Poems and Poetry

isolation poems

Daytime TV | A Poem by J.K. Durick

Time, spent like this, doesn’t weigh heavily, weighs
almost nothing at all, fills in, fills up, follows a set
schedule, offers some diversion, endless game shows,
some cooking, and home improvement, reruns of
reruns, comedies we know well enough to recall
the lines and old police shows smacking of relevance
from ten, twenty years ago; we’ve come to this after
the years we were too busy to even know that this
exists, this world of filler, what some of us do all day
while the rest are away, it’s like a waiting room for
those of us waiting for time to pass, the day to end
it explains us, begins to define us, the lost, the ghosts
the shadows of our former selves, it knows us well
replaces friends and family and conversation, fills
in the silence that so easily grows all around us now.

The Forgotten Gallery | A Poem by Leah Short

Unbearable gallery projects us all.
Our desires to be seen, and soon, folds.
I need no direction.
Told that everything means nothing,
propels us to be alone.
Shut into shutter speed.
Lock ourselves away behind lock screens.
But tell our tales to everyone. Silently.

We let all pride slip away.
For the need to be known.
To make it into the forgotten gallery.

Visit Leah at http://leahshort.wordpress.com.

Solitary | A Poem by Sunil Sharma

A lonesome man walks on a glistening road,
running crookedly between ripe green fields, August rain.
A horse stands in the street,
eyes watery, tail flipping;
A shop selling used furniture, crammed with
vacant chairs and stools;
The three images, random,
like the unending, heated
arguments, of the screaming couples, the sparring warriors, Ancient
Rome, bald arguments,
their swords that cut and thrust,
and draw blood,
arguments running, making no sense, done only
to spite the other hissing
partner, in the curtained rooms;
Heard often, these clashes verbal, then forgotten,
boring routine, snatches of hatred, embedded in loveless marriages,
but caught by other avid listeners, who forget their own,
on lonely nights, when rain comes and knocks at the doors, windows,
like an unwelcome tramp, across the urban deserts, from
Madrid to Mumbai, highlighting isolation supreme.

Visit Sunil at http://www.drsunilsharma.blogspot.in/.