Gardens

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In search of poems today

I stepped onto my tiny stretch

of a land,

a garden? may be,

which is strange and enchanted-

(a poem is very much possible

even on the tip of a leaf here)

here reside strong willed

trees, plants, shrubs-

queer fellows they are-

they chose the site and flourished

without a care for a gardener-

they have weird ways

of asserting themselves-

like this white periwinkle,

that even forced its way

into this poem.

 

 

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

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Bridge

 

On the other side

of this twilight bridge

where I am standing now,

there is a deep, dark and lovely

forest of stars-

 

 

on the other side

of this autumn bridge

where I am now standing,

there is vast, white and charming

fabric of rest-

 

 

this is a moment for celebration, for

 

 

there is a sun birth

and a spring birth

after this bridge journey ends-

 

 

 

Posted for my prompt ~ Bridge @ Poets United Midweek Motif

Plastic Bags

 

Plastic bags in feisty flight,

In the deeps not so bright,

What witless hand or eye,

Could frame thy immortal symmetry?

 

What dreams and hopes inspired,

Oblivious of the Nature’s ire,

To drag the world into a charming hell,

Where day and night tolls the knell?

 

And what mind and what brain,

Could design thee to be omnipresent?

The summit of Everest and polar caps,

Skip their heart beat, pant and gasp.

 

When marine lives choke and die,

The giant gyre of litter* sighs.

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who wrote poems make thee?

 

Plastic bags in feisty flight,

In the deeps not so bright,

What witless hand or eye,

Dare frame thy immortal symmetry?

 

 

[I used William Blakes poem The Tyger as my inspiration for today’s prompt]

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Plastic Bags @ Poets United Midweek Motif

 

*Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Thus Spake The Baby Blue Eyes

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Image credits: Teerayut Hiruntaraporn

 

 

What would have happened if this ground remained as a military base as it was formerly? You’d probably hear voices of ammunitions and blood even today. But we have erased the last trace of war from the very air around here; we, the teeny, tiny blooms. We have made this part of the planet a floral paradise.

 

I am Baby Blue Eyes of the Boraginaceae plant family, dwelling in this Hitachi Seaside Park in Japan. If you wish to see me come between April and the early week of May when I lol with four and a half million of my sisters and brothers stretching over 190 hectares, seeing the humans’ futile attempt to take a ‘person free landscape photo’. I have heard them say, ‘Anyway we’ll photoshop them out of here, later.’ Do the tourists from all over the world flock to see how we blend the ground and the spring sky! They gasp, ‘Surreal!’ The Japanese call this, ‘Nemophila Harmony’. Nemophila, is another name for us. But what’s in a name?

 

No, I am gravely mistaken. Doesn’t the name Hiroshima or Nagasaki send chill down your spine? Fukushima? And Chernobyl? I hear Chernobyl has a happy ending? People say, trees have taken over. Researchers have seen brown bears, lynxes, European bison, boar and Przewalski’s horses are thriving there. Hurrah for biodiversity! Sorry to say but it is an unexpected side effect of evacuating people from the area.

 

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Image: Proyecto TREE/Sergey Gaschack

 

However I love humans. All the world is my family. If you give me a little space in your garden I assure you I won’t harm a single plant. I’d rather create a sky drop on your green spot. I look quite pretty as a hanging plant as well as a potted one. If you decide to have me in your home I’ll snuggle into your heart. My promise.

(307 Words)

 

 

Posted for Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero : a Pantry of Prose, #4 ~ From the Point of View of Trees @ Poets United

Peace

 

Peace lives

as the shadow of war-

where gunmen smell darkness

in every flower-

when this heart morphs

into a desert

peace comes out

as succulent

with spine-

peace is the mirage

of the green shadow,

walking with a lute

in hand-

yet you are deaf-

 

 

 

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

Light

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each little brick of this house

is harsh, dark, clumsy and tired-

you walk and memories prick-

we stay here-

spectres-

mildewed souls, uttering damp words

day and night-

while in the tiny spec of land attached

where there are very few green spots,

I hadn’t noticed

when the little curry-leaf plant

had shot up into the sky

to bring seeds of light

to plant in our heart-

 

 

Posted for my prompt ~ Light @ Poets United Midweek Motif

No Flowers For Me

 

Wreaths,

Bouquets,

Even a single rose in a vase

Speak dead words-

I am no cenotaph

To be wreathed

With dead words-

Let the blooms

Light up the boughs

Till they fall-

No flowers for me ever-

[Today I chose the gift I don’t like to receive]

Posted for my prompt ~ Gift(s) @ Poets United Midweek Motif

Fear

 

Now I know why mountains draw me in more than the ocean. May be for that reason I rush to the Himalayas whenever I get a chance. An absolute stillness overwhelms the constantly chirping mind. I am at peace. The majestic tranquility tells me there’s nothing to fear. Why don’t the sea waters tell me that? Why do the waves pose as huge tongues to lap me up?

 

Is that why I love trees? Because they don’t run about and roar like the ever hungry Bengal tigers? Imagine a pine tree standing its ground in storms! Even grasses delve deep quietly into the dark soil. I find shelter in such grand stillness.

 

Isn’t movement graceful? Isn’t sound delightful? What is life but a rhythm with note. What’s better? To be the silver screen or the movies it shows? Or the spectator; participating in all the smiles and tears yet keeping a safe distance from the happenings simultaneously. What’s so fearsome about movement?

 

Yet I fear. I prefer a staircase but an escalator? Never. There’s a fear of fall that works within. Haven’t I fallen countless times when trying to ride a bicycle in my younger days? Didn’t I enjoy every struggle-moment to get onto the seat? Or am I growing a spectator mode within me? And fear is helping me to getting into that. Age is feeding the fear factor; or may be it has made me more cautious.

 

Life has brought me here and I don’t intend to change now. I see how every sunrise and sundown roll towards me wave like. I have neither closed my eyes nor shut my ears at their crashing and challenging noise. I don’t bathe but watch and await the grander stillness.

 

 

290 words for Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero: A Pantry of Prose, #3 ~ Phobias and Fears @ Poets United

Fall Of The House Sparrows

 

 

‘Do not go gentle into that good night’,

Nest in our core to let your chicks grow;

We’ll shield till they are ready for flight.

 

 

Though ticking clock bullies ‘dark is right’,

Because mindless deeds brought dicey tomorrow.

‘Do not go gentle into that good night’.

 

 

Once, you were all over, like the sky, bright,

Voices now rise for the hapless sparrow,

We’ll shield till they are ready for flight.

 

 

Feral men are everywhere in sight,

So this planet convulses in its death throes,

‘Do not go gentle into that good night’.

 

 

Our children vow it’s not ‘dying of the light’,

They are out for you and yours my little sparrow,

We’ll shield till they are ready for flight.

 

 

Little brown bird, why this Spring is so quiet

Why do corrupt souls continue the row

‘Do not go gentle into that good night’

We’ll shield till they are ready for flight

 

 

Quoted words are from Dylan Thomas’ poem ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’

 

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