April - A Mirrored Or Double Acrostic

This week's prompts of Poets And Storytellers United are a bunch of quotes:

Rommy  says, "The month of April seems to have lots of different imagery associated with it, as can be seen in these quotes.

1. “Although I was born in April, I’m quite certain I was not fully awake until October.” ~ Peggy Toney Horton 

2. “It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.” ~ George Orwell 

3. “April is the kindest month. April gets you out of your head and out working in the garden.” ~ Marty Rubin 

4. “It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.” ~ Rainer Maria Rilke 

5. “April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull root with spring rain.” ~ T. S. Eliot 

Your optional prompt for this week is to pick one (or more) of these quotes and use them as inspiration for your pieces."

I take inspiration from the third quote by Martin Rubin and present a mirrored acrostic or a double acrostic.

Though the month of April, this part of the globe, can be quite formidable heralding a scorching summer but this season sudden showers have tempered the days with milder hues. That is why April stands out a bit kinder than usual this year.

This poem is also inspired by Luisa Zambrota's invite for an acrostic on April

Again April

Perhaps it will be kinder still

Remaining with me as my strength 

Infusing an urge to head out of my

Languid thoughts and moods

Leaving me without a choice to

Incubate melancholy in a closed jar and 

Realign creativity with nascent dreams 

Poised to win over my self and this world as

Again it's April 

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They Come And Go

They come in bunches

At odd hours ...

In the middle of the night

Or wee hours of the morning 

Did I keep the window open 

By mistake 

But then the breeze wicked as ever

Swishes them away...

Without taking leave of me 

I was never meant to promise them a page

I was never meant to imprison them 

With a quil... in ink...in bold letters maybe

I was never meant to own them

I realise of late

But

It's late ....too late....

Oh! So late....

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Is The World Burning ?

Poets And Storytellers United has invited us to share poetry or prose which includes the following phrase: “the world is burning, but…” 

My response to the prompt:

The baby with soiled cheeks 

Crying amidst a heap of bloody corpses

Smoke billowing in the background 

Rising up to a hazy, listless sky

A broken wall helplessly guarding 

A roof-less house... bombed

It's doors and windows unhinged

A broken cage ... lies tilted on 

A haphazard pile of stones 

On barren, dusty grounds once a park

Where children played and romped

Mother's walked their babies happily

Men jogged and boys stole shy glances

With rosy cheeked girls joyfully young

The anchor cries hoarse ...

Over the 'mindless pillage and plunder..."

Oh! No!! Not again....

I pick up the remote and flick  channels

A girl with a seductive smile and inviting eyes

Her anorexic waist gyrates to a raunchy song

Is the world really burning ? 

Elsewhere....

As long as the sequins of her swirling skirt Glow....For me.....Perhaps no........

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Apparition

Who said I met her in flesh and spirit?

She was just an eerie thought

Warm in spring, cold in winter 

Sizzling in summer, restrained in autumn

Drizzling in rain...fragrance in the breeze

Shyness of the bloom...melody of the song

She was there and not there ...at once lovely

Indifferent in another moment...beyond reach

Beyond grasp, beyond thought, beyond provocation...she was just a wisp, just a whiff 

Just an echo through passage of time

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This is also part of Blogchatter's #WriteAPageADay Campaign 

Unsolicited

Today's prompt on Poets And Storytellers United is : Luxury 

Mrs. Crow

My busybody neighbour 

In the habit of giving me solemn advice

From time to time 

Asked me once, "What is luxury?"

A broken pencil and notebook in hand.

I said succinctly,

"Well, to own your own exclusive Genie."

She scoffed,

"What 'bout havin' a pair of unassuming wings?

I thought about it and replied, "Not bad.

It'll reduce my travelling cost."

"What about a nest of twigs and waste on the highest branch of the tallest tree?"

I pondered on the package. She added,

"With air, water and light for free...no bill you see. Constructed in simplicity.... maintenance optional absolutely."

