Thoughts about Poetic Images

Walking quietly, entirely outside that wretched path,
I see some jelly vitamins – they’re made for children,
filling up a quirky bottle – all safe for use, and eco-friendly,
but looking tired.

Just like my words – so ordinary, inspite of their agonising still attempt
at awesomeness.

Which one is needed? The jello bears or this verse?
Who cares.
(c) 2018 MK

I read this post in the Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and it made me feel awkward. It said some pretty interesting things that I have probably been thinking over time, yet I never got to actually phrasing them. But let me start from the beginning.
The post said that poetic imagery is an essential part of poetry, and ordinary sentences broken into little lines don’t make real poems. You know the kind I often write. Here is an example, maybe not the best fitting, but I think it suits its purpose:

“Closing eyes will see the route
Scattered views will toss your mind
Closer than before.”

The post also gave an example like that, followed by a couple of good examples of free verse or prose poetry.
And here’s my take: I’ve often felt that a group of sentences like the above are not real poetry, but just sayings to which I give passion through the rhythm. Those usually get a lot of acclaim, they become popular and draw flattering comments. Such reactions would make me feel awkward, because I realised all the time that those poems were not poetic at all. And now, the post is here, the statement is here, and so is the sentence: my poems are not poems.

Before the Journey Home

I packed and hit the bar
My mind sharp on my destination for the day.

The pub’s small dog was snarling at a stranger
on the street –
sharp fangs bare.

The stranger raised his arm unconsciously –
showing a scar, faded with the years, but still visible.

The hearth of home was waiting for me –
I saw it sharp before my eyes
Then I hauled my trunk on the cart and left.
(c) 2018, MK

Sunday whirl #341 came, as usual, with interesting words to make you think and flex your poetic mind.


Despite the sand which urges down
so boundless and careless,
so hurting my fingers,
I still keep the memory of our sudden madness,

The sound of power and
The shout of wind
Thundering in my ears.

I hunger over those days
Missing them
so much that
I follow the blind tremor
slithering behind my ecstatic joy.

(c) 2018, MK

Sunday Whirl #339 offered very nice words today, as always 🙂


so hard to find them comfy
and dainty
at the same time

each life role
demands a deformation of your feet
to fit it and its shoes.

(c) 2018 MK

This was written for the Midweek Motif at Poets United,this Wednesday, 7th Feb.


Burning while
battling up the wind.
Often stop.
Breathing while
sliding down each failing step.
Re-living the top.

(c) 2018, MK

Imaginary Garden with Real Toads of 08 February 2018 – Staircase. I wrote a shadorma for this prompt.

Sunday Whirl #337

Post that missing message already!
And never mind the spilled ink
that fills the rows with sense or
its gentle meandering bend
that follows your thoughts.

Spin that tale already!
It’s a spectacle to watch –
softly injecting your mind
with the mint of a mojito,
and leading you by the hand
to that message you failed to post.

(c) 2018 MK


We’re mostly sick of all the days and nights
of empty dreams and hollow clinks
and chinks of glasses
stupid winks

We’re mostly sick
and mostly looking
for value only if we don’t need to spell it
correctly in our souls
and every day of our lives.

(c) 2018 MK

This is what I created for Wednesday Prompt #424 – Sick

The Loneliness of a Toddler in a Children’s Corner

like erratic balls
given to a child to hush
his displeasure with his coffee-sipping mother
who left him in the nursery
Where it doesn’t matter
that the place is full of colours,
toys and noise.

Gaping loneliness is bouncing –
millions of coloured balls.

(c) 2018, MK

This weird quadrille was written for d’Verse – Quadrille #48 – Bounce. It was my first quadrille, and I’m not sure I did it correctly. For example, what do you do with “a” or with hyphenated words? The obvious solution – check fellow poets’ approach and adopt it. It was a nice challenge.

Superstition and Gravity

The train squeezed listless along the platform,
as if a game for happy children:
their January holiday,
with a completed list of gifts –
the sane apathy of parents reluctant to question superstitions.

The train – a figure of shady authority
puffed towards the winter shelter
where grain is stored for hungry throats
where chickens are cuddled to sleep before
they are taken to our feast table,
realistically rising to the occasion –
the gravity of holiday matters.

(c) 2018, mk

This is my weekly wordle poem in answer to Sunday Whirl #334.

Wordle with no Title

Sunday Whirl 333 – a Wordle without a Title

The spy whistled –
the still water denied the staccato existence of Colorado rapids.
He sat down with a jar of thinner –
maybe diluting it would make it faster.

His sidekick resented the whistling –
he took it for a stupid habit you should kick clean of.
Instead he binge-watched Sabrina, the Teenage Witch
for hours
while sprinkling their home with gas
until all was slick as sin and wishing for death.

(c) 2018 MK