Tag Archive | Poetry

Double Ennead Challenge – When the Night Disappears

Apr23
Photo by Asad Photo Maldives on Pexels.com


The songbird croons and hums

expressing an ache

for the waning night from the depth of her soul

as she glides to the hole

at the break of dawn.


The rose shrinks its petals

and clings close to leaves

holding on to the last traces of the night.

blushing at dawn’s bright light,

dew oozing to stem.


The boy pretends and squints,

hiding in his quilt,

eventually, he picks up his school bag

and adjusts his class tag,

walks the sunny path.

The double Ennead comprises five lines with a syllable count of 6/5/11/6/5, (33 SYLLABLES per stanza) 3 STANZAS EACH = 99 SYLLABLES. This month’s theme is to write a double ennead based on a magical experience. You may choose the end rhyme scheme you want. Thank you, Colleen, for this opportunity.

The Spring Music

Mar25

The earth gently opens

to show frail patterns

of leaves, green and purple, basking in their poise

before pulling back to

guard their sibling blooms.

Quails chatter in a calm

extinct birds’ language,

showing off their tanned wings to partners, hushing

at the delicious spray

of dew on their beaks.

Huge mountains and plains still

while oceans whisper,

as skies pour down, drenching tiny and huge lives

soaking the brownish sand

in colors of joy

The poem above has been written for Carrot Ranch Double Ennead Monthly Poetry Challenge. Thank you, Colleen, for the opportunity.

Unremembered

Mar4

I sit in the General Hospital, waiting for my turn when I hear a loud wailing. Expecting to see a child, I am shocked to see an elderly lady in a wheelchair, crying with her eyes tightly shut. I am deeply disturbed and could see that the other patients are uncomfortable too. This incident reminds me of an old cleaning lady in our condo whose eyes glistened as she told me how lonely she felt as her children and grandchildren lived far away. There is another instance of a man in our neighborhood who is dreadfully scared of dogs but has to walk his daughter’s dog, as she is too busy to do so. As I walk away from the hospital, I see an elderly man staring into space.

His treble

the language

of wrinkles

The Wooden Chair in CHO

Feb3

Hi Friends,

The Wooden Chair was the first haibun I had written. This was published in Contemporary Haibun Online’s July issue, 2013, Vol 9. Please find below.

My Wooden Chair

I stroll restlessly in my new house as trees outside are being chopped for construction. Lifeless new buildings are sprouting in the neighbourhood. I wonder mildly about deforestation as I lean back in my chair.

my wooden chair screeches–
memories of a
felled tree

When the Light Barged in

Jan26

I stood in the corner

of my tiny room,

scared of the light

that followed me

wherever I went.

I pulled my curtains,

hiding inside, holding

on to darkness, taking

comfort in misery

when sunlight crept in

through the tiny opening

in my curtains.

Terrified of the light,

I buried my face in

my hands.

Sunlight colored my fingertips,

pricking my eyelids.

I felt the light

with closed eyes,

flooded by its warmth,

its positivity and grandeur.

No longer fearful,

I shed the comfort of darkness

and stepped on

the path of light.

Touch of Life

Jan12

Cold cut through her skin,

seeped into her bones,

and clutched her shivering heart

as its icy grip spread

all over her body.



Stacked logs on the fireplace

could not warm her frosty breath

and heavy blankets failed

to comfort her chilled body.



Then it happened.

A tiny feeble hand

touched her heart

and blood gushed

into her body, filling

her with maternal warmth.

Her cold ears melted

in the soft babble

of cooing noises.

Her eyes trembled open

to soak in the warmth

of the tiny stranger and

she forced herself up

with outstretched arms.

Vague Memories

Dec20

The old lady sits in the corner of a
park bench, overlooking
her nursing home.
She laughs if spoken to,
her toothless smile as
pure as that of a baby,
a testimony to her
lost memories.

She does not remember
her husband with whom
she shared 40 years of pain nor
does she remember her children
to whom she gave 30 years of
her health. She fails to recall
her father who was never there.
She has a fleeting memory
of a young woman who birthed her,
fed and sang to her,
cried and laughed with her
and has now become a picture
in her ancient house,
never growing old.

The old lady sobs softly
disturbed by vague thoughts of
her mother, alarming her caregivers.
Then she is back to senile
laughing self as those around her
sigh in relief.