Men Are Slaves To Women. by Ray Subrata
Oddity, -my Darling,
Psycho my Mistress,
Adulteress my Passion,
Romance my Goddess,
Thou are my rivers.
My bath with thee, in reality and dream,
Suck away, deprecate, my life’s cream.
My libido dances with thy wink,
My I time to time in you sink.
My sprouting instincts anchor links.
The world dances with your brim,
Live, fight, die with your screams.
Rainbow blooms at your sight,
Dumb sensory –tidal deluge,
Seek home in blacksmith’s craft.
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poem by Subrata Ray
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Voice by Ray Subrata
Orators to public deliver their gift of the gab,
They fire emotion, exalt sense beyond map.
The politicians like toads praise their well,
Propagandize ism, and ring their bell.
Some leaders like shepherd lead their sheep,
Implement manifesto as they get their whip.
People take their words from stations of profit
Little they discriminate, how their lectures merit.
A saint’s pleasure graces people to rise,
From wintry slumber, and deadly demise.
Godly words tinged with beacon –light,
Dislodge, impel, move and set to flight.
Flowery oracles from distant land,
In a prophet’s voice finds rigid stand.
Strange beauty sprouts from our ionized devices,
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poem by Subrata Ray
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To A Mother The Son Does Not Grow Adult
Mother, is the living shrine,
To her eye the son remains ever green,
Whole the world is aware of the son,
The mother’s eye never transforms from the morn.
The son stations to adult hood,
He gets equipped with different moods,
He learns the black art of daily change,
He experiences the relation-mystery widening his range.
The mother’s dictionary reads only the baby innocent,
For she gets wrapped in her feelings essence,
She finds no fault with the boy,
And sees him playing with childhood toy.
To a son the mother remains as an oasis,
In his good and evil she remains as a spontaneous bliss.
For, from her being the son comes on the earth,
Learns her smile, her words, and life’s rope with fountain mirth.
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poem by Subrata Ray
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