The Poetry Marathon

For the marathon I went with the image prompt for hour3. But I knew I would come back to the text prompt when I had the time. Now time is at a premium in my life, specially on a Monday morning but I’ve managed to nudge this into being among meetings and cases and what-nots! All thoughts will be deeply appreciated!

All that is gold does not glitter,

Most thinks that glitter are fake

Once, I tasted the sunshine on your skin.

I heard the purples in your smoldering eyes

Ian Anderson played in Brabourne Stadium,

Your eyes refused to let me in,

But your body had another string to pluck

And your mouth opened wide for me.

The fact that I survived was your masterpiece

I was the chudail you could not control

With that red jacket and curls flying in the wind.

Those stormy nights of irreverence.

“Atma ke koshto dite nei,”

So we unburdened our souls of guilt.

Daylight swore into the darkest nights

While you swooped into skies hunting prey.

Ipsy was waiting, always on the sideline

Hands immersed in the bloodied moon

That was the one mistaken thought

that you would come to regret.

Corrosive days and alcohol-coloured dusks

Bleed them into one so that they last forever!

Quien eres realmente mi querido?

Reality is never real, purrs the cat.

All that was gold never did glitter

Lost forever in that sun-kissed skin.

I do not pray. I believe

It is dangerous to call

God’s attention

to me. I’d rather

Talk to you, speak

As if you are alive

Talk in whispers

Throughout the night.

Last night I watched the moon

As it clambered

From one end of the sky

To another. How I wished I could see

your face and have you near

It’s alright to love the moon,

you said, but don’t forget the dawn

Always look to the sun.

The sun rises mainly to the north and sets again after 40 hours in the east.

There are delicious little green berries that we pick with sticky fingers

and cram into our mouths like there is no tomorrow. The moons are bloody orbs

of delight, we celebrate when they come together and align in a straight line.

There are fine musicians and there are no human travellers. All of us wander

and none of us are lost. We live in peace not fighting over caste or Gods

because we do not have any. Everyone speaks in song, not the lilting voice of women

but the soft woofs of dogs and wolves.  Or what you call dogs anyway.

the oceans are clear and the skies are full of stars, we have no need for phones

and computers for we live in peace to each its own. Let me return home?

We were never alike in many ways,

but we managed a semblance

of common ground

at least where it counts…

I like spinach and Ricotta cheese

with buttered garlic sprinkled on top.

While you have your pepperoni

steaming hot, straight from the box.

Will you meet me halfway

where the picnic tables

jostle the weeds in the backdrop

of a Tuscan sky?

You bring your bottle of wine

I will pack the the chequered blanket

and we can sling the sun underneath

our shoulders and brave the seven seas again.

Running.

I hit the ground running

and never broke a stride

never gave you reason

enough to hide.

yet you took my trust

and tossed it aside,

who knew that your betrayal

was so easy to find?

It was complacent

believing

you were on my side

But you turned out

to be an ordinary thief

the kind I deride.

no break in my stride,

still running.

I swim.

At least thrice a week

sink myself into the pool

and forget why

I exist.

I swim

into and against

the flow. I dive so deep

your hand has to find mine

and pluck me out.

sultry, hot

the unmade bed

where I have lain this night

each poem

a story of you.

imagined

and real

unreal

surreal

true.

the sun

burns,

a fierce white

heat

that emits no light.

I used to hate crows, scavengers of the earth

squawking, snatching, swamping the skies

when one died, shot by that stray bullet

frightening us into the house.

But then they said that crows were good

that when they eat the food

offered to the dead it is as though

the dead have returned.

Since then I feed the crow sometimes,

I do not turn away, irritated,

when it pecks at my window,

cawing through the glass.

Have you returned then?

Do you see the world through its squawk?

Or is that just wishful thinking

and that crow merely a sentient of the dark?

Reflections of reflections of reflections

mirrored in the eye,

I see you standing there at the water’s edge,

the next minute

you are gone

only to reappear with the gardening shears

or getting ready for work

your smile gently teasing

your hands reaching for mine

your happy laughter

crinkling your eyes…

And then it’s gone,

my kaleidoscope of memories

and all that remains is white noise.

Till I look back into my head and look again

and again. Reflections

reflecting themselves.

Count your blessings carefully.

Think of them, appreciate each.

Marinate them in fresh laughter

(when was the last time you laughed?)

and a few drops of tears

(for sanity and balance.)

Sieve belief carefully

culling all the blind spots

and information derived from media

and loud talking individuals

and add it to the mix.

Add love if available.

Make sure it is fresh,

not stagnant. Look around you,

it’s out there somewhere:

in the eyes of a parent,

in the smile of a child,

in the warmth of your pet?

Take a wok

heat the silence till smoking.

Add rage and wait

till it starts to sputter.

Make a paste of regret

and fears and throw it out.

Saute well, add humour

and the marinated blessings

fry on high heat for two minutes

till the blessing are pliant and kind.

Season with friendship

and garnish with finely chopped

duties and ambition.

Enjoy contentment!