Authenticity

 

I’d never be a glass house,

with each inch truth made,

brightly lit and transparent-

no, not me-

let me be the thick, opaque brick dwelling-

a window of sunlight truth is enough

to live in this world-

I am what I am

a little trace of mellowed truth-

speaking moonbeam words-

none would be hurt-

 

 

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

Forgiveness

 

I am often gripped by feral anger-

caught between its teeth-

there is a tragic pile of my feathers

by the side of the sanctuary

called forgiveness-

I have lost the way to it-

when the grip loosens

I am all bruised within-

to one, standing on the lowest rung of the ladder

to forgive is divine-

 

Posted for my prompt ~ Forgiveness @ Poets United Midweek Motif

Ghee

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GOOGLE IMAGE

 

How does the ghee taste?

It tastes like the ghee.

The buttery content,

the delicious aroma,

the golden color,

the heavenly touch

is purity itself.

In the world of Indian cuisine

ghee is the ruling monarch-

if I time travel to our ancient times

of over five thousand years-

I would still find rishis and sages

performing fire rituals

with ghee-

mantras, aromatic and fiery

rising above

radiating blessings

to the trees, rocks, rivers, mountains,

to all life forms-

 

 

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ The Food We Eat @ Poets United

Tagore

 

Your words are the buzz-song

of a bee-

dripping sweetness unto

my tattered soul-

I have morphed into

a thousand honeycomb

holding your nectar-

this world isn’t all honey-

when it stings I sing your forever song

to be lifted up, to fly

with my newly grown wings-

 

Posted for my prompt Honey / Bee @ Poets United Midweek Motif

Vigilance

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The Ganga begins her journey here at Devprayag

 

We never remained vigilant

So we let thunderous waves

of foreign invasions-

crush us-

we were looted-

got ourselves

killed-

now look at the confluence

of Bhagirathi and Alakananda

where the beautiful Ganga comes alive-

we are still not vigilant-

so we let the turquoise Ganga weep

till She is noir

before She pours Herself into the sea-

 

 

 

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

But All Must Be Endured

 

But all must be endured, since even a poor

soul too is made of fire and ice-

while a part of me gets dismantled in silence

the other half keeps gathering my shards to

       go on living.

 

My frenzied heart seeks the god mesmerized

by your honeyed words-

I hold my tongue that craves to expand its hood

       at mere sight of you-

 

your tinkling laughter at sweet nothings

sets my voice to fume;

yet I compel it to devour a sacred silence

      to burst forth in words later-

 

While you make the god to look into your eyes

a flame in me runs wild

to dip my spirit into a black fluid; to make

      your god my muse-

 

My poem is a response to Sappho’s apparently incomplete poem : In my eyes he matches the gods

 

 

 

Posted for Sanaa’s Wild Friday @ Poets United

Looking at Stars

 

The radiant question mark of seven stars

leaning on me

has breath and voice of my father-

“Look, there’s the Saptarshi Mandal,

asking you if you knew the Sapta Rishis?”

said he one night-

“Of course, I know, they are the seven sages

blessing us-

their smile is the light”-

my father let me be happy

with whatever fairy-tale knowledge I had

of Great Bear Constellation-

since that day

I grew a bond with this star-cluster

that held me, my father and the Indian myth together-

 

 

Posted for my prompt ~ Looking at Stars @ Poets United Midweek Motif

Glory

 

Glory is half ‘this’ and half ‘that’-

‘this’ dwells in the Buddha heart-

empires go on building-

a laurel in war is won-

red poppies cover the earth-

so now is the time

when ‘that’ wears the crown

and “The ceremony of innocence is drowned.”

 

Words in quote are from “The Second Coming” by W.B. Yeats

 

 

Posted for my prompt ~ Glory @ Poets United Midweek Motif

Museum

 

In the House of Knowledge

past breathes-

once it took hold of my hand

and walked me through time-

from bronze age to the present-

my feet refused to move

when I saw Samudragupta ((320-380 A.D.)

looking at me from his gold coin-

the walls of the Bhuvaneshwar Museum,

this world-

faded away at the twinkle of his eyes-

only the compassionate king and I remained-

‘dust away the time’s crumb

of my military exploits-

I was a poet and a musician too’-

I hold this dear reverie

in my core to date-

 

 

 

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif Museum/s @ Poets United