Categories
NaPoWriMo

Colour of beach bark

She smelt like the old stories
The Ones my mother sang,
her huge house was a shell
a garden,
lacking only a spring.

She told us tales
of people who left her behind,
I was in awe of all that she had
And what she didn’t.

Her daughter was of my age
A pretty face and fragile hands,
A girl, surrounded by people
A girl, no one could understand.

I fell in love with her boy
The walking beauty
of our gloomy beach,
His heart was a sacred place
a glittering thing, I couldn’t reach.

He’d walk on words
and swim in love
But we failed to keep in touch.
My memory seems forgotten
like the book you don’t miss much.

Categories
NaPoWriMo

Crimson Red

Weather is dripping
from your tongue.


White of the clouds
is the calm
the calm you carry around,
the calm I lack,
the calm world needs.

Love?
Love is the crimson red;
of all the times
you have died
because of
your complexity,
For never fitting in,
For never being understood,
For never having been loved.

They say war is an opportunity.
Red tears are
a substitute for poppies.
But
how do you know
the colour of tears?
Who claimed it?
Who named it red, anyway?

This is an apology
to all the Colours
to all the shades I wrote about
without knowing
what a colour is.

Categories
NaPoWriMo

Art is Agony

The way things are,
I’m having hard time being okay with that.
They say- forever never lasts long,
HOW to be okay with that?

I see my friends turning to art,
Reading shit and calling shots.
WHAT is the meaning of art?
WHERE do I shoot my shot?

I’m afraid of asking questions
for all my WHAT go unnoticed.
The cat on my patio is purring unnecessarily
Is she afraid of living, unnoticed?

All the questions are hiding
hiding behind question marks,
Despite the endless possibility of no’s
All of us are looking for more,
Childhood wounds are surely popular
to leave marks.

Categories
NaPoWriMo

To bake a cake in the eye of the Storm

It hurts to grow old, he said
with a hint of pain in his eyes,
and looked at his trembling hands
maybe was trying to recognise something.

“Movement is tiring” he said
to bake a cake in the eye of the storm,
To see the same souls and faces
in all the people, in all the forms.

I wonder if it gets better
for they say everything does,
People generalise though
And when they do,
do they think of us?

Maybe it’s more about losing
than to fit in,
All the storms took things from us
But I miss the spot
We used to sit in.

Categories
NaPoWriMo

Things that make home- a poem

There’s this tiny plant at home
which fills me with a desire to roam,
I hold my heart and lay on grass
A shiny thing, fragile as glass.

Walls here are over protective
The colour? Not so attractive,
Feelings grip my ankle, as hard as stone
I’m filled with desires, completely unknown.

The sun is roaming in the sky
A bird is here, to lie,
Earth has me and stubborn trees
You and me- children of a chilly breeze.

I thought I had forever
Was running on the motto of- now or never,
I don’t know how just be
It must take great price, to actually be free.

Categories
NaPoWriMo poetry

•To do list•

You see, we poets are ships
Lost in a sea,
there’s nothing to risk
and nothing to lose.
I could say you’re dying
to write the last poem, before dying
as if, death of poems and poets ever
mattered.
What matter, are the private affairs
printed on the front page of
sensational newspapers,
with uncertainty.
For it’s easy to blame the time.
Time, as always will tell us
who the best story is,
but stories are not easily told.
If you ask me,
I could narrate my story
but it’s not mine to claim.
Claims are to be made
when bets will be made
and you’ll find me there
trying to steal a piece of art,
For art recognises you.
Art will come knocking at your door
On rainy days,
days you absolutely hate,
for you can’t stay inside to write.
Writes will meet you halfway
in busy halls of empty buildings
trying to borrow words from the past,
bargaining with the future,
deciding present.
They’ll look for poets
But
All the poets are lost in a still sea.

Categories
NaPoWriMo

NaPoWriMo- Metaphor for Anxiety

/The joy of walking on old stairs, built on new stones and the fragrance of fresh paint is scintillating//

I am always happy to visit home
yet worried seeing it
The thought
that a place might be different
from what I think it will look like,
is devastating.
Even if a colour gets a little brighter
than what I had in my mind
causes panic 

Anxiety is like being stuck in past home while living in a new house.

I have moved on, I did,
atleast physically.
We have new flowers here
all are different
none of them belong here
or to each other
They seem distant.
Grass is greener here, too much green.
Abundance has  never been this shallow.

From my window
sunsets are blue,
Sky is pretty as always.
Sea is in harmony with the wind
But I’m worried of rain.
I am trying to adjust here
I eventually will.

Prompt: Metaphor for anxiety by Silverleafpoetry