Choices or not!

From Shutterstock

The colour of my skin
The country of my origin
My sex and my parentage
My name and my heritage
Of these I did not get to choose any
Nor did others in this unfair journey.

I am from the land rooted in the belief of karma
Where we are taught to follow our dharma
But if everything is predestined
Should we then our preference rescind?
Then why are there options to make a choice
Should we then ignore our gut’s voice?

Since I can think, my choices I do exercise
Others may concur or decide to criticise
There are always many options to choose from
Our choice will decide our future’s outcome
Alas! If only it were so simple and plain
Yet I stand by my choices and don’t complain.

Written for dVerse poetics. Today’s guest host, Christopher, has asked us to write on the concept of choice.

The Highwayman’s horse

As he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat
I clattered into the darkness, draped on my back was his cloak
He was a just and fair master, he loved me like one of his men
No man was more dashing than he
No lover was more loyal than he
Dearly he had loved pretty Bess, though at his feet swooned a gaggle of comely women.

Poor Bess could not overcome her grief, swung from a rope did she
I roam rudderless and forlorn, though amongst my brethren I be
‘Tis peaceful and quiet here in the meadows
But there ne’er will be a man like the highwayman
A daring and swashbuckling highwayman
Thinking of his daredevil ways, my poor heart often overflows.

Anyone who has read The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes, would know that my first line is borrowed from the poem. I know nothing about horses. The little I know, is from this poem, which is my favourite and from the novels of Dick Francis, I read as a young girl. I have written about it here.

Written for Sadje’s wdys.

Dreams

Nestled amongst the twigs of sleep every night
amidst stockpiled straws of stolen sunshine
adorned with knick-knacks of living
my dreams lie cushioned comfortably
ensconced within them is my fledgling poetry

Flapping tenuous wings of a new sprung idea
my verse hesitantly will start its lone flight
never ambitious enough of owning the lofty sky
striving to float free of encumbrances
then happy to home in to hospitable hearts.

Written for Sadje’s wdys and Eugi’s moonwashed challenge.

Passion

From Inc. Magazine

By the banyan tree in the courtyard
Freezing in the cold January night
Passion died under the onslaught of ego
At the altar of doubt, love felt forsook
Its last breath darkened the already dark night
Blossoming romance couldn’t survive till daylight.

By the time dawn removed the curtain of tenebrosity
Freezing earth had thawed, shedding rivulets of tears
Passion couldn’t remain moribund any longer
At the retreat of self-aggrandizement,
Its fire revived again, its flames stoking fervour
Blossoming again into all consuming ardour.

Written for dVerse MTB. Today’s host, Laura, has asked us to choose ONE of the following lines and write a stanza(s) taking each word as the start of each successive line i.e. the first word begins the first line, the second begins the second and so on.

Rules: You must keep the same sequence though you may reverse it
Your poem should preferably  be at least 2 stanzas long
Rhyme is optional but try to stick to the meter of your chosen line.

  • Since there‚Äôs no help, come let us kiss and part
  • Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows
  • By freezing passion at its blossoming
  • I guard her beauty clean from rust
  • Quail from your downward darting kiss

I have selected Neil Carpathios’ line.

Daily grind/Blessed routine

From Facebook

Bleary mornings begin with chasing buses
Kitchen calisthenics to beat all the clocks
Trying to meet deadlines and accomplish jobs
Ploughing through each day my poor inner child
Trudging doggedly to complete dull chores
Often running in circles and back/forth.


But what keeps me going is adrenaline pump-
-ing and the pragmatic me
My glass never half empty but always half full
I rely on the high of
this gift called life, and not alcohol
Though I do need my cuppas of caffeine
I try to embrace challanges with equanimity and courage.

Written for David’s W3. The challenge is to write a golden shovel based on David’s winning entry.

I selected the following lines:

Buses; clocks; jobs; child; chores; back|forth
and
Pump me full of alcohol, caffeine, courage

Scent of a memory

From Shutterstock

Clad in your tatty old sweater
embraced in your woody, spicy fragrance
perched precariously on the crescent moon of past
I balance the glass of golden fire on my palm
bringing memories of oaky, peaty, smoky muskiness on your breath
I inhale sharply
the wispy whiff that wafts in
burns my throat with remembered bittersweetness
I taste the sweetness of brackish tears on my lips
my heart is awash with sharp, tingly feel
I can smell warm, sticky blood.

Written for dVerse poetics. Our guest host today, Jo aka Worms, has asked us to write a poem of scents.

Crack of dawn (a quadrille)

Under the blanket of moon’s warmth
we lie together; the night and I
telling each other bedtime stories
resting our heads on the wet grass

the morning arrives coyly,
lovingly pouring golden sunshine
into my cup. Her piercing gaze
accusing me of being unfaithful.

Written for dVerse quadrille Monday. Today’s host, Linda, has asked us to write a quadrille on morning.

Whither freedom?

Drowning, drowning, freedom is drowning
in the quagmire of falsehoods foaming around
perfidious promises keep plundering hope

They want freedom to be tongue-tied and servile
to seek permission to express itself by their rules
drowning, drowning, freedom is drowning!

Freedom is bloodied and pulverised
its face dunked in the dirt of unkept undertakings,
in the quagmire of falsehoods foaming around

But freedom wil not give in easily. It will surely
fight back and expose oblique oaths and the
perfidious promises that keep plundering hope.

Written for Sadje’s wdys and David’s W3 (for my own prompt).

Sharing at dVerse OLN.

A river’s journey

From Pexels

Holding firmly the hands of both the banks
the river whispers to the trees and the sun
at night she bathes in the dappled moonlight
murmuring lullabies to anyone who would listen

Wind and dust leave an indelible trail on her skin
she furrows untold stories on earth’s bosom
dawdling neither in the desert nor the shady nook
ceaseless, continuous; with teeming life she hums

Her tears invisible, she writhes thunderously in pain
disrobed by humanity, yet always full of grace
the weeping rain falls on it gently, in penance
frothing with emotions, the tide she will embrace.

Written for dVerse poetics. Today’s host, Sarah, has asked us to write on one of the four elements.

Calcutta calling

sitting in the cramped hostel dormitory
I measured your rain, that splashed
on my hand-washed laundry. Drenching it
in petrichor redolent with first crush

eating griddle hot kathi roll at the corner street stall
I inhaled your smoky, saporous smell
and that piquant, fiery taste of you
still lingers on my fickle tongue

the hole-in-the-wall used-books stores
the addas over endless chais*
nurtured my hesitant, timorous voice
giving it an audience that knew the art of listening

you spread your arms like an aging matriarch
enfolding my bewildered, unsure self
and in the midst of clutter, chaos and cacophony
I found I could stand on my feet

my buoyant thoughts often meander
along the bends of the river Hooghly
Calcutta, your captivating ways often have me
loitering in the bylanes of the yester years.

Written for Britta’s prompt on David’s W3 and Moon washed weekly challange.

*tea