I debated over its utility, "What about rain and

sun and snow? How'd you run the show?"

"Oh that!" She looked meditative,

"I guess you've got to rely on feathers and leaves." She shrugged.

"What about food?" I interjected

"Best of the best. We pick and choose."

She boasted.

Unconvinced, I objected rather lamely,

"But I have got no feathers." 

She nodded her head sagely,

"That's the problem, you see...

You are not basically meant for luxuries."

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Breath To Breath

I love the meditative dawn

When clatter of my feet 

On the floor rises like a song

I love the meditative dawn 

                         Morning walks in with grace

                         And a cuppa steaming chai

                         Sipping I look at world afresh

                         Morning walks in with grace

Afternoon wraps in late 

A long shadow over nests

I mull over dreams unchased

Afternoon wraps in late

                           Dusk has a stealthy tiptoe

                           Forgotten it's unwept woes

                           A surprise spring to its toes

                           Dusk has a stealthy tiptoe

Evening with its repertoire

Of prayers and magical choirs

Healing wounds of yore

Evening with its repertoire

                           Night folds in like a child

                           Playing all day in the wilds

                           It's time in the womb to hide

                           Night folds in like a child

Days nights noons 'n eves

Breath to breath I live

No loss no gain no peeves

Breath to breath I live

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Wizardry Of Silence

Poetry does not come with words

It has its genesis somewhere inbetween

the lines...the feelings...the silence...yes the silence perhaps...feeling the silence...echoing the silence... understanding the silence....empathizing with the silence...embracing the silence...speaking to the silence...singing with the silence...then giving it a shape...a form...a visual...perhaps even beauty, grace, dignity, charm...a bewitching, tangible , unmistakable, pulsating charm...that is how a nebulous thought springs up and becomes lyrics ...the melody you call mesmeric...do you know it is born out of nothingness...just nothingness...pure nothingness and a solitude which is exclusive and all encompassing...poetry is

born out of that which is nothing and one day dives back into that which is naught

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Love Hate

hating

this season of

pollens and dust 

I sneeze 

deep unto

November 

even if

I love the most

autumn

...the call of

winter

chilling

time it is

to wipe out

the cobwebs 

although... 

the rainbow 

through ....and... through 

shines within

the web 

an abstract art 

does the spider know

how to weave a prism ?

the empty bench

waiting 

the colour red

inviting

but ... no

my ten thousand steps

living 

and loving

but hating as well

this stretch of

silence....quite

uneven

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Old And New

Old books

Old shoes 

Old clothes

Old me

Old you

Old home

New words 

New tales

New songs

New beginning 

New secrets

New furnishings 

Where do I keep my

Oldness

Amidst this bizarre

Newness

The madness of

Not knowing 

Not following 

At the airport 

While saying goodbye ?

At the bus stop

Letting them go by ?

At the train station 

Puffing up with the engine ?

At the shore ?

If the ship gets wrecked ?

Then what ?

