I often think of
my very last day
of snuffing out the sun forever-
and scattering away
into the dust.
Posted for Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017 #30 hosted by Thotpurge
Our winter sun is pale-bright,
scattering sighs, it dips into night-
as fog flexes muscles dimming all stars-
my eyes mist and you’re blurred.
A dewdrop displays a pellucid grace,
I watch this day’s gait in a hurried pace-
while I play with words in color of tar-
you peep from my heart that’s left ajar.
Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Bittersweet @ Poets United
Shared with Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017 #29 hosted by Thotpurge
You are my rain-lullaby
I am all ears
for your anklet-steps in my heart
draped in dream
you alight in my eyes
to be my little sleep song
[My inspiration for this poem is Langston Hughes’ poem April Rain Song]
Posted for Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017 #28 hosted by Thotpurge
The boy flies a kite after the terrifying exams are over.
We are glad to be your other sky, warmth, glassy lakes and winter homes.
The sun, trees, houses even water hyacinths are consumed by fog.
Posted for Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017 #27 hosted by Thotpurge
they walk on sand-
with eyes, limpid pool dreams-
they collect, it, counting each drop-
[Women in many parts of the world have to walk miles (3-4) daily to bring water. This chore keeps girls out of school and women from more productive economic activities]
Posted for Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017 #26 hosted by Thotpurge
Shared with Poetry Pantry #380 @ Poets United
The bird alighted
from the brush of a five year old-
it had wings of red heart-
its turquoise plumage glowed
against the ashen sky,
an umbrella sun-
it began to saunter
thinking about the creator
closing its eyes-
amidst blooms of hearts, stars…..
Posted for Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017 #25 hosted by Thotpurge
In this foggy winter morning
Your words wake up
From dream’s own cup
This winter morning’s pale, frail, sun
Touches no one
This cold heart wants
A bit of warmth
This dawn recalls those crystal days
When all were gay
Even nights glowed
Posted for Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017 #24 hosted by Thotpurge
pic from internet
Eclectus parrots stuffed
in drainage pipes
call back his childhood days
incarcerated in school time
[Naani is a four line poem having 20-25 syllables]
This picture of bizarre smuggling attempt reminded me of Tagore as a child who loved to skip off school for its jail like feel.
Posted for Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017 #23 hosted by Thotpurge
Shared with Poetry Pantry @ Poets United
Being a lowly born I couldn’t aspire to be the flower rose,
though I saw how the sun in the feminine sky slowly rose.
My crimson days of fame had enough nightly thorns,
yet I flung away the worms and never was a sick rose.
I was the new woman; don’t you dare call me a harlot,
and the stage, the hot bed of immorality where corruption rose.
I never minded cross dressing; playing the role of Chaitanya*,
I received His** grace to go beyond the flower rose.
In spite of all your scorns, in your nightly sky,
As ‘Moon of the Star Theater’ even though for a while I rose.
[ This poem is about Binodini Dasi, also known as Notee Binodini who was a 19th Century, Calcutta based Bengali speaking renowned actress and thespian (Wikipedia). Born to prostitution, she lived her life on stage, that gave her the desired freedom. She did become an intrinsic part of Bengal theater. However Indian News Daily in 1876 wrote: “….the theater has by introduction of harlots on the stage become the hot bed of immorality and corruption.”
*Chaitanya (Born 18 February 1486) was a spiritual leader.
**’His’ refers to Ramakrishna Paramahamsa (1836-1886) the Indian mystic and yogi in the 19th century who instigated Binodini’s spiritual transformation. ]
Posted for my prompt The Flower: Rose @ Poets United Midweek Motif
Shared with Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017 #22 hosted by Thotpurge
Some necessarily choose
a darker sky and shoot up
to shine and twinkle
for the star catchers
to be beyond me-
I let them go with a sigh-
a few stay to let me collect
molten words of their hearth-
I feel their street urchin breath-
hear their buzz for a new bloom-
see their muddy feet-
on the other side of rhythm-
I make my home corner
with their stale wrath of desperation
Posted for Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017 # 21 hosted by Thotpurge
Shared with Poetry Pantry #388 @ Poets United