The Kindness of Strangers

Image result for The kindness of strangers

Courtesy: Poets United

People

could be a truly sultry

sweltering, hellish

Indian summer.

Beelzebub words

lie in wait

to create a pandemonium

at every chance and

rivers of liquid fire is ready to flow.

Yet you don’t know

when a soul may become

ethereal spring

offering

colorful blossoms,

southerly breeze,

cerulean sky,

everything;

when every word spoken

may become manna.

I had seen a Spring soul

offering his bus seat

to an elderly lady

who gave him a jasmine smile.

 

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ The Kindness of Strangers @ Poets United

 

 

The Cuckoo Shows Up

koel

Courtesy: Google Image

On this spring day

today,

the cuckoo has come out;

in its dark body,

white beak;

with its feet

on iron grill design of a window;

with a nonplussed glance

in its red eyes

into human home corner.

Was it ever meant to be seen?

It’s always been the spirit

of the forest green.

It’s always been a voice

ethereal.

Yet on this very spring day

today     

the cuckoo shows up;

its throat holding

a blurred forest song

in this concrete jungle.

 

Posted for Poetry Pantry #344 @ Poets United

 

 

A Woman’s Day

 

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Courtesy: Google Image

 

“What a difference a day makes
Twenty-four little hours
Brought the sun and the flowers
Where there used to be rain

My yesterday was blue, dear
Today I’m part of you, dear
My lonely nights are through, dear
Since you said you were mine

What a difference a day makes
There’s a rainbow before me
Skies above can’t be stormy
Since that moment of bliss, that thrilling kiss

It’s heaven when you
Find romance on your menu
What a difference a day makes
And the difference is you

What a difference a day makes
There’s a rainbow before me
Skies above can’t be stormy
Since that moment of bliss, that thrilling kiss

It’s heaven when you
Find romance on your menu
What a difference a day makes
And the difference is you”—Maria Grever & Stanley Adams

 

Now,

at this very moment

I am thinking of her

who lost her husband,

a renowned singer*

in a road accident yesterday.

“What a diff’rence a day makes

Twenty-four little hours….”

He was only forty seven

and father of a six year old

girl.

In a green sari,

stunned, she stands

in disbelief,

beside the bed

Where lies he

among wreathes

and grieving followers.

Could we see her heart

now a stormy sea

where floated he

in waves of memories

upon brine water

that would not roll down her cheeks

but vaporize in the flame of grief?

“What a difference a day makes

And the difference is you.”

She stood firm.

Composed.

Resilience, thy name is Woman.

 

 

*Kalika Prasad Bhattacharya was a singer, researcher and a legendary exponent of Bengal’s folk heritage. He was killed yesterday in a car accident. Here in Bengal we are all heartbroken.

 

Posted for  Sumana’s Midweek Motif ~ Be Bold For Change @ Poets United

Fear

We old people fear*

as we see

our lads and lasses

who once wielded pens in homes

and happy with tomes

rush like moth

to a place

of their dream

to blossom;

to breathe an air

filled with gunpowder;

to send down roots

into the dark soil there.

Soil is dark……..everywhere.

They prefer

not to see

how hateful moments hover over each head.

It doesn’t matter to them

even if they get killed

for it is the land

of milk and honey and knowledge

kindling light.

So in thousands they fly.

We haul our heart

to the point of wailing

in vain.

In our empty nests

fear reigns.

*In remembrance of Srinivas Kuchibhotla, an Indian engineer who was shot dead in Olathe City, Kansas, a few days ago. He was probably a victim of racial and ethnic divisiveness. To apprehend the gunman a 24 year old American was injured too.

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

 

A Conversation

Courtesy: A Dash Of Sunny

 

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period,…”— Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities 

 

 

The best of time is in your voice.

Worst? In the despot’s whisper

that slowly rises into a cyclone

bringing debris of faith in human kind.

 

 

Age of wisdom is in your eyes,

my haven. Foolishness?

In the resolve to extol self

while disparaging all to nothingness.

           

  

I dwell in your heart, my epoch of belief.

Incredulity? In springtime motifs

that’s etched in the lip service

of post-truth humans in power.

