The evil we do

Photo by Steven Wallace

Bare and naked it stands
brown, brittle bark
barren, leafless branches
your toxicity torched it
once vivacious now vanquished
once stately now withered
it waits forlornly to be axed
I feel guilty when I look at it
for I killed it too; unintentionally.
yet, I feel like a murderer
no different than you

No, I did not immerse your ashes as is the custom
I did not want to pollute the holy waters
I did not scatter your ashes on the ground
the thought of the earth being blighted
smote my heart
I did not disperse your ashes in the air
how could I sully further the already sullied
I thought I was being wise
when I buried your ashes deep
under the ground in a cemetery
but your venom seeped into the soil
this tree, a dying declaration
that evil cannot be interred with bones.

Written for David’s W3 and Eugi’s moonwashed weekly challange.



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.

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.