She shakes her head

And laughs

It's the latest technology 

They don't get wrecked 

We have to just throw away 

What we can't repair

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Love Is

I asked her what love is

She said it's not to be defined 

Something pure and refined

That makes you grow

And lets you know

You are too small to be petty

I said that's quite pretty 

But I thought what you felt inside

Sometimes stormy sometimes calm

It's like holding the world in your palm

Like a song mellowed with age

Like spreading your wings uncaged

Like cradling the sky in your arms

She laughed out wild , So I discern

It beats within you in your heart

The flutter of a flitting butterfly 

But I am talking of love , my dear

Folded in the blanket of snow

Scorched under the blaze of sun

Blossoming in verdant spring

Frosting in white winter's chill

Warring against conquests futile 

Embracing all without a guile

A love that lets you throw

Away that is worldly and low

Endure the bitterest of blows

Of life with the serenest smile

And let's you diffuse your big I

In the isness of your nomadic soul

That is love which you not know

But is revealed in your deepest core 

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One Day

One day 

I shall call myself 

Home

Sit across you

And sing a heart to heart 

Song

I have

So many questions to ask 

Hoping after hope

For honest replies

To the mysteries unresolved

To the dark side veiled

By  crooked smiles

To the tears unshed

To the wound untreated

To the pain unembalmed

I guess

You will open up to me 

And I perhaps eagerly  to you

Till we find the fulcrum 

On which to balance 

Our tears and smiles

Pains and relief

Wounds and sutures

Till then

We shall seek moments of truth

Unto ourselves 

With hearts half healed

Flesh half scarred

Notes unmusical 

Lyrics jarred

Thoughts unrevealed 

Unsaid, unfelt, unspoken 

Squashed

Mysteries unveiled

Yet far apart

One day

You and I will be one

Till then....

The quest continues

Unembarked

One day

I will bring you 

Home

You and I

Together 

Shall build a nest

Of songs and lyrics 

Of your and mine

One day...

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Reverie

 He was a lanky youth

I had just started wearing saree

We took the Chartered Bus from the same stop in the mornings

It was my first job

With a meagre salary

Fresh from College and a sheltered cocoon

I was naïve, shy and saw the world through rose tinted shades

I knew he watched me covertly

Though he sat at the far end of the bus

Where the seasoned men played cards

The ladies sat in front and kept to themselves

I did not know much about him

Sometimes in the evenings 

We again happened to take the same commute home

A few months later I got a seat next to his

By choice

He said he was a year younger to me

I was crestfallen

I had read about "the tall, dark and handsome " 

Who knew how to deal with the world 

 Whom the girls of marriageable age swooned over

"The most eligible bachelor ..."

The mothers crooned to each other

But he knew who to choose

The innocent virgin.....the one who would surrender to his ways 

Without a word of protest

From that day onwards

I ignored him

I did not know about him though

He knew too many things about me

And then he stopped coming in the bus

I wondered why

But that morning...

We bumped into each other one last time

He told me he was being transferred

To another city....?

I too had my plans of shifting base

We did not say good bye

But just crossed the road 

Without a word

I towards the bus stop

He towards home

Oh yes! We were neighbours

A few years later

In the Puja Pandal

Saw him standing at the far end 

I had come over for the vacation

It seemed he still watched me from the corner of his eyes

Greenish brown fringed with curly lashes

We never spoke of course!

It did not make sense

My life had taken a different bend

Away from his 

And I had too many plans which never matured at the end

Still...

Long time after

Again during a vacation

I saw him  walking into the Puja Pandal

Holding the hand of a girl child

A dark woman by his side

His pale skin had a deep tan now

He wore a pair of spectacles

Elderly....serious....responsible....a family man 

Undoubtedly

Yet for a moment he was startled to see me

Still the same perhaps

Quiet, introvert,  too stupidly naïve

 

They say some ties do not have a name

Was this one of those?

I am not so sure

Yet in lonely leisure when I muse over 

Those days...

Once I had got a second hand text book

With beautiful poems written at the back

Was it his?

He had said he had a passion for music

Did he ever sing a song with me in mind

That's stupid.....you know

We had never kissed

Or said "I love you"

That was too cliched

We never got that close

It was just a look, just a smile, just few words

But

I still remember the colour of his eyes

His walk and that quick side way glance

Making wordless poetry on a wet dusk

At the fag end of life

Decades later  

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I Am Who

The countdown has begun

By the end of this year

I hope to be a free bird

With wings flapping

Drawing an arch across

The vastness of the sky

However I am yet to learn

How to be light enough

To take off to the clouds

How to trash the pent up

Dark mass of unwanted 

Thoughts heavy on the 

Shoulders which slouch

My stance and sleep within

Me when I am awake and

Wakes up to torment when

I wish "good night" to night

The learnings are ancient

The unlearning sure is not easy

Forgetting the past baffles me

Forgiveness .....I am sorry!! What?

