dear traveller

 

Do not wait for me

I have found my map

Though my pockets are lined with sadness

I carry your gift, a wild flower yellow pin

I have found my map

And travelled to another country

Carrying your gift, a wild flower yellow pin

Reminding me to smell the flowers along the way

While travelling to another country

Your letters keep me company, soft as light

Reminding me to smell the flowers along the way  

Will our paths cross again?   Maybe, I'm hopeful

Your letters keep me company, soft as light

Though my pockets are lined with sadness

Will our paths  cross again?   Maybe, you said.  

Please, do not wait for me.

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Pantoum, hosted by Merril D.  Smith.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

Insomniac

Let us talk about insomnia

at 3:15 am.   A dark bird sits on my bed

& wants to talk about his ambition.   I am 

curious, where does ambition come from?

Is it a seed that suddently grows into

giant tree out of my head?  Is it a slow

painting of canvas, taking shape, defining my face?

The bird wants to climb Japan's Mount Fiji.

The bird wants the fancy feathers of peacock.

And fling himself to the moon.

His ambition is burning his feet after jumping

over fire stones after piercing the hornet's nest

Well I had enough of the bird chatter dream

I want to talk about my ambition - that 

fire within me that refuses to die when an idea

Comes to me, like a buzzing bee 

over the blooming yellow daffodils

Deafening sounds, lively chitter-chatter  

As my heartbeat is running faster and 

faster.  Sleep is forgotten library book.  

My feet are itching for calm after 

leaping into the air, like a gazelle

bounding out to the open fields

My spine tingles as if a lover's touch

stole my sleepy head.   Finally 

dawn comes with pink hues and holds

a giant mirror to my small idea bulb, 

now scribbled with crooked arrows.   Will I survive 

the scrunity of harsh reality? Dark bird, remind me 

again, where does ambition come from?    

Come to me in circles.  

Come to me, piercing my bosom.

Inspired by Anne Sexton, The Ambition Bird

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Poetics hosted by Sanaa Rizvi.   The theme is Maggie Smith and Conversational Mode of Address.  Thanks for your comments and visits.

Other Worldly

 

we are floating in dust & gas

we catch burst of light

as well as the tail blue-violet of darkness 

                                                                         there is an awakening 

we are shapeless yet shaped

by forces unseen, more powerful than ocean's

turbulent waves & scorching as

volcanic eruptions

                                                                         a daffodil blooms 

a nursery of beginnings of space &    

matter.  over time, where do we cast 

ourselves listening to the waves 

of energy & light  

                                                                        budding leaves of tulips rises

around us, clusters of stars & dark matter

colliding, collapsing, pulling & pushing as if

following the blue print of Master Hands

                                                                       digging the soil, soft as rain

the black hole divides

us,  the sun completes our divinity

though we are mere specks, wrapped

in the continuum of light

                                                                          a season of firsts, spring

 Photo by John McKaveney: The Orion Nebula. “This is an active star forming region about 1400 light years away, of condensing gas and dust, illuminated by newly forming stars. Our solar system formed in a region much like this about 5 billion years ago. The photons that were observed when this picture was taken, left the nebula in 624 AD.  At that time, Mohamed had just won the Battle of Badr, in Saudi Arabia, the classical period in Europe was ending and the middle ages beginning, the Mayas were just beginning to build their largest pyramids, and Europeans had not yet set foot in North America.  Throughout this entire time, those photons of light were traveling through space to be captured to form this photograph, where their journey finally ended.”

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Stepping Out of this World, hosted by Lillian.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm.  Thanks for the visits and comments.

coaxing spring season

my mom forgets her thoughts, butterflies in flight

but not her prayers.  her rosary beads are bright as sunlight

where do you find yourself at end of the day

are you cradling a lady bug?  or do you stare at the moonlight ?

the shadows have their seasons too.*  filled with dead poets.

yellowing regretful sighs.   time to change curtains to spring light

i will etch the walls with songs.  with color.  with feathers.

because inside me, is cardinal, awaiting spring. with sky light

the white wall.  the blank page.  you stitch the emptiness

into fullness.  you are embroideried canvas & edged with light

*Line:  The Shadows have their seasons, too"  from John Updike, Penumbrae

Posted for dVerse Poets pub - OpenLinkNight - Hosted by Sanaa Rizvi.  Thanks for your visits and comments.  Poetry form:  ghazal.

