poetry

 

from a mother's desk ...

read something similar from the net and drafted this tongue -in-cheek one for my son ....

I will be a naughty old lady a naughty old lady would be I

and that would be my settlement just incase you are wondering, why!

Someday when I would be very old, fragile and petite

I would come to stay with you to my heart’s utter delight.

At the breakfast table spilling milk would be my daily ritual

I would retch on the bread while you will feebly watch as otherwise it is cruel.

I would break a plate or a saucer just when you are too busy on a phone call

I will open my socks in such a way, you would wonder where it might fly and fall!

Pointing at several brilliant pills for my heart, for brain and another for the wheeze

I will ask numerous odd questions like how each one decides exactly where to reach!

I will paint your walls with color myriad whenever I am bored

to your shocked look I would cultivate all the innocent smiles that I have so far stored.

If you ever be angry and dare to scream or shout

I would leave the washroom tap open and sulk and would go out.

Whole day I would be glued to the T.V. without caring if you wish to watch

just for fun I would make faces and drolly squint in front of your guest topnotch.

Coming home you will find cans and half eaten packs scattered everywhere, ample

even then looking at my sleeping face you better smile and say she is such an angel!

Often I would be moody, lips pouting, hands on hips,

stare disobediently with screwed up nose and sniping lips.

I will be a naughty old lady a naughty old lady would be I

and that would be my pay-back just incase you are wondering, why!

next time ...

A few favorite things ...

written for Jingle poetry potluck

http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/2011/04/poetry-potluck-these-are-few-of-my.html

also for Ting's Tuesday thankfulness
http://www.tingtasy.com/

The spoilt crayons here and there

The smell of mud and dust from your hair

The bubble bath, those rhymes and everything

That soccer like eyes and the lullaby I used to sing

That little pillow, the mickey mouse and choco chips

The baby cereals and the fruit jam on your lips

The tiny seat of the bicycle and small cars all around

That unnoticed painting on my white wall and your giggling sound

The swings in the park, Noddy’s Toyland, the story of a knight

The scent and shade of your childhood that I clutch so tight

These memories are a few favorite things that let me live

Darling I am made of you; I am made of the love that you give.

Leave-taking

 I would be gone

to let you be free.

And I would be gone

to let you be free;

I would be lost
among endless existence,

in the hustle bustle of a metropolis,

never to cross your way again.

But mind you,

I have planted my love in your backyard;

soon it would have firm and deep roots,

its dense leaves everywhere to be seen.

I have written a poem of life for you,

tucked unsuspecting among the folds

of your rain coated mornings;

a silver dipped moonlit night

and all sorts of trivialities

placed inadvertently,

here and there.

Laughter a few,

the silent painting on the wall,

a paralyzing pause that

 once was winged with desire. 

I will linger on you as a memory;

I have set my soul on your thoughts;

all will keep you awake in the nights,
in your smiling eyes a strange wetness will drift.

survival

I struggle in this land of ruins,

resisting and thrashing out

against the shards of time

to survive.

I don’t see a moon

but some soiled clouds in the sky.

Stars are a few white scars.

Hunger, like a vampire

sinks its teeth on our stomach;

dried tears make a strange path

on the dusty cheeks of the children;

a rag doll, a top, chapped knees

and torn clothes

flaunt their missing childhood.

hiding many different sorrows

of diverse colors, of various shapes

among the folds of my sari,
 I wait for some food and a little place;

what do I care about your political beliefs

and all those rallies and endless promises?

It is none of my concern

if there is going to be a change!

What do I care whether I belong

to a temple or a mosque

or some particular land?

Cobwebs cling to the soundless words

of those freedom fighters,

independence is hung like a shabby old portrait

in a dusty desolate corridor.

What do I care for motherland and nationality?

Let me just live on this Earth

and mind you I am not alone

but there are several nameless

unidentified insignificant me

fighting to survive

to be called a human.

the bridge

A quietude that speaks incoherent ....

A pause

like a forlorn deserted noon,

a silence

striving to balance tricky over a gorge,

palpable,

its echo resounding,

weighing heavy on daily chores.

A feel, so profound with a suppressed dream,

a strange stillness reigns,

waiting in deathlike calm,

mute as desert, in a tensed apprehension

for a bizarre rainstorm to surge.