I am yet to empty the bin

And stop filling it up again

Time in hand is too short

To sort out the clutter

To weave a new song to coo

I have to begin from the very

Beginning of knowing

And unknowing I am who?

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What's Not Done

in the womb of the night

i let myself count

what's left undone

in the wink of a moment

they call a lifetime

to grasp the whispered

tales of the wind

to swim away with the

gracious clouds

to playfully whack

the peaks so high

just to startle them out 

of their yogic stance

to snooze on the 

top most branch

of that tree

so near to my window

yet left  unseen

hugging the shimmers 

of a chuckling sun

pirrouette amidst the stars

forlorn 

humming the tune

oh so bygone

resting my head against the

crystal arch of the

crescent moon  🌙

and let the goons

wear out their wars

unbind the width of 

the azure sky with a

a measuring tape of 

sartorial delight

and wrap it around

like a chiffon dress

creases saved

and wrinkles unpressed

to wisk away to a

a god forsaken land

where no-one knows 

who i am

throughout this birth

i wasted time in 

 weighing my bags

 leaving much undone

will i get a wisp 

of a chance

to shirk away

what i ought not done

before the clock's

overwhelming sigh

to swipe away the debris

and say goodbye 

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Face to Face

My life is an open book

Known to all

The telltale tales 

The turbulent troubles

The constricting constrains

The depleting weaknesses

The fleeting revelries

The prolonged aloneness 

 But have anyone ever read

 My silences ?

 Beneath a carpet of dying ashes 

The still smouldering cinders ?

The untimely

Unreasonably

Merciless, shameless

Boundlessly

Hurtling all barriers  

Sudden 

Crashing, tumbling

Torrents of downpour ?

The one and only

Rooted witness

Yet silently spectating 

My ruinous collapse

On drenched cheeks

The scorched streaks 

My bosom foe 

The pricking, embellishing angst

No......don't waste thy mercy 

I am not yet legit 

Let only be there the sobbing

Throbbing 

Unseasonal 

Dousing deluge 

मेरी ज़िन्दगी खुली किताब है                        

सब जानते हैं                                                

मेरी कहानियां                                              

मेरी परेशानियां                                             

मेरी मजबूरियां                                              

मेरी कमज़ोरियाँ                                            

मेरी क्षणभंगुर खुशियां                                    

मेरी चिरंतन तन्हाइयाँ                                    

पर क्या कोई पढ़ पाया                                    

मेरी खामोशियाँ ?                                           

ठंडी रांखों के कालीन के नीचे दबी                  

धधकती चिंगारियां ?                                       

बेवक़्त ही सही                                                

बेवजह ही सही                                               

बेरहम , बेशर्म सी                                            

हर सीमा को लांघती                                        

हर बाँध को तोड़ती                                          

अकस्मात्                                                      

उमड़ती पानियाँ ?                                            

वही तो है इकलौती                                          

चश्मदीद गवाह                                                

एक मात्र पर चुप्पी साधे                                    

घूरती  मेरी बरबादियाँ                                       

गीले गालों पर सूखे                                           

दागों की  निशानियां                                         

वही तो है मेरी जिगरी दुश्मन                              

मेरी खलिश मेरी रानाइयाँ                                 

करो न मुझपे मेहरबानियां                                 

न हूँ मैं इस क़ाबिल                                           

सिर्फ सिसकने दो                                             

सुलगने दो                                                       

यह बेमौसम की                                                

बरसानियाँ         

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The Patchwork Quilt

Note : The concrete image version is for laptop readers

this moonless night

casting all shadows away

a shaft of light

d 

  e

    s

      c

        e

          n

            d

              s

I raise a toast to 

                         f

                        r

                      e

                    e

                  d

                o

             m  

if you ask me

she is really adept at layering                   the parlour girl

eye_____________________liner

m      a       s      k      a     r      a

blue       eye      shadow

                                             deepening the darker circles

underneath my dreams

yet                    i                   am                    swathed                    in                       light

         blinded          till                  i                                 fancy              a                cesspool

                        pulling                          me                                                     in

dark                                 dark                darker                                               lightest

                                                                      

          light              light                                   lighter                      darkest 

              

                     dark                                                         darker

darling

                the patchwork quilt

                                                 i fold myself in

                                                                             past

                                                                                     p  r  i  c  k  i  n  g

                                                                                                                

                                                                                                                     present

                                                                                     p a g i n g 

                                                                            past

tell me                            where is the light i bathe in ?

tell me                                                                            where is the darkness i creep in ?

