Love

PHOTO:  RUPAK ROY

 

There are no suns, moons or stars in you-

neither the ocean, no sky nor even a firefly

ever made any presence about your being,

yet I hear your silent steps in my heart.

 

Your lips are the exotic trees with rare blossoms-

that unfurl their petals not in profusion

to drown me in colors or perfume,

yet I feel their soft touch in my core.

 

You are no flower but a hardened rock-

that rose above brine water of the eyes

of my broken self in a broken world.

 

You rise as did our Himalayas-

with the warm heart in layers of snow

while I am a pebble of prayer.

 

Posted for dVerse MTB ~ Neruda and the free sonnet hosted by Bjorn Rudberg

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Shared with Poetry Pantry #367 @ Poets United

Flood

SOURCE

Flood is: always,

going overboard.

Not to my liking.

Let me be calm,

be at peace with me.

I pray for placid, deep water

always half inch

below the edge.

 

 

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

 

 

Dream

SOURCE

 

My dreams are not

anti art

but rather a bit Dadaistic

in tone-

cautiously sculptured

in collages

of cut up imagined memory

by an inner ‘I’-

making me ride a hobby horse

and wander

from one cube of darkness

to another

in false reality.

 

 

Posted for dVerse Quadrille #38 ~ Dream hosted by De

Of Flowers and Shoots

SOURCE

 

            I

The flowers of dreamscape

Crossed over to the real world

To be in my tub

            II

Once I saw

Gossamer, scented wings

Of night flowers

           III

Wilting gerbera

Tied up with a silk string

In a bouquet

 

            IV

They glow

The peony headstone spray

In remembrance

 

 

 

Posted for Poetry Pantry #366 @ Poets United

Kintsugi

Google Image

 

I never knew I was so fragile

that I’d be reduced to pieces

like a china cup

at one knock.

Neither did I know

those living close to my heart

were all Kintsugi artists.

They lovingly collected

all the shards, that was my soul

and mended with words of gold.

Now I’m a Kintsugi vase,

broken yet whole.

 

 

Posted for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Kintsugi: Art of mending

 

Human Trafficking: A Cherita

 

Courtesy: Poets United

 

She was lust fodder.

 

So she had to be sold and cooked

in dark flames of lecherous greed.

 

Yet she couldn’t be consumed

for she’s to be an undying candle flame

flinging away night around her.

 

Here is a LINK, the source of my poem

 

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Human Trafficking @ Poets United

The End: A Cherita*

SOURCE

 

Words glide down,

 

to the end of fingertips

to begin their dance-

 

of sunrise and twilight

void and darkness

and of a blood red dawn.

 

**Cherita is a poetic form [1-2-3] of three stanzas telling a story. The first one has one line the second, two and the final stanza has three lines. Cherita is a Malay word for story/tale. This form was created by al li

 

 

Posted for dVerse Poetics ~ The End hosted by Paul Scribbles

 

Sanctuary: A Cherita

SOURCE

I find a sanctuary in your smile-

 

that’s rose-soft with latitude

and rock hard too-

 

where I keep my nest of dreams-

my frail and brittle soul,

secure and safe.

 

Posted for my Midweek Motif ~ Finding A Sanctuary @ Poets united

Rooted to Woe

SOURCE

The moist road under my feet sings

while the glossy grass

carefully hold their dots of blooms

against the naughty wind in their playful mood.

This bonny morning

pulls me into

its enormous foyer of exuberance;

where trees enjoy monsoon manna

and give a shake to their roots

to go deeper,

where merry brooks

weave their delight into babbling tune

just as the moist road under my feet sings,

telling me to move on.

But my heart chooses

to be a megalith of grief.

 

Posted for dVerse Poetics: Flexing your verbs hosted by Kim of writinginnorthnorfolk.com

A Pilgrim’s Prayer

Mount Neelkantha in the Himalayan Range

Burnt orange is slowly changing into a dazzling white while I remain hidden mesmerized in the dark shade that the Himalayas offer me. Tourists abound here, clicking and letting out soft sound of wonderment. I am not a tourist now. I am a pilgrim. The Indians, the Hindus mainly have tendencies to build temples and worship in such lofty places and pilgrims flow like the Ganges or the Alakananda towards them.

 

Before visiting the temple I also let out my soft prayer to the Almighty to let the mountain survive, thrive with the flora and fauna that it used to have those days when pilgrims trudged miles after miles without the least care for their comfort, risking their life and were blessed by the generosity of the Himalayas for you don’t know when suddenly a pristine fountain would pop up and quench your thirst and fruit laden trees would feed you so that your dry food stock would not exhaust fast. I also prayed that it might be saved from unscrupulous visitors making it a perfect litter bin. But who is listening?

 

A yellow beaked crow

Takes lone flight to winter sky

Like a pilgrim’s sigh

 

River Alakananda

 

Posted for Haibun Monday – Free For All @ dVerse hosted by Hayesspencer

 

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Shared with Poetry Pantry @ Poets United