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Mehnaz Veetil Poem
I close my eyes
Feel my heart on fire,
coal set scorching in subterranean mine.
Now, must I pluck out
this fire burning , siphon this out
these drooling embers?
I am not to be blamed. Please,
I didn't start it, I only kept it ablaze,
with that tiny spark you blew in.
I love these golden flecks
they hold me in a fiery fantasy, a fairy
with wings of love and a sparkling magic wand.
Look, can't you see,
our dark silhouettes an entwined beauty
drenched in the heat of unguarded love ..
I am the moth
drawn to your passion's flame
dancing wild as tomorrow never comes.
Protect me, from your fire,
this golden trance I love so dear,
to dust may I burn
in embers you feed my heart!
Happily so...,what if tomorrow never comes?
For Gail 's Burning Embers contest...
02.17.2013
Copyright © Mehnaz Veetil | Year Posted 2013
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Mehnaz Veetil Poem
...Stars
shine soft,
The kiss, yours
Ablaze,deep,eyes lull
Eternal...
Copyright © Mehnaz Veetil | Year Posted 2012
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Mehnaz Veetil Poem
A Life Lost
blue ocean waters
jewel- like fishes abode
old sucker -cat dies..
*my sweet n brave goldy(golden sucker cat fish)dies of white spot disease . :-(
Copyright © Mehnaz Veetil | Year Posted 2013
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Mehnaz Veetil Poem
Dancing Eunuchs Of India
Eunuchs they were, who sang at doorsteps for alms
At birth and death alike; blessed the bride and groom too.
They danced their dark bodies heavily gyrating,with
busted breasts, hairy chest and hefty forms tightly clad
in saris candy colored ,sequined and six feet long.
Painted smiles, jingling bangles, tinkling anklets
sang bawdy ballads of glorified virgins and stillborn children,
in a third gender voice-a hostile blend of two opposite sexes.
01/11/2013
Mehnaz Veetil
Entry for 8 lines contest on a native culture, sponsored by Debbie Guzzi
Note: Most of the eunuchs in India live by begging. They normally come out in groups of about five to ten and spread out in streets approaching small shops and restaurants for alms. Normally people give them alms out of fear of being cursed. It is widely believed in India that the curse of a "hijra" is very effective; same with their blessings. They offer to dance at small family functions like naming ceremonies of newborn children, weddings and other village functions.
Copyright © Mehnaz Veetil | Year Posted 2013
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Mehnaz Veetil Poem
Mother, Middle Aged.
Forlorn, she sinks into the abyss of a middle aged
mother, her pupae no longer the apple of her eye.
Baffled, she sees her cocoon tear open and barge
hastily, fumbling in quest of sham grown ups’ pride.
A mother she remains, middle aged. Spiteful and void.
Copyright © Mehnaz Veetil | Year Posted 2012
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Mehnaz Veetil Poem
Is Love A Choice,Or A Mercy?
Love unbosomed
Sweet joys seamless
Does 'Reality'frown?
Torments over,
We are our answers
Do we not have a choice?
Copyright © Mehnaz Veetil | Year Posted 2013
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Mehnaz Veetil Poem
pen delivers
thought into word--
baby cries
Copyright © Mehnaz Veetil | Year Posted 2013
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Mehnaz Veetil Poem
The ghats,grey serpents in green thickets
cool and moist, dampens restless midgets
There ,in a hotel ,in the lushness of the tropic's crown
are trees mighty tall with neat flights of stairs hanging down.
stood perched on trees, a cabin each of uneven logs
with wooden planks hand-polished to parqueted floors
A large cypress cot,an inviting bed ,the sensuous Umrao-Jaan
on canvas overhead, glowing in hues from a crystal pan
white porcelain figures, lovers dancing on mantle;love lounges,
windows open to wild flora , a few ripe mangoes hanging in bunches
On the rails ruddy jasmine vines flaunt little white stars
antique bamboo lanterns at the door , happy to be ajar
warm aroma from oils of wild-herb toiletries exude
wanting a trickle on the heated hearts' pursuit
cute candles whispers roses and jasmine in the air
nothing more, the imp of the mind feasts on love in the air.
on the small balcony , the cool breeze of the underwoods caress
In this tree-house,bask in nature...at its best to soothe five senses.
Copyright © Mehnaz Veetil | Year Posted 2013
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Mehnaz Veetil Poem
MIDNIGHT BLACK
No, I’m not -A racist of sorts, I mean
But detest I do, the black of midnight scene
Purple ,that smirk’d a wicked sheen,
groped, wiggled, with cold fingers keen.
Palled by a convulsed face wretched in pain
viscous slime ,red on bruised mane
Daggers sculpted life off, like insane
Lifeless limbs sprawled out in sunken lane.
Sharp silver deep in thick flesh lame
Ants and moths eager to claim…
Did vicious black mouth my name?
Yes, detest I do, the midnight’s game.
Copyright © Mehnaz Veetil | Year Posted 2014
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Mehnaz Veetil Poem
Not I, Then Who
Another blood bath. A bubbling bunch of innocence
Shot down by an ogre, in brutal arrogance;
A busy mutter ‘The system is in pits',and done,
All sighed, time and again, lost in deep reverence …
By lesser mortals a girl was quelled bestially, a mere decadence.
Lost her life on board a bus, a public conveyance ;
said the folks again,’The system just feeds political hunger.’
Once more all sighed, time and again, in wrenching grievance.
Thus, (we are) reclined in the cradle of excuses in ample luxuriance
Till one day a hurricane pounces, triggers petulance,
holds in whirls of life’s misfortunes. No trace of poised elegance.
No sophisticated statements. No thick and proud prudence.
No fondling of excuses in hands; Only pangs of helpless despondence.
No claiming of those laid back excuses over forfeited chances;
From all angles, volumes of consequences pry in variance
No systems, no excuses; only victimized throes teem in abundance.
Copyright © Mehnaz Veetil | Year Posted 2013
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