a creative vent. He is twenty-four and has been dabbling with verse for more than four years. He is now learning the grammar of graphite - to sketch portraits, which he finds becomes him as much as any of his (better) poems. He loves experimenting with new forms with the spirit of rebellion.
the road lay forever
cascading down
from geology
and climbing up
geography
as playful prose
he'd never let his
childish words
meander in
they could only ever
peek out through the
little windows of the poem—
house he built
and lived in with his
wife and twins—
a son and a lovely daughter.
i would write playful
prose
and i sought her
that pretty little thing
but i suppose
he knew better,
Poet Mr. Desouza,
all about a nonchalant pose
of a seventeen year old
down the street
leaning at the side wall
one knee jutting out
rhyming with the cigarette
smoke and doubly again
with the playful line of
auburn hair
and a whimsy in the wind
an a-b-c-b rhymer
he wouldn't let
his daughter
come near
for some deep
primal fear
Gravity
grandma said gravity was
the name of her cat that
died when she was young
she said she knew better
than to bother with poets
albeit grandpa'd read Neruda
and think otherwise— he said
he was a sphinx but grandma
would say he's simply a poet's pun
gone wrong, is more a gryphon
they'd fight over it, omg to
see 'em fight was so much fun—
i often think neruda said it—
when he said we are in all
our lives, at once
and that's it— the real
mystery— like waking
in the morning—
like many overcoats
worn together on a
cold, December evening
KUSH ARORA was born and raised in the Indian city of Lucknow and always yearned for a creative vent. He is twenty-four and has been dabbling with verse for more than four years. He is now learning the grammar of graphite - to sketch portraits, which he finds becomes him as much as any of his (better) poems. He loves experimenting with new forms with the spirit of rebellion.