the building (land acknowledgement)

you moonwalk out of the building

whose wall tiles are blue-etched in history

giant banners follow the marbled columns 

as you stand to witness sunset throbs 

in glorious colors, washing 

large window frames with ecru & peach tints

beneath black suit

how sober cold you hold yourself

refracted by city neon lights- 

you belong here yet not quite from the tilt of your head-

on cobbled steps, you marvel the carvings

and gothic shape of the building 

and hearing the folklore rising from the relics

and feeling its hot breath on your skin-

maybe it will take another decade or two

of walking & inhaling the sun-baked streets

to feel connected to the ancient land the building

stands after hearing the land acknowledgement

for now, you just want to respect 

the ties that bind us all under the eyes

of the ever-steady moon-

for now, you just want nothing more than be hurled

to the sky, star-wrinkled

glinting of mysteries, stirring in you an ocean of awe

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Hosted by Kim Russell.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

This is an example of a land acknowledgement:  

Land Acknowledgement for Toronto

We acknowledge the land we are meeting on is the traditional territory of many nations including the Mississaugas of the Credit, the Anishnabeg, the Chippewa, the Haudenosaunee and the Wendat peoples and is now home to many diverse First Nations, Inuit and Métis peoples. We also acknowledge that Toronto is covered by Treaty 13 with the Mississaugas of the Credit.

False Spring

I listen to western wind's murmurings - 

Birthing songs by iris and daffodils

High-pitched cries by broad winged hawks nurturing- 

There is restlessness in the air, the chills

Of winter are ebbing low & bordering

Small buds & silky tendrils sprouting gills

Shedding dark skin of soil & instinct to cling

And inhale the marvelous light of spring

The sun's crimson fingers brings fresh mirror

Sketching the pale grey sky blue as bluebells

Coloring the leaves young and green, clearer

Than raindrops that shimmers with silver spells

But all that is short-lived as once more, furor

Of winter wind comes back, peeling back shells

Of green & draping its white coat, unasked

It's false spring.   We all huddle back, hands clasped!  

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetry Form:   Ottavo Rima or Sonnetto Rispetto.  We are learning this traditional Italian poetry form.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

cold & lost in the song

 

What was that I see

Over the bridge

Not two lovers walking in dance-steps

Not line of cars threading slowly

Away from the green lamp posts 

To where the lake swallows 

                                               you    

It is bleak darkness

As if the sun is lost behind trees

As if all the colors got sucked out

And wounded tightly in hard fist 

Or is it I who is 

                                               lost                                                            

A bird 

with wings heavy as pewter 

with no driving instinct to return 

To where "home" is

That is nowhere between

                                               me   

and the goddess with lion's mane 

Magnificent but so pale                                 

As ghost, listless and weary as 

                                               i

Where is the zest for life?

What secrets did we keep that broke our peace?

Our yesterdays changed us

All the energy is spent

                                               lost    

And though there is this undeniable longing

inside my chest

To return to the familiar womb

To gather all the light once more

and embrace your laughter

i am content with the cold

absence of

                                               you            

René Magritte, Homesickness (1940), oil on canvas.

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub:   Everything We See, hosted by Melissa Lemay.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm for the ekprastic challenge.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

my hand holds a pomegranate

 

I swallow the seeds  

spilling

warm sea in my womb 

bless my body

- a child -

untouched by sorrow

bestowed from darkness to light

through slumbering fog

hear my plea

heal bleeding pain

i'm weary but hopeful

when will our child of love be born?

Created by Microsoft Bing (AI)

Posed for dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille, hosted by Punam. This is a 44 word post with the chosen word, slumber. Thanks for the visits and comments.

the hands of the artist

the middle finger of my right

hand

   grows a tree

white tap roots skitter

down

   interweaving with my veins

branches protude 

fingerlings swimming upward-

   against gravity

northbound -

    this is homeward drive

where mollusks are plenty    

my body is listening

   leap

capture the raging

   tides swelling within-   

this warm clay

coarsely molds friction & fire

   with flights of fancy

to sculpture -

wings are not required 

   the fruiting is art

   

Artist Credit:   Anastassia Zamaraeva

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub -  Poetics - 2024 Poets Leaping hosted by Lisa Fox.  Thanks for your comments and visits.

   

February morning

in a canvas of white

maple trees are empty baskets

while pine trees are lush of cones

along ice-covered pathways-

such a grey dreary sight

yet with slight touch

of sunrise, rolling clouds,  blue sky,

the morning is leavened

by puffs of yellow-butter radiance

Posted for dVerse Poets pub - Quadrille, hosted by De Jackson.  This is a 44 word post with the chosen word, TOUCH.  Join us with a poem when the virtual pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thank you for your comments.