PS: I realized from Jim's comment that smartphone readers will find it difficult to read this poem where I have tried to create concrete images of patchwork with words. So for those who read on smartphone, here it is a "normal" version

this moonless night

casting all shadows away

a shaft of light

descends

I raise a toast to 

freedom                                           

if you ask me

she is really adept at layering                   the parlour girl

eyeliner

maskara     

blue eye shadow

deepening the darker circles

underneath my dreams

yet i  am  swathed in  light

blinded  till  i  fancy  a  cesspool

pulling me in

dark...... light ......dark........light                               

darker......lighter.........darker.........lighter

darkest.........lightest.............

darling                    the patchwork quilt

i fold myself in                    

past  pricking present paging past

tell me                            where is the light i bathe in ?

tell me                            where is the darkness i creep in ?

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Encore

rejection note

how sweet of her 

to apologize

Nothing new. 

Am  used to it. 

Stoic I call myself. 

sky watch

if only my sighs could

disperse the clouds

But this time her 'sorry' pierced. 

The headaches returned too.

ages

I have meandered 

within 

as

                          light 

                                              as

                                                                  feather

the city rises                             hollow

                                   or 

                                           is

                                    it

                                            the

                                                          mist

              in my eyes                   

 

                                      greying the sky

 wordless 

       wounds 

                  gape

feather light

Pic from Dreamstime.com

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The Half Eaten Cake

 

Early morning...

Pulling away the curtains

I let the sun stream in

"Good Morning" I say cheerfully

"Morning" Replies Mom drowsily

"Happy Birthday"

She repeats after me "Happy Birthday"

I ask her, "Whose Birthday it is , Maa?"

"Don't know..." She says dreamily

"Yours", I croon into her ears softly

In the evening...

Sister brings the cake

"Happy Birthday Maa"

Creamed on it

We make her sit on the bed

and tell her to cut it

She tries to wound her gnarled fingers

Round the plastic knife but fails

We hold her hand and knife out a piece

Singing "Happy Long Life To You..."

She looks around with wide vacant eyes and

Repeats "Appy  Long Life..."

Her lids droop....we place her head gently

on the pillow....she snores softly

In the Hall...

We all gather

With a piece of cake in hand

We celebrate her wrinkled memory

Her fading smile

Her half knowing glances

Her garbled song

And pretend to be merry

A bit musty though...

My mother is a Dementia patient since 2016

This poem is shared with Poets and Storytellers United 

Dancing To The Tune

On the tip of an iceberg
I so gently place my big toe
Ever so lightly...
And haul myself up
A wee bit....a wee bit ....a wee....more
To nibble the sky
Just this much

Dreamzzzzzzzzzz.......
Poised so delicately
             On the rim of reality
And I...

Shared With Poets United 

Love Life Longing

Image : janheine.wordpress.com

I don't agree with those who say

That I have lost my way

A road unknown perhaps

A bend unexpected somewhat

A landmark challenging indeed 

And a milestone in the making

Perhaps

But never, ever do I believe when they say

That I have taken a path astray

***

You are love, joy, catharsis

At times

You are pain, agony, fear

Indecisive

I am whether to shun you

Or

Embrace you deep

Life

Serendipitous seldom

Formidable often

Yet....

***

The night deepens

And the silences

Within and without

I am

Still

In the vortex of a storm

In  quest

Of calm

Unruffled

Inhale deep

The fragrance of Being