Sail

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When stormy hands of grief

try to get hold of me

to strangle me to death

I step out

set out

to the edge of water,

where indigo stream gives a hug;

green earth caresses my bare feet;

tree roofs overhead rain silence

that river into my heart

dousing ember words.

My breath like so many little boats

with white sails drift leisurely

towards the unknown shore.

 

Posted for dVerse Poetics: Poems that could save your life, hosted by Kim: the challenge is to write a poem to save someone’s life on themes given in a list, my theme was ‘bereavement’

 

Storm

2210

 

Goddess of fury

flashed that auburn look

to turn me

into a heap of ash

while I smiled

picking up

the storm seeds

She had scattered to ruin me.

I was hell bent on

not letting her

reap thunder and rain

from my field.

 

 

 

Posted for dVerse: Quadrille #34 ~ Storm hosted by De Jackson

Ashtray

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Google Image

 

Our lips acted like

bolted gates

that would never

let the words

‘stop puffing like an engine, Baba’,

out.

My father’s luxury floated

in smoke rings.

Moradabadi* brass ashtray

would fill up.

He would chain smoke

the opponents of Indian cricket team

into pavilion.

Yet he would never sin

with any glowing tip

when Gavaskar, Tendulkar or Sourav

was batting.

The ashtray still remains.

 

*Moradabad is an Indian city famous for brass handicraft industry

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Smoking Tobacco @ Poets United

Gift

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Google Image

 

I open the wrap

of dawn’s matins slowly

breathing a soft prayer

to the unseen sender

every day.

I open with my trembling hands

the darkest envelop

to find stars inside.

I thank the unknown sender softly

every night.

 

 

 

 

Posted for dVerse Poetics ~ Wrap it in Ribbons Please! Hosted by Lilian

Food

 

When you feel that unpleasant emptiness

In your stomach

Take a food item

Need not be your favorite one

Watch it closely

Aren’t you amazed?

Don’t you feel the pull

Towards

Its physique

Color

Aroma

And ultimately

Towards its taste?

They do melt on the tongue

Oozing happiness

The taste buds, teeth, cells

Are nothing short of miracles

Are they not?

To some

Food is a marvel

Their eyes glued to the twinkling breadcrumbs

Strewn upon the sky

So distant and unreachable

They frantically search for those

In trash cans, dust, dreams……

To some

Food is a nightmare

For they want to shrink

Beyond recognition

A size-0 ethereal fashionista

They desire to morph into

Subsisting on crash diet

Some

Are food-stuff themselves

Cannon-fodders

They are born as ingredients

To be cooked by the Statesmen of their lands

And served on battlefields

Of foreign shores

 

This poem is an old one, written last year for a prompt now Posting for Poetry Pantry

Holy Day

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Courtesy: Google Image

“Hell is empty

And all the devils are here.” – The Tempest: Act 1 Sc. 2

 

Thus spake the Bard.

 

 

I try to seek holiness

in butterfly wings

gilded by sun-dust;

in rippled pond

where a heron meditates

on one leg for a fish;

in needle billed sunbird

that sweetens its life

from a saintly lemon blossom;

in lotus words

gathered by the truth-seekers

through the ages.

Any day could be a holy day

only if these MOAB-y Dicks

would return to where they belonged.

 

 

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif Holiness / Holy Day @ Poets United

 

Wings of Egypt

I see

angel* wings torn and lying

on church floor

on Palm Sunday.

I pick up

the scattered red feathers

from the white marble

and turn them into

wailing words

in vain.

The humans have lost their eye, ear long ago.

Their sniffing nose prowls for gun powder

to begin their feast.

The human beasts!

What fun, what delight

in peeling angel feathers!

But the immortal hearts

beat in the quills of poets

beyond the knowledge

of these triumphant pests.

*in one of the explosions at Coptic churches on Palm Sunday in Egypt occurring in the pews near the front of the church, many of the dead were children.

Posted for Poetry Pantry @ Poets United

The Book

 

One of my books

in a plastic jacket

contains a stain on the cover,

a burnt spot.

I was extremely annoyed

when my mama (maternal uncle),

who took it for a reading,

while returning it,

in an apologizing tone

confessed: so sorry,

I fell asleep

and it’s my cigarette’s doing.

Only a badly sketched smile

appeared on my face;

no words of wound

escaped from my injured heart thankfully.

It was once upon a time.

I was a college student then.

He is no more.

I sometimes place my hand

on that black shapeless mark

and feel his presence

and sigh.

 

 

 

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

 

April

2210

Google Image

She is all sugar and spice-

flowers and songs-

colors and light-

she is the sun, moon,

sapphire sky,

all the stars

and queen of your heart;

but you should see her

in one of her Nor’westers* moods-

when her thick droopy hair of fronds

so lush green-

go all erect, upright

vehemently nodding,

at your every cajoling word

to calm her down.

This headstrong lassie

will drown you

in her tears;

deafen you

in her squally voice:

gruff, rough,

and thunderous;

don’t you dare cast an angry glance

at her kohl smudged cloudy eye;

what does a good mother like you do then?

Let her be.

Let her howl, growl,

gnash white teeth of lightning;

scratch with nails of icy hails

on your window panes.

No panic, no worries

if she tumbles head over heels

throwing root-y foot upwards

while thumping the grassy floor

with twisted leafy arms.

Let an hour go;

she’ll change; as all children do

after a hell of a tantrum.

All her tresses now pulled back

with a milky-way band

she’ll nudge

your feverish skin

with a sweet cool zephyr

loaded with her patent fragrant touch

and twinkle with a guilty, nightly smile.

Oh bless her, bless her for that

with a word of rhythm and rhyme.

*Nor’westers or the Kalbaishakhi is a local thunderstorm which occurs in India and Bangladesh. Kalbaishakhi occurs, with increasing frequency, from March till monsoon establishes over North-East India in June. Kalbaishakhi is accompanied by strong squalls and sometimes by hail. On extremely rare occasions, tornados may also accompany them too. However, the rainfall in these storms is beneficial for the tea cultivated in Assam and for the jute and rice cultivated in West Bengal: WIKIPEDIA

 

 

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