city

posted for ONE STOP POETRY PICTURE PROMPT.

a niche for myself ....

I travel to places
far away or near by;
places that exist or may not,

beyond the hidden shadows,
hitchhiking, cruising or hopscotching
from one part to the other
drifting
in my mind
leaning on the wings of my poems.

I go to countries;
new places

like an artwork of blue green,
an oilpainting
with mountains nudging the amber sky
or the zigzag sunray through the
geometry of a cityskape,
where birds spread wings to tempt me
the falling rain teases and
a naughty breeze tickles my tresses,

where the rainbow does not weep in the sky

and the soil still holds its virgin purity.

The day will pass away.

Tomorrow it will all fade like a dream,

tomorrow it will seep away from my clenched fist,

tomorrow again I will return to my closet of wrinkled hope.

Today let me hold onto this moment of victory

for tomorrow the stubborn weeds of cold reality will be back.

freedom

A butterfly

wearing a pretty magenta gown with dotted yellow,

fluttering and flickering behind the window,

floating hastily here and there,

like a torn love-letter in a gush of wind.

As I open the window ajar,

with a tiny smile

brushing past my face

she flies,

taking wing

under the vast blue dome,
brave and defying,

like a rainbow flash,

leaping forward

soaring higher

a splurge of color

against the serene white canvas of cloud,

painting my cheek with a hue of hope.

seasonal love

He says

I am a rainfall

that he loves to wear on those days when

he feels lonely gazing at a faraway horizon;

I am a dew drop

that he loves to caress on those special occasions

when he is alive and positive;

I am an autumn sky

that he fancies to look at while listening

to his favorite Beethoven;

I am a silver moonlight

that he allows to be in his patio on a favorite holiday;

I am his sunshine,

I am his rainbow,

only on those special hours,

only on a few quiet times

when he indulges himself to be happy.

But

rainfall is seasonal;

dew drop and the golden brown autumn sky

often misplace themselves in the hustle bustle of sky scrapers;

the eclipsed moon or the feeble sunrays keep struggling for survival among the numberless cancerous folds of life;

and the rainbow loses its hue in the gray corners;

those quiet special moments and silent unusual days

remain very few too,

being swallowed-up among the usual clatter and clang.

struggles ...

My soul, 

a frail grain in the sand of time

has died so many times

and is buried underneath;

yet I have taken new birth

rising each time from my grave

sheltering my poor soul

with my armor like body,

defending it

 against struggles and tears.

I have carried on my sturdy shoulder

wounds and labor;

each time my knees wobble and collapse

I stand back again,

defying laws;

I have given my soul to wear

 a body,

scorched in summer,

with blemishes and scars.

only because 
my body has traversed 

the burning noon

it renders

 my soul

 some shade,

some solace.

written for One Stop Poetry Sunday Picture Prompt 

http://onestoppoetry.com/