Untitled ...

Lately, all my gray nights do neither finish nor cease

and new sun rays fret, sulk and refuse to dawn.

I am still waiting for a dappled rainbow color,

but behind the sheet of a gloomy haze

it hides its face in cold seclusion.

Restless memories twist and

turn, tending old wound;

my half baked dreams,

half hearted wishes,

sleep unattended

not knowing

when to

wake.

Fear

Earthquake

sobs and wounds

muffled,

 from beneath the rubbles and soot,

piled up death,

crisped away flesh,

the human ness in us

 so puny, 

so fragile,

now afraid to look up

 into destiny’s mocking eyes; 

I hold sadness in my palm

like a handful of gravels;

fingers paining to crumple and
 collapse.

But then, I know

in this hate and fear

we will re create our Earth.

All of us,

we amputee limbs,

skin cancers,

orphans,

disfigured ones;

we all gang up

to give birth to another beginning

from the middle.

Let us fill ourselves with courage

and name it survival.

Now we would be able to look up

and confront

Destiny. 

Stone man!

for one stop poetry - Sunday picture prompt

 Oh this man in stone, so much I love,

a lot more than any other fleshly one;

he sure has countenance so mellifluous,

only his jacket might seem a little old in fashion.

He is a man of valor, so metallic and sturdy,

for years, a demeanor so steadfast and calm;

yes, his smile indeed is a little dead; but he allows

even the birds to peck on his patience without qualm.

His rock solid eyes may appear blank for a while;

he still may seem a bit cold, gritty and sterner,

but ask any woman, he is so much better, as,

on the contrary, he never argues or back answer! 

Being human ...

When the Sun paints the sky with a gold hue,

and the dawn is born from darkness’s womb;

the morning stretches nudging the horizon,

and outside,  life begins to undo

all the deaths of  previous night,

somewhere, there, at a distance

 the temple bells echo rhythmically,

beckoning believers.

He opens his eyes, lazily, in no hurry

to scuttle out of bed, a bit belligerent as

his pre morning sloth is

bruised by the  initiation of life;

he observes the enticing curve

 on the bed linen, beside,

the left over of some half hearted love

still lingering on his lips.

In his mind’s eye he visualizes God,

The temple bells ring louder, calling;

he sees the serene,

somewhat sad eyes of HIM,

and moves closer, nestling, next to him.

Later, he will go to God

when he would be seeking happiness

and excuses from ailments and hurts

or ask for some quick remedies

and a short cut.

Oh the everyday demons and

the dignity of divinity! 






image - image through Google search

beckoning ...

A strange breeze

from across the sea,

from a far away horizon

whiffed past,

bringing me meadows

and birds

and this and that.

Playing with my locks

and nuzzling my ear ring

it whispered

a mystery;

an unknown ache for

some long forgotten

pastures.

I fumble

to isolate

a closeness that can never be,

a love that’ll ever be nameless.

image - https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiejHoKbdD_4jVVi-rIAQ7L_PjYqh2arQLyMUtB_lYoLoD-9cZ2ZbjrpNN1qPzqj_bJ5tL9xr-12GFCsiVhghN15tf5F5nlCbjoTJEj8jCgLyF0HpucGnr_Ojmbz8s_5PY0y-XJDQ_xz4v/s200/saxe-carol-sea-breeze-i.jpg

Strength ...

This poem is dedicated to all women in family, friends, colleagues, fellow writers, known and unknown and beyond...

for all the women who are happy and established ...

for all those women in the nook and corner of the country, in far away rural areas; women who are still dying in the womb, denied education, abused and beaten up ...

for women who suffer under extreme social and economic conditions ...

International Women's Day is observed on the 8th of March every year. Let us take this opportunity from our hectic schedule, and reflect on what is it to be a woman, assess the progress we've made, to bring about further changes or simply to celebrate womanhood ... and of course to let all the men, fathers, husbands, lovers, brothers, sons know how thankful we are for their support and love ...

When you sent those thorns on my way,
did you want to see me crawling on my knees?
Do you now find it difficult
to see me standing tall,
loftier than my dreams,unbeaten and invincible?
The day, a thick black smoke,
coiling like snake, engulfed my soul,
you imagined me to be strangulated.
Are you now surprised that
I could tear apart the thick dark curtain
and made a slit in it,
through which the sun shines now?
When you took away my garden of Eden,
you expected me to fall, perhaps;
instead I learnt to fly,
gliding and soaring higher than hopes.
I no longer sit at the gate of your paradise
sobbing, waiting for you to open the iron clasp.
I am no more ashamed to have eaten the forbidden fruit;
I have tasted the nectar of experience and gathered wisdom;
Now I have learnt to keep the serpent beneath my will;
Is it my fault if Adam fails to resist my beauty? Yet,
I have always held his hand firm,
giving him shelter like the banyan tree;
I have won grief and sorrow and made them my armor;
I no longer shun death but have conquered it with acceptance.
Do not be surprised any more
for I still smile the brightest,
with innocence and determination,
unafraid, ready to begin,
tomorrow and afterwards!

re posted ...