As if a long elapsed hope

might start flapping its wings back and forth;

as if the mind suddenly will get limbs

and start its ballerina - maneuvers;

Even the sky gets weary of an unleashed oomph

of a quietitude that prevails,

saying nonstop
an wild bohemian song.

Secret whispers ...

How can I give you my thoughts?

For they are not mine anymore!

I let them linger on the jumbled lines of my poem,

I let them be with the autumn moon,

I let them float along the aching veins,

I let them befriend the morning mist.

They have merged with the sun kissed horizon,

they are washed ashore along with the lonely night.

Yet

when the dreams would be luminous,

when the arid desert

would be surprised by a heavy downpour,

a fragile sapling would take birth like a feeble hope,

on that day I would

secretly,

avoiding all eyes,

without anyone’s knowledge,

quietly,

place them on your quivering palm;

and on that day, sinking in your arms

my thoughts would learn to flow.

lover's tibute

posting for MAGPIE TALE 61

http://magpietales.blogspot.com/2011/04/mag-61.html

The red tell tale smudge of her lips

is still vivid, on her night escapade,

reciting a story.

When she is long gone

I stealthily, treading softly,

take the glass in my trembling palm

kissing those lipstick marks furtively.

My heart is numb

and I lie helpless

in intoxication

tasting you

the kiss.

my death in her hands

or is it my reality

my nectar for life?

Her coquettish beam

launches fire in a lover’s heart.

But still
falsity on her and
those slouching pledges,

the wreck and debris

of forged assure;

a void and

an uncanny emptiness

and then

among the mourning

I see her dead;

sulking and pouting

navigating tragedies

she becomes pale

and then on that fateful day

I see her dead.

Now,
in my far away lonely corner
I remember

alluring lotus, magic casement

In which lies

my strength and my joy

and now I am in love with death

in my pensive mood

my tribute,

and my heart

is intoxicated again.

Essence

 

Wrote it for One stop Sunday picture prompt but by that time the linky widget expired! :((

Raindrops ...

written for MAGPIE TALE 60

http://magpietales.blogspot.com/2011/04/mag-60.html

When the falling rain
tiptoes on earth,

the drizzle cautiously

embraces the breeze and

kisses my window pane; 

when a sudden gust of wind

tosses my stubborn tendrils,

I raise my face

toward the falling rain,

I lose myself. 

You had once worn this rainfall

and left it in my courtyard. 

Its fold and fabric caressed you, 

its creases held you close, 

cuddled you.

The imprint of your love

is still visible on its sleeves.

That’s why I wear it too; 

to feel it all over me and

hear the resonance of your voice

in its melodious rustling.

At times, it feels

a little tight near my chest

when I recall the tug of your hand

groping for me unconsciously in sleep. 

The rainfall you wore

and left on my courtyard 

is still vibrant and warm as life.

Now I wait alone for another rain to come
so that we can wear it together, just one more time!

hopeless art ...

I thought it will give me solace.

I tried to paint

with earnest honesty,

an indigo blue bird

and her full throated song

with a color a tad darker

than the ocean and

a little more intense

than a rain forest.

It was beautiful

but it didn’t hop;

nor did it sing.

One day,

tired of being lonely,

in a fit of rage,

I tore it apart

and threw it away.

picture : http://www.google.co.in/imgres?imgurl=http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_

Betrayal ...

No one has kept promises!

So many decades and

seasons went by;

no one has kept words.

My mother

hurrying between

kitchen and study table

promised, if I study well

she would take me to a lake

where lotus flower, butterflies, honey bee

play together. I listened to her.

But the lake was in her imagination.

An old man, a bard, who

would come to our Calcutta house

for alms, said to my eager innocent eyes,

next new moon day

he would sing me the full song.

So many new moon have gone by,

he never came back

he died.

The librarian who smelled like

old books and tea

agreed, when I grow up

he would take me to a city of books and stories

where fairies and gnomes would be my friends!

How much more would I have to grow up?

Elder sister whispered into my ears,

as we watched the falling rain, together,

someday she would gift me

a palm full of rain drops

that will have a rainbow hue.

she got busy and never had the time,

the rain drops remained black and white.

Last year, you promised

You will take me to a path where

Gulmohar trees and red flowers murmur;

and sitting beside the placid lake,

if I smell your chest

I can inhale jasmine fragrance.

But your chest smelled of only flesh and blood.

No one has kept promises!

Decades and seasons went by

No one has kept words.


Image - through Google.com - Photobucket