CHILDHOOD WITH SCRIPT

Charley Harper Amadillo Atuffed Animals, image credit by Nod Koala, Bluebell Books Short Story Slam Week 61

Original Script of the poem in this format:

The poem:

Hope you are a sequence,
It is playing with a toy animal,
Just a different kind of mind of subconsciousness,
And you enter there as you are a child. 

You are at your playing probable and

You just say, “I will be a train driver.

And drive animals for realization.”

We find a dream in your childhood,
Beginning of life you just begin,
Just a different idea in perceived playing,
You dream, as if you swim pointing to maturity,
As you are a child. 

People standing before you see purpose,

Just they hold smart cell phones,

Take pictures of you for sharing all

In social web sites, and in this era

Profession and procession just move

Across the land of new generations

And paving of new passages of

Embankment, we still behold our tenderness,

Imaging that on new parabolic path, you do stand.  

LONESOME WILL FOR SURVIVAL

The man with age of 70 years, being incapable of walking

From his childhood, gets an occasion of speaking for himself

That is all he has to tell about, in flash of glittering of his eyes.

He is still energetic; mentally he behaves as an epic sheet

Of life, with thought to sweep over excursion of leading voice,

I become poignant to his appearance of determination.

His teeth are strong, utterance superior to anyone in the town,

And tones of voice brilliant to hear and sort of dominance,

“I have struggled much, mistakes are there, yet I survive.”

As if all words are an anthology of poetic prominence,

We have to hear him, nostalgic he is sometimes, yet sublime.

He bears no complexity; poetic is his mind, the only photo

That pegged on the wall of his room is of MichaelMadhusudan