Addiction

The paint on the walls are already

peeled and spent.

For years it has been staying within,

making me its home;

it has become a true companion,

something of a friend,

holding my psyche

in its tight clasp.

If I need it, if I do not,

If I want it, if I do not,

it is always there,

ever nearby,

with its growing naked roots

and entangling secret branches

hovering and collecting

loose ends of my thoughts;

half silhouette, half seen,

knotting up layers and

cervices of mind,

throbbing and hammering,

till I am left with no dreams at all.

Now I wait to sleep.

Time is already disfigured and bruised.

The remnants of life lie on the ground;

hope, this time the sleep will be sound.

for ONE STOP - PICTURE PROMPT

Muse ...

I tiptoe around

trying to escape the iron clasps;

I run away

from the clatter and the yells

sucking in my breath;

and life gets caught

in that indrawn gasp;

luxurious house,

starched and correct chauffeurs,

silhouette of anxious careful faces,

fashionable parties, sweet smiles and abuses,

those unfathomable masks,

and when the dying light of the evening

catches the rich chandeliers and

kisses the crystal glass wares,

I run!

Then oneday, a strange light from within

steps over and turns my room into a rainbow

and my heart a vibrant colorful kite,

soaring high into a new sky,

away,

above,

higher.

And

I remember,

my mother, holding my hand and

making me write infront of Goddess Saraswati,

her fingers soothing and rose petals over mine,

her hair smelling of sandlwood

and I know I am going to be the most carefree,

stubborn,

and happiest writer

in this world.

written for jingle poetry.

Note: In Hinduism Saraswati is the goddess of knowledge, music and the arts.

Saraswati Puja (worship) is a part of Bengali culture and at almost all educational institutions and every Bengali family organize this Puja. A common ritual performed during this puja is "Hate Khari" (first lesson). At the age of three to four, you are supposed to ritually start writing the first letter of Bengali alphabet (same with Sanskrit and Hindi), on this very day. Usually, a priest would hold the child's hand and make him or her write in front of Goddess Saraswati.

The daily ...

Every morning

the news paper

knocks at my door

wounded,

soaked in blood.

Beneath the poster girl's silky tress

and filmstars' glossy smile

there lie scoops ruthlessly butchered,

frontlines smelling of old dried wound;

ugly red patches hiding in its folds

wherever the skin is being pulled out.

The picturesque tableau of the cityscape

screams with terror and bullets,

the air stifled among the sky scrapers

echoes violence,

muffled voices, suppressed, trying for an outlet,

sometimes out of greed or to avenge
or may be to vindicate certain fanaticism,

peace beating its wings, fear struck, like a caged bird.

Civilisation searches among the lines and prints

groping in darkness

like a homeless wanderer,

straying,

with a vain hope of destination.

The conspicuous garden of modest Mr. Troy

posted for MAGPIE TALE

Behold the sight.

In ample water and light

the garden that belongs to Mr. Troy is just absolutely right;

where the purple thistles and moss green grasses are his cause of pride.

Sitting in the garden he observes the filigree

of the silver bright moonlight through the lilac tree.

Looking at the bird’s nest in lucid daze,

heart filled with gratitude he thinks in haze,

about this mercy of an otherwise cruel fate,

from now on there would surely be nothing Mr. Troy will hate.

Lately, among the colorful mischief and fragrant breeze

he produces joyous poems, and love verse at ease.

Often Mr. Troy roams around his patch, muttering – ‘not bad, not at all bad’,

pompously appreciating how a water drop urges the lily pad!

Whole day pass by in praising the bird and admiring the bee,

drudgery can’t trouble him anymore for his garden is full of mirth and glee.

Then comes that fretful dawn; the day he loses his peace and his paradise.

There comes a flock of neighboring children to ransack and to capsize!

Piles of fruits and beautiful flowers they ferociously pluck and gather,

and Mr. Troy’s prized possession, in a jiffy is massacred.

Since that day he forgets his dream and his nightmare,

night by day he begins watching, always being careful and constantly being aware!

Smile and joy elopes from life,

his beloved garden becomes his only strife.

His eyes red and puffy, twirling moustache, he thinks – ‘I will die soon, I know’,

the persistent depression that does not easily let him go.

Then one day, God, out of mercy, pours some refreshing rain to the ground,

And after many a days Mr. Troy could sleep; and the sleep is sound.

He dreams of taking a knife and butchering the whole garden without any qualm,

and no one anymore would be able to sabotage his calm.

People may think him odd, but he knows how his fear grew too intense to handle,

Now, at peace, in that serene square, recalling his garden he surely lights a candle.