Ode to Age

It’s a velvet bed of grass

slowly morphing into a gravel path-

it’s a bird-call;

a forest trail, thorny;

fiery to burn your feet;

it’s when the heart sprouts wings

into unknown skies-

in a trice, as it were

the journey’s almost done-

winged heart alights

and shuffles along its precarious perch

on the rugged cliff of time-

and folding the wings it drinks to its fill

the heavenly twilight-

all the while

watching evening eddies

spreading into night-

 

Posted for my prompt Ode to Age @ Poets United Midweek Motif

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Reading Fiction

 

I have seen kohl-cool clouds

hidden in between pages-

to give

a needed downpour, shower, drizzle of words

cleansing toxic, vituperative reality-

 

 

Now I am in between hard covers

being words-

flowing like the dusky Ganga of Benaras

my breath, buzzing like all the ghats*-

you read me, see my Manikarnika** being-

 

 

*riverfront

**a sacred cremation ghat

 

 

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Reading Fiction @ Poets United

Abundance

 

It’s scary

to watch how the mind stirs

just to let out

those raging dreams

fluttering away

on their fiery wings

to feed on massed darkness-

oh please-

let me live at the feet of the blissful ones-

the Kanchenjunga, Nilkantha,

Monals, Black-Lored tits,

rhododendrons, Deodars

Yaks and Tahrs-

they are the Buddha-

I wish to live on an abundance of emptiness

to fill in each empty cell

with grace

flowing from them-

 

 

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Abundance @ Poets United

Owl Café

 

I have only read

but never said Hello to an owl café

where you can go personal with owls-

in an almost surreal chamber filled with soft music

you could

feel their soft head,

let them perch on your shoulder or arms,

drink tranquility along with coffee-

 

 

like their wild bro or sis

they can turn their heads almost all the way round-

they are far sighted-

they have super hearing power-

they have sharp, shiny talon

they have the same velvety downs

to muffle noise

to ensure a silent flight-

 

 

What they have more is-

a name like Peanut or Butterfly or whatever

given by a human,

and a thin string tied to their feet,

and sleepy eyes,

and broken dream of wilderness-

they are in the café

to heal a stressed human heart-

 

 

(I read an article about owl cafés of Tokyo where owls are used as healing agents to save weary people from mayhem outside.)

 

Posted for my prompt ~ Owl @ Poets United Midweek Motif

What Is A Wall For

chapelroad_satishkrishnamurthy_flickr

Street Art In Chapel Road | ©SatishKrishnamurthy/Flickr

My Hibiscus plant

leans on my pink wall

and spills

orange blooms; luring the flower thief

each dawn,

when my plant is in a mood of charity-

the sky is pink in shame

so am I;

the husband’s face

is like the monster fish forever fixed

on the wall of Bandra’s Chapel Road*-

the woman is unabashed-

she has in her hand

a long stick with an iron hook

attached to its end-

she plucks my heart

with it-

the shy wall can do nothing-

 

*Chapel Road in Bandra, Mumbai is famous for its colorful street art.

 

Posted for my prompt~ The Wall @ Poets United Midweek Motif

Clue

 

I am a subhuman,

living in stupor-

when you live

in a land of goats

you are unable to read signs-

Night appears to be sizzling

with light

while Day lurches under cover of darkness-

this happens

when you live with goats

in a goat-land….

at night which originally is a day

you find hollowed, murdered words

lying like famished humans of the Bengal Famine-

you find hollow-men brawling

in talk shows of spicy politics-

and you can’t smell apocalypse with a blocked nose

while bridges collapse and fire consumes traders-

yet you are clueless-

you mistake the scimitar for a moon-

and write poems-on a breezy day

which actually is the blackest of nights-

this is because

you live with goats

in the goat-land.

 

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Evidence/Clues @ Poets United

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Sharing with dVerse Open Link Night #228

Tagore

 

He lives-

his each breath

is a calm, placid word

with a shelter,

with the southerly breeze

tucked inside-

to give me a home,

to blow away the sobs still left-

 

He sings-

his each note

is a cloud-sail

with a fiery dream,

with a skein of geese

flecked on it-

to kindle my soul,

to make it forever free-

 

He is a forever giver.

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Charity @ Poets United