It is raining outside! I gaze at the photograph
of my mother!... a young child!... playing in the rain!
Her long, jet-black hair is dripping
onto her dress!... the embroidered flowers are drinking it in.
Barefoot in that captured moment of running—
one foot touches the earth on tiptoe,
the other is in the air!... she balances there, carefree.
Her small hands, like tender tree shoots—
one reaches forward as if following someone,
the other trails behind as if beckoning someone.
The sun shines upon her rosy cheeks;
stars and the moon swim within her eyes.
Outside, the rain has stopped! Through the windowpane
I see blooming flowers dancing in the breeze,
I hear the rustling of trees,
I see the sun’s rose at dusk, at dawn,
and night’s soft, ebony scarf
embroidered with stars and the moon;
I see my mother!... out there!... calling to me!
Through the windowpane… the rain is dripping!
a curled snapshot
shivers in the drawer~
its blank center
softly glowing,
as if the moment
it once captured
were trying
to return
I found a picture of you
From years ago
Sitting in my desk in a drawer.
I looked into the photo’s eyes
So young and innocent
So eager and bright.
Those eyes carried no burden
From paying monthly bills
When the money ran out.
Those eyes showed no pain
From burying your father last spring.
But those eyes also carried no excitement
And anxiety of caring
For our young children,
The burden of bandaging their knees,
Holding them when they cried,
And the pride of teaching
Them to read.
Your eyes in the photo
Were neither filled
With the joy
Of holding our newborn
Granddaughter.
Another little person to love,
Another reason to serve our son
And daughter-in-law.
Your real eyes shine with
Radiance, a completeness
Only formed from years
Of overcoming the ups and downs of life.
Experience and shared wisdom
Look great in your eyes.
First published in Big Question Literary Arts Magazine, 2026, all rights reserved
In the quiet creases of your wallet,
Among bills and borrowed time
you carry a moment of me
A photograph turned talisman
Tucked away with ur metro card....
folded between everyday storms
and small sunlit errands.
I wonder, if he knows
Those pictures arent just paper to me,
it is a relic of our almost-forever,
A forever that brushed past us and kept going
Like I am the bookmark
in the unfinished novel of us,
I wonder…
when he pays for tea
does the shopkeeper notice
how his fingers lingers a second longer
And he pauses for a heartbeat
Right over the pocket
Where my picture lives
And though the photograph is still,
the story is breathing
paused, yet not ended
waiting for the day
he no longer needs ink and paper
to remember
how much I mean to him.
~Nilashree
Further and further
Such thoughts do crawl,
Slowly, ever driven
Right up the wall
The craziest things
Are they real or fake,
When words are spoken
Or a picture, take
These days, these days
How can one tell,
Who is not on your side
Who is wishing you well
Who is behind there
Or what, if the case,
Be hiding from sight
Of a familiar face
This drives me mad
And this eats me away,
Too many questions
We must ask today...
My Dear Man, please step within and then, are you doing well?
Are you okay? What about the little ones and all?
After the casual conversational preceded for a while, the mounted photograph on the white wall
I showed the photograph to my enthusiasm , a paying guest
'This is my junior, no longer within us,
who drowned in our village pond
about three years ago from now, noontime on a busy summer with the caw caw of all these crows!'
Easy an utterance paved so easily
No inflection, nothing much in vocal modulation
no more deep sigh, no more brimming eyes
And the voice my own ,
came back to shiver say , shivers a , she verse a succinct staid , cold snow time
Three years, only three years
mesh weaved the intricate between all these
even then erstwhile, the cacophony, voice over
dragged out my mourning river to leave alone a speedy saga of depositing silt
Whence the invitees are all gone, stood once more to ponder
before the photograph, to face questions, suppressing sorrow
Behind the frame, my son gazed at me, with no anger, with no grudges at all.
_Shamsur Rahman
Some haunt me pleasantly,
Using the grains of dewy silence that speak loudly
Within the long, grey halls of history.
I recline on such images with smiles I borrow from
The penetralia of my soul and skin.
