?

Did I open that bottle?

And did you break it to pieces? after it was empty of course.

It always was empty you just didnt see

the reflections 

that fell on your eyes blinding you

Did I write last night?

Did you rip apart the pages, erase the words? after they were spoken.

They were drowned in yesterday's loud rain 

run over on the empty streets

that you drove to find me

Did I have the same dream?

Did you sing through my reality? after the myth was shattered.

you always knew the whispers were loud 

the pieces too many

for you to fix and make  whole

Say I did it.

Say I did not.

Say I did it.

Say I did it all.

IF I WRITE THIS POEM

If I write this poem,
Will you wonder what it means?
Will you peel away layers?
Or read between lines,
Or shine the light,
Of what was said,
On what was left unsaid?

It could be about you,
Or it could be a fabrication;
a meaningless invention.

See, sometimes I imagine myself,
In a relationship,
In a situation,
In some future hell,

(Or heaven for that matter).

Sometimes I dream:
I am in love,
I am in hate,
I am in lust.
I am distraught.

If I write about being distraught,
It could be a dark vision,
Or Cassandra-like thought
Of dire consequences;

But would it make you-
Pick up the phone,
Call me,
Alarmed,
Concerned,
Hurt,
Angry,
Betrayed,
Confused?

Would you believe,
it stems from a truant imagination,
that it’s nothing more than lurid fiction?

Where the protagonist is me
But the antagonist is never you?

A WORD...

Unfortunately the site that was hosting the images that gave our blog the elegant look that we all loved has been shut down. We are on the lookout for a better design but have chosen the one you see now for the interim.

Pragya

SENIOR CITIZENS

You can see them most evenings in the park,
Muffled and sweatered against the chill –
Or weathers decreed by peremptory wives.
The woollens, the odd walking stick mark
Them down as no terminal sentence will
As they shuffle through the tail ends of lives.

Perched or huddled like diffident crows,
You’ll find them in knots of threes or fours,
Bound by the final unuttered fear –
Which, despite their squawky petulance, shows
In the eyes of these superannuated bores.
You sense something wrong here.

Or at least curious. For given their ages,
There can’t be much more to anticipate
Than a quiet release of valedictory breath,
The desideratum of sages.
Yet not for these, for whom the killing weight
Of dread must leave little indeed for death.

***