At this lonely hillside road
I feel the aroma of nature
from the shading trees at the roadside.
No stench, no garbage dump here
the aroma I felt long ago
today i inhaled deep into my heart.
That old banyan tree by the rill
wearing a ceremonial cotton cloth
for the old Deity residing on it.
I wish a moment
if the nymphs carry me away,
to their old realm creepy.
These quaint beings if wearing
customary garbs,speaking old languages
which from amongst us vanishing.
Here at this peaceful hillside
a moment I felt
the aroma of the past.
Life on earth having, so much of worth
Situations will never be as smooth cotton cloth
You must fight untill your death
Life is an unpredictable microbes broth
You think of few things, expect many things but you get a different one
It's all about handling the situations, being stable, staying calm
One must remove, clean his, her unpredictable situations with a neat clean cotton cloth from the heart and has to move on in his, her path
Life is never an easy path, try to be like a ruth
Life is about handling the death, dealing with your breath
Using your breath to redeem from the death, rebirth.
Life on earth is having so much of worth,live in a right path to become a holy cloth.
She bows her head in utter shame,
As once again she realises that they’ll never know her name,
Because she’s not significant enough to be remembered.
Strolling down the same old shattered walkway,
She struggles to recall the happy day,
When her heart didn’t plummet to the daring ground everytime she smiled.
The terrifying nightmare never ends,
As she attempts so hard to try to amend,
The damaged parts of her being that she hauls behind her.
Nobody sees the scars that she buries deep under cotton cloth,
They just stand and stare as her legs once again begin to froth,
As the blood slowly drips from them hitting every tile of the floor below.
They never expected her story to end in such a devastating way,
But they couldn’t master the understanding of the battle she faced everyday,
As she planted a smile for the woeful world to see.
You see, her life was over before it began,
All she prayed for was for somebody that sang,
The myth of happiness.
As she slowly lowered and rested her head below the headstone,
Her being filled with piece and reached every little bone,
And she finally felt the happiness that she never believed was reality.
Cradled in her loving arms,
Swaddled in his cotton cloth,
Still Born.
Her piercing cries split through the air,
Thundering,
Echoing,
Behind those heavy doors, the sterile corridors.
Deafening silence
He bowed his head in disbelief,
Father,
Shaking like a leaf,
A lump,
A sore throat,
A whipping of the heart.
She took the baby close to her,
Peaceful,
Final,
Sleep,
“Breathe, little one”
“Wake up please”
She whispered
Denial
Hope
Evaporated like the morning dew,
Tears heavy on her cheeks,
She knew.
He knew.
Nothing any one could do.
Behind those heavy doors, the sterile corridors.
His grief, their grief,
A tear ran down his cheek,
He clasped his face,
Eyes red,
He sobbed,
Robbed,
Immense their loss,
His heart wrenched,
A thud!
He collapsed into a heap,
Behind those heavy doors, the sterile corridors.
Loath to part
She gave the baby up,
Her pain,
Anger,
Hate,
God,
Fate.
The nurse,
A job,
Her curse,
To Bare witness,
Pain,
suffering,
Loss,
Behind those heavy doors, the sterile corridors.
Barely eight and avid of pure spirituality,
I frequented the garden of a monastery
with marble statues reminiscing their glory;
silent eyes of cold stone--their untold story.
In this cloister, pious nuns tended to infants
with bony cheeks and lips like cracked soil,
those not in danger, never heard bells toll.
Beautiful babies abandoned by young mothers
with bawdy sins, they left them in cotton cloth--
succumbing to guilt that divested them of worth.
Then the holy sisters* lifted them to the Lord's angry face,
He should have cursed the wombs of deliberate disgrace!
He knew the tiny angels were betrayed by Earth, not Heaven;
such was the loudness of their screams emitting horrendous pain!
There love, piety, tenderness and prayer coesisted so well;
growing much stronger--they gathered under the tinkering bell.
I returned after ten years of missed enlightenment,
they looked sharp giving off a glow of amorousness;
they recognized me and displayed sheer excitement,
their souls had found calmness--hearts of sacredness.
* Holy sisters: nuns
To sow a poem
Pick your choice of seed or thread
Cotton cloth or fertile soil bed
Don't forget to hem
The last line with style, a good end
Is like a port of arrival when
The voyage through water, and wind
Setlle into words without the din.
To sow a poem
String the needle with thoughts, let
Words pass the eye like a stem
Finding a fresh crack, a chord or fret
I drain the ditch around the heart
One emotion at a time, I chip apart
What scale the eyes until I see
The image formed, the growing tree.
To sow a poem
String the needle with seeds of words
Cut hard your gem
Let the sparkle fly like singing birds
From the nest of the heart
The image must stand and play its part
Every poem is a laden tree
Every lover like a prolific bee.
Loving only you
is never hard to do
Your breath so soft
like a small cotton cloth
your hands so strong
like nothing could go wrong
your arms so tight
yet your grip is light
your fingers interlocked
with mine, we knocked
on each others heart
never wanting to be apart
your eyes, they pierce
never show something fierce
your lips so pleasing
carry gentle teasing
that brings tears to my eyes
that tell no lies
hands 'twined
hearts rhymed
in sync with each
willing to teach
one to care
one to share
their secrets told
together they mold
as one...
forever.
the bed was small, she barly fit
the poka-dotted comforter, a gift from her father
the bookcase above the bed supported by two concret blocks
strewen with books big and small
stuffed animals above the shelves a griaffe in the center
the chair beside the bed overflowing with papers and few school books
a stuffed biker tiger sitting on top of the pile
windows covored in blue cotton cloth.with a poster on each side
the desk sits by itself on the far wall
across from the bed thats too small for the teen girl
a bratz safe and random papers crowd the small space
on the end is a smal boom box radio with Avril Lavinge still playing
and the dusty miror behind the door rarely looked unless the girl was going
somewhere special
a small closet with dresses skirts and shrits that she never wore hanging inside
without a door
three shelves sit beside that stuffed with her jeans and sweaters
finally the plain dresser sitting beside the bed that was too small for the teen age
girl.