Hope is…

Pic courtesy Actively Learn

Hope is a bereaved tramp
trampled every day
but carrying on nonetheless

Hope is a soggy paper
lying listless, limp
waiting for the sun to make it fly

Hope is a frantic afterthought
that slowly arises from
the ashes of pugnacious practicality

Hope is a cumbersome yoke
that sits stoically
on fragile, lonely shoulders

Hope is a homeless vagabond
roaming wide-eyed around
in search of a homing heart

Hope is a zealous zephyr
never zinging
singing softly a soulful song 

Hope is an iron locket
that hangs heavy
keeping the depressed neck upright

Hope is a square bubble
trying always to fit
into a round hole without bursting

Hope is a bird on hiatus
lost and tired
but striving to turn up one day.

Written for David’s W3 where POW, Kerfe, has asked us to begin our poem with “Hope is…” I have also used words from Kerfe’s random word generator.

Also written for Eugi’s moonwashed weekly prompt and Jim’s Thursday inspiration.

Sharing at dVerse OLN.


Pretty Perilla

Pic : my own

You arrived uninvited, rising from rot
peacefully poised in the prettiest pot
a serene squatter staking a claim
on homely basil, tomatoes and curry leaves’ terrain
rising defiantly, daring me to uproot and hoe

The wind, the rain and the sun wholeheartedly embrace
and are not unfair. I am no arbitrator of anyone’s fate
my four by eight balcony certainly has space
for anyone to grow n propagate
I salute your sassy salient strength.

Written for dVerse poetics. Today’s host, Sarah, invites us to write about weeds.

Tathastu* (so be it)

When the razzle and dazzle of technology beckons
bedazzled, impressionables easily succumb
the insidious reach of mass hypnotic weapons
cuts real deep making dumber the dumb

a few conniving to control the minds of millions
treat them as fodder, as their moronic minions
who happily lap the tripe served, asking for more of it
if as a result, autocracy thrives, so be it!

A Rispetto for Sadje’s wdys.

*Tathastu : In Sanskrit, it means ‘So be it’. It’s a belief that the Gods are watching us from above and whatever you say good or bad, Gods from above may say Tathastu, anytime!

Sea manipulator

Pic courtesy iStock

The sea maiden cleaves stormy blue
the ship of night is eggshell hued
no secret; her string-pulling ways
willy nilly maiden heaves and sways

The wind whistles a diabolic dirge
the foamy waves are silver verged
fork-lightning prongs the white horses
firm, she faces fickling forces

Shining softly the sun appears
calming tumult and fluxing fears
pummelled but proud she stands her ground
on peaced sea she is homeward bound.

Written for dVerse MTB. Today’s host, Grace, wants us to have fun with word play. Read more about it here.

Also for Eugi’s moonwashed weekly prompt.


Pic courtesy Mom Junction

Despair dropped like dead weight on her shoulders
the pain of desertion writ on her drooping lips
her stricken heart too smote to smoulder
her vacant eyes on a distant horizon affixed

the pain of desertion writ on her drooping lips
soft whispers lay entrapped in her dilapidated heart
her vacant eyes on a distant horizon affixed
never sleeping or blinking, continuing to smart

soft whispers lay entrapped in her dilapidated heart
voiceless screams tapping vociferously in her chest
never sleeping or blinking, continuing to smart
her eyes; nothing but twin pools of morass of emptiness

voiceless screams tapping vociferously in her chest
her stricken heart too smote to smoulder
her eyes; nothing but twin pools of morass of emptiness
despair dropped like dead weight on her shoulders.

A Pantoum on the theme of abandonment for David’s W3 where yours truly is the POW.

My dad

Pic courtesy Circle of Care

Daddy’s hands, blue veined and soft,
were in my hands when he slipped away
I detested my hands for many months
for their inability to hold on to him
my hands so unlike his in appearance and texture
yet both with the left being the dominant one.

My voice refuses to break into a song
for dad is no longer there by my side
covering up my flat, unmusical notes
with his sonorous and robust baritone
never the one to give up easily, my daddy,
lessons he gave me enthusiastically and undeterred.

Ever the restless, he sits still now 
there on the mantle, in a simple wooden frame
with nary a frown on his patient countenance
no film of dust can dim his deep smile
nor the love glinting in his garrulous grey eyes
as gulmohars herald the arrival of spring
I feel his warm presence all around me.

Gulmohar (delonix regia)

Written for dVerse poetics. Today I am the host. We are writing about fathers, incorporating at least three titles from those given below.

1. Dance with my father: Luther Vandross

2. Song for dad: Keith Urban

3. My father’s eyes: Eric Clapton

4. Papa don’t preach: Madonna

5. Daddy lessons: Beyonce and Dixie Chicks

6. Color him father: The Winstons

7. Daddy could swear, I declare: Gladys Knight and the Pips

8. Baby father: Sade

9. My old man: Mac Demarco

10. Father to son: Queen

11. Papa, can you hear me?: Barbara Streisand

12. Daddy’s hands: Holly Dunn

13. My father’s house: Bruce Springsteen

14. Papa don’t take no mess: James Brown

15. Your daddy loves you: Gil Scot-Heron

A shift (a quadrille)

I will allow my tongue to come unstuck from my palate
to sing in a quavering contralto freely
I will shake off nervousness and phantom fears
to let delicate butterflies in my stomach guide me
I refuse to be a sceneshifter on your stage.

Written for dVerse quadrille Monday. Today’s host, Mish, has asked us to write a quadrille using the word shift.

Ode to my handmaiden

Pic my own

As tears unbidden from my poor eyes fall
I wipe them surreptitiously with your help
sobs, suppressed smiles, snot; you have seen ’em all
your wee bit does effortlessly emotions schlep
from covering heads to wiping sweat
from the Grecian times to the Victorian and the present
an integral part of dressing you have been
ne’er minding the grime or being wet
luxuriating being doused in a heady scent
often carrying billet-doux unseen!

O dear handkerchief, often your ends I have knotted
to not forget a knotty affair
and when I was foolishly besotted
I did drop you with discreet flair
sometimes it led to utterly dubious assumptions
sometimes I received the response I craved
sometimes you lay in oblivion in the dirt
I rescued you then with chicanery and gumption
my attempts at coquetry you valiantly braved
keeping you close to bosom helped whenever I was hurt

This generation knows only how to use and throw
upstart paper napkins and tissues scarce can take your place
they may be fancy and pricey and convenient on the go
your embroidered and laced appearance embodies class and grace
from being neatly tucked in my school uniform pocket
to your now delicately perfumed presence in my purse
dear handkerchief, I cannot tell you what you mean to me
whenever I leave home, you, I do not forget
through thick and thin and better and worse
you have been my companion, my best buddy.

Written for Eugi’s moonwashed weekly prompt and David’s W3 to Mich’s prompt to write an ode to our handkerchief.

Sharing at dVerse OLN.

My space

Pic courtesy The Conversation

Surrounded by swirling snarls and sounds,
with cacophonous chaos clicking around
the humming, the thrumming, the buzzing and the bustling
recede into nothingness with pages unfurling

In the throbbing omphalos I sit with a book, budhha-like
drinking delicious words with my eyes
finding my cosy space, losing myself in the maze
and I am at home, at any location or any place.

Written for dVerse poetics. Today’s host, Ingrid, has asked us to write about inspiring places or spaces.