Love

Bhagirathi,in Gangotri.jpg

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

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Of Flowers and Shoots

 

            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

The End: A Cherita*

 

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

 

Rooted to Woe

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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

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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 Alaknanda flowing side by side

River Alakananda

 

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

 

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Shared with Poetry Pantry @ Poets United