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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.