 

 

Your veracity is my season of light.

Darkness? It’s in the abyss of fury

where Lucifer is cloned in thousands

in the hands of the liars and abusers.

 

 

You are the spring of hope.

I’ve left the broad highway

to enter through your narrow gate

towards the bliss of your words.

 

 

Posted for Sanaa’s Prompt Nights – Come chase oh fleeting thoughts of the moment – [42] over @ A Dash Of Sunny

 

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Shared with Poetry Pantry @ Poets United

 

 

 

My road to the past

is not yet blocked

so reminiscing feels

like a walk into a mansion

with countless rooms;

through their casement

streaming sunlight warms

my chilled bones.

Each grass blade of a day

in the luxurious sprawling lawn,

each bloom,

is so familiar.

I love to wrap me up

with the tapestry of the night

woven with silver and diamond;

warm, fragrant, breezy and safe.

I long for them and do have them

in my heart core

for the path is not yet blocked,

there’s still the scent of light

though I hear

a hoot or two of forgetfulness

in ruffled feathers

the twilight sky is spotted

with a bat or a star

to remind me of the approaching dark.

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

A Suburban Poem

I count my blessings

as I watch the bulbul swinging

from a twig

letting its joy out

in sharp twittering song.

In a time

when eternal hunger

of the lowly humans 

lap up ponds, trees and lands

why this mango grove is spared

along with a few others

I wonder.

The spiffy squirrel

scurrying up

the tall slender palm

beside the pond,

where in the night

fishes play with the moon

in rippling water,

and prefer depth in day

to keep the herons

and kingfishers at bay,

almost picked a quarrel

with a red capped woodpecker

the other day.

The trees conspire

With their blooms

to trap the bumblebees.

I am the lone watcher.

I do count my blessings

for such godly sights

even these days.

 

Posted for Poetics – suburb poetry over @ dVerse

 

Looking Through Your Eyes

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 SARADA DEVI

You wipe the mist

the heart gathers.

I wonder

who lives in the depth

of your placid eyes

that never ripple,

let alone wave

even in the strongest storm.

A spade is a spade to you

but never did your lips part

to grind others

with truth-y hammer.

What are you made of?

Grace and Honey.

Mercy and Zephyr.

How vices transmute

in that furnace heart!

I remember

how I used to gorge

with a hungry soul

your luminous words

in my dark days.

There can never be

an era of post truth

even if the fools longed for it.

For you are the Truth.

You are the Path

and the Portal

to Life. I live,

because Thou Art

my breath.

 

 

 

 

Posted for Sanaa’s Prompt Nights ~ On Popular Demand – Through the eyes of my friend [12] over @ A Dash Of Sunny

 

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Shared with Poetry Pantry #341@ Poets United

 

Love is the Crown of Thorn

 

BABY KRISHNA

Courtesy: Google Image

 

“And love is a thing that can never go wrong;”…Dorothy Parker

 

 

Love is the Crown of Thorn,

and the sky

where nestle dark matter and light.

Love is the trickling blood

dripping from the Cross, or

from a saint’s decapitated head

in this worldful of traitor.

Love is the twine,

a melting tune

flowing from a Flute

played by the little Butter-Thief*

to tether us to Thee.

 

 

*refers to Krishna, a Hindu deity: Krishna is often depicted wearing a silk golden yellow dhoti, and a peacock feather crown. Common depictions show him as a little boy playing the flute. Other depictions show him as a bundle of mischief, stealing butter from neighboring houses in the form of Gopkrishna and other childhood exploits. [Source: Wikipedia]

 

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

Love

Courtesy: A Dash Of Sunny

You are the jasmine night

And dew filled dawn

Of a babe cheek morn

 

I am always the thorn

To shield thy rose heart

From wormy word

 

Your banyan shade

Gives me rest

On a scorching day of distress

 

I long for that moonbeam smile

That’s buried under

Grief’s stormy clouds

 

 

 

Posted for Sanaa’s Prompt Nights – Love’s a night-song sweet sung by the tender strokes of wind – Valentine’s Day Special over @ A Dash Of Sunny

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Shared with Poetry Pantry @ Poets United