Holy Day

Courtesy: Google Image

“Hell is empty

And all the devils are here.” – The Tempest: Act 1 Sc. 2

 

Thus spake the Bard.

 

 

I try to seek holiness

in butterfly wings

gilded by sun-dust;

in rippled pond

where a heron meditates

on one leg for a fish;

in needle billed sunbird

that sweetens its life

from a saintly lemon blossom;

in lotus words

gathered by the truth-seekers

through the ages.

Any day could be a holy day

only if these MOAB-y Dicks

would return to where they belonged.

 

 

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif Holiness / Holy Day @ Poets United

 

Wings of Egypt

Source

I see

angel* wings torn and lying

on church floor

on Palm Sunday.

I pick up

the scattered red feathers

from the white marble

and turn them into

wailing words

in vain.

The humans have lost their eye, ear long ago.

Their sniffing nose prowls for gun powder

to begin their feast.

The human beasts!

What fun, what delight

in peeling angel feathers!

But the immortal hearts

beat in the quills of poets

beyond the knowledge

of these triumphant pests.

*in one of the explosions at Coptic churches on Palm Sunday in Egypt occurring in the pews near the front of the church, many of the dead were children.

Posted for Poetry Pantry @ Poets United

The Book

 

Source

One of my books

in a plastic jacket

contains a stain on the cover,

a burnt spot.

I was extremely annoyed

when my mama (maternal uncle),

who took it for a reading,

while returning it,

in an apologizing tone

confessed: so sorry,

I fell asleep

and it’s my cigarette’s doing.

Only a badly sketched smile

appeared on my face;

no words of wound

escaped from my injured heart thankfully.

It was once upon a time.

I was a college student then.

He is no more.

I sometimes place my hand

on that black shapeless mark

and feel his presence

and sigh.

 

 

 

Posted for Sumana’s Midweek Motif ~ Books @ Poets United

 

April

Google Image

She is all sugar and spice-

flowers and songs-

colors and light-

she is the sun, moon,

sapphire sky,

all the stars

and queen of your heart;

but you should see her

in one of her Nor’westers* moods-

when her thick droopy hair of fronds

so lush green-

go all erect, upright

vehemently nodding,

at your every cajoling word

to calm her down.

This headstrong lassie

will drown you

in her tears;

deafen you

in her squally voice:

gruff, rough,

and thunderous;

don’t you dare cast an angry glance

at her kohl smudged cloudy eye;

what does a good mother like you do then?

Let her be.

Let her howl, growl,

gnash white teeth of lightning;

scratch with nails of icy hails

on your window panes.

No panic, no worries

if she tumbles head over heels

throwing root-y foot upwards

while thumping the grassy floor

with twisted leafy arms.

Let an hour go;

she’ll change; as all children do

after a hell of a tantrum.

All her tresses now pulled back

with a milky-way band

she’ll nudge

your feverish skin

with a sweet cool zephyr

loaded with her patent fragrant touch

and twinkle with a guilty, nightly smile.

Oh bless her, bless her for that

with a word of rhythm and rhyme.

*Nor’westers or the Kalbaishakhi is a local thunderstorm which occurs in India and Bangladesh. Kalbaishakhi occurs, with increasing frequency, from March till monsoon establishes over North-East India in June. Kalbaishakhi is accompanied by strong squalls and sometimes by hail. On extremely rare occasions, tornados may also accompany them too. However, the rainfall in these storms is beneficial for the tea cultivated in Assam and for the jute and rice cultivated in West Bengal: WIKIPEDIA

 

 

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

A Rise

Google Image

 

 

I watch the wavy half-curtains letting in the playful sunbeams and wind into this room where my fingers are tapping on keyboards and giving my thoughts a form of a word. I wonder why the rays couldn’t transform themselves into those little yet mighty sparrows that would plunge on the shadowy cobwebs of grief hanging in every corner of this room and devour those spider thoughts stopping their weaving once and for all. Golden sparrows exist. They reside in words of rhythm and rhyme to pull me up from caverns of my sorrow.

 

 

From nebulous nights

Dim stars surface one by one

The fire bird at dawn

 

 

Posted for Haibun Monday: The Shadow Knows over @ dVerse hosted by Hayesspencer