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