Behind them come lean trees denuded by the swift
Gales of re-greened winters that celebrated
Friendliness in the course of wondrous seasons.
I peer deeply at them, genuflecting to Time
For its abundance of grace and reflections.
A spell of the past descends generously on me,
Navigating genially through the winding routes of
General ancestry.
They must be black, with the silhouettes I crave —
And white —with the silky mildews that glue together
Dispersed unity of the fragile present.
They transport me back to where I should have
Been but couldn’t be, through the nostalgia for
Where I was —only on sufferance.
Pulling me into your universe
Holding me hostage there
Only surviving as caged bird
Teal feathers float in despair
Onyx smile still haunts now
Grateful for future green days
Raping my heart the silver sound
A little cliche amethyst masquerade
Painting purple powerful poses
Hostage of your drug overdoses
Bright, pulsate city
Captured in contrast color
Of light and shadow.
I have this picture of you—or should I say, I own this picture of you—
that I have kept hidden in my chambers,
neither inside my diary nor within a vault,
but frozen in time within my mind.
It is both painful and lovely to watch,
my lingering feelings keeping me tied to it.
Yet, all it brings me now are memories that ache.
"You're sitting and smiling, posing for a picture,
your eyes concealed behind silver glasses.
I find an album with matt thick black pages
my wet eyes hungry for each pose of this girl
in pigtails with a reluctant kitty, then on a bike
in a pretty prom dress, then holding a baby, me
turning the pages your smiles become frauds
your skin wrinkled, your pain quiet and graceful
Live your life like a photograph
Focus on only what gives you happiness
What makes you sad set aside as album
What makes you blurry take it as waste
Giving happiness is like giving postcard
As keepsake and souvenir of acquaintances
Pictures are remembrance of life's phase
The best photos are displayed as to catch the eyes
Frame as wall decorate and hang in rear
Medals and garland also put in the frame
Reminding rare achievement as bonus gleam
When we depart your picture still hang there
As memento, as present that sometimes you're here
In the Book of Recollection your life will be remembered.
"To see in color is a delight for the eye but to see in black and white is a delight for the soul". - Andri Cauldwell
Just an old photograph, in black and white
No dye to reflect the calm of hope’s song
Shadows blow across the heart’s golden light
Snapshot comes alive, a soul seems so strong
Image of light and love, sure to excite
Singing wonder through hearts all their lifelong
While the past will remind me of His grace
There’s joy that nothing on earth can replace
Just an old photograph, meant to inspire
Faded thoughts echo a silent prayer
Black and white beauty I always admire
Wonder from a heart who is still aware
Eager breaths of elation start a fire
Just an old photo who was meant to share
In the end, I hope the heart will believe
Love snapped a photograph for those who grieve.
How old was I then - maybe
seven or eight in grainy black
and white. I can remember
I was standing outside
my grandfathers two story
terrace house in Sydney.
Must have been around
nineteen fifty three,
school holidays.
I didn't like the smell of his place
with its old, moss coated brick walls,
the claustrophobic backyard
and the lack of sunlight.
Everything seemed dark
and damp.
I can picture my grandfather
sitting at the kitchen table
with his stooped shoulders,
wheezing away, rolling his daily quota
of cigarettes, glasses set low
on his nose, sunken eyes
peering at me below
an unkempt hedge of eyebrows.
I slept on a rickety camp stretcher
in his bedroom beneath
musty sheets and would wake
during the night whenever
he got up to pee in his pot.
It was always good to get home
to a big backyard, a wide open sky,
trees to climb and nights
undisturbed by the sound
of my dear grandfather peeing
into a pot.
The Photograph
A crease, a blemish
runs across it all
Black and White
No colour then
A Mother embraces her child
The word mom scratched in with love
MOM!
Who’s mom, not mine
A grandmother to be, and a mother to be
My mom, my grandmother
Brothers and Sisters
Thank you both
For the life you gave us
Each breath we take
First came from you
We thank you mom
We thank you gran, for the life you gave
You may be gone
But the love you gave lives on
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