Memories are like sparks born
when on days of pregnant quietude,
two jarred stones of moments create friction
breaching the slumber of hibernating yesterdays,
lighting up an instant with revival
of snippets of bygone days,
only to come back today’s realities.
They are like warm pillows of comfort
cocooning sleep-spawned dreams,
gilded in sepia snapshots,
or in vague anecdotes of recapitulations,
surreal as the mirages
that loom on rain-starved azure
of parched desert days.
They are fragments of moments lived,
shattered by heedlessly racing feet of time,
like stilted words of a , song half remembered--
an echo limping back on crutches of whimsy
to wipe away the mist fogging
the glasses of myopic today,
they are unwrapped by the rays of thought
as silhouettes unfurled by fingers
of dawning day from raven mane
of night’s dark ambiguity.
Desires are like gossamer moonbeams,
Hesitantly etching faint umbra over the breast
Of vacant nocturne,
They are like impermanent reflections
Seen on drops of transient dew,
Soft susurrus of words punctuated in
sigh and pauses of hesitant expectations,
blank papers of existence yearning for
the scrawl of consonants of reality,
the bridge that connects
the lands of reality to dream’s shores.
Wishes are like starlight, eagerly grasped
In fingers of aspiration,
The origami delicately created by hands in
Stolen moments of whimsy,
Chiaroscuro spun on looms of
Octopus limbs of imagination,
Or the hues splashed in glorious graffiti
Over the cheeks of blossoming dawn
And in desperate attempt to revive the glow
of dying day at crepuscule.
Happiness is the elusive horizon
that beckons with allure of variegated shades,
a soaring bubble that bursts
after sailing over skies of dreams,
it is the dangling golden orb
with promises of nectarine delights,
just out of reach of grasping palms.
It is the rhapsody that enlivens life’s lyrics,
the soul of a sparkling smile,
the pearl nurtured within
uterus of otherwise insipid existence,
voiced in giggles and laughter
it adds color like autumn’s quill to
the canvas of drab, mundane days.
Guilt is like dredges of stale coffee left
In faceless paper cups,
The useless calyx that remains on
Stalks of withered flowers,
Remorse in the greenish mold that covers
The leftovers of yesterday
Like moist fingerprints left on cobblestones
By the dawn erased night,
Or the streaks left on cheeks,
By rolling brine of despair
Footprints left by berated mistakes….
Dr. Smita Anand Sriwastav is an M.B.B.S. doctor with a passion for poetry and literature, has always expressed my innermost thoughts and sentiments through the medium of poetry, uses nature as the most inspiring force in molding writings, has published two books and several poems in journals like the Rusty Nail and Contemporary Literary Review India and one of poem was published in a book called ‘Inspired by Tagore’published by Sampad and British Council.
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