Is it a deep sigh
That wafts up to me
In the gentle breeze?
There is sadness
In this breath;
There is mourning
In this puff of air.
Is it a statement
That Lily is no more?
My heart is squeezed
By writhing wires
And is lacerated.
Lily is, surely, gone!
Yet, I feel
Morsels of Lily clinging,
Never letting go.
Oh, such precious links
That still keeps me whole
With dulcet grace
That was Lily!
On earth she walked
In the splendor of goodness;
But she is no more
And we are diminished.
Oceans shivered
When, in our foolishness,
We fled our native shores
To foreign climes
And misunderstood
Promised horizons!
Into the gentle silence of rumination,
Leaves shed randomly in little rustle,
Leaving memories helter-skelter.
But one floated up against free fall
To tweak my lost and forsaken dreams-
One memory of a golden childhood
Where flying horses galloped by,
Carpets floated through the air,
Dragons swooped across the sky
And djinns granted opulent wishes.
It was a dream far from the fantasies,
Treading the realm of science,
Weighing quantities with qualities;
It was a dream to be like Madame Curie,
To trudge among the phials and chemicals,
Discovering elements to benefit mankind.
I grabbed this flustered dream from floating
And, within my poetic pages, pressed it to enshrine.
Oh, the winter enters so quickly
That one forfeits the sight of color,
Leached away from life and limb
In its gelid cold and frigid hold.
Varied grays enshrouded the sky
With clouds pregnant with dense vapor
Above the gloomy landscape
Of gray-barked, skeletal trunks
Of leaflets trees with spindly arms.
The slate gray lanes stretched ahead
In never-meeting parallels
Bordered by sepulchral white lines.
Conifers stood sentry in charcoal gray
Speckled with previous flurries.
What is ahead in my road, but Gray
That stole away all vitality?
Or do I see pearly white streaking
Through the gray-mantled sky?
A child he was
With playful warmth
And eternal joy
Chortling gaily
When little things
Attract his open attention.
A man he was,
Long of limbs
With fluid movements,
His joints in action.
A sports aficionado he was
Playing all games,
And making man`s plays.
This man child
Loved his ways,
Sporting and otherwise.
He went through life
In gay abandon
But in carefree warmth
Towards his fellowmen,
Helping where needed-
A joy to the world
And a pleasure to himself.
Into my days, the girl stepped in;
She tapped and tapped
And brought rhythm to my days.
She tapped on Sunday
And the Sun shone brighter.
She tapped on Monday
And the Moon cast silvery light.
She tapped on Tuesday
And kept Tyr from waging war.
She tapped on Wednesday
And the patch-eyed Wodin smiled.
She tapped on Thursday
And Thor flung his hammer.
She tapped on Friday
And Freya came to the house.
She tapped on Saturday
And sent misfortune’s Saturn away.
For the rest of my days,
Let her tap away my days.
Like the blissful songs of morning birds,
Like the joyful voices of singing cherubs,
Like the silvery droplets of the wooded cataracts,
And like the tinkling of silver bells,
Children’s laughter reached my ears and soul
And I welcomed it as parched earth during drought
Soaked in the first drizzle of the Monsoon rains,
Refreshing and rejuvenating,
My ailing heart with its plethora of aches,
Torn memories and fruitless dreams .
I woke to the plays of my grandchildren
And shook of my lethargy and doldrums
To face living another day.
I gazed
Into twin pools of amber
Fringed by curly long lashes
And drowned.
The black flecks in the pupils
Wrought mischief around me.
It was just my first glance;
I was enticed and enthralled,
Feelings churned up and around.
This was NEW!
Heart palpitated
And shook with doubts
Of unreadiness
For the tumult,
For the havoc,
For the surges and ebbs,
And the unchatered realms.
What is this, queried self,
Tremulous from the first attack
Of love at first sight.
I breathed love
In Spring’s fragrance
When cherry blossoms showered
Soft white ovals
On my palms,
On my hair,
On my lashes
And on my nosetips,
Feather-touching
With the flutter of gentle breeze
When I walked on cushioned softness
Under my feet, on the white carpet
Which smoothed the green spikes
Of the meadow grass.
Grief has a way of showing up
When least expected.
One may be
In the middle of muddled thoughts,
In the middle of celestial imagination,
In the middle of frenzied activity,
In the middle of mundane packing
Or in the middle of old missives.
Grief raises its head
Unprovoked, uninvited,
It’s tentacles gripping,
Giving intense pain
And vivid longings.
Grief colors my thoughts
In my daily routines;
It enthralls my spirit
And I am a captive, helpless.
I seek relief
From entrapped feelings
Of what has gone before
And what will never happen.
I search for alleviation
In fantasy and romance
And found faux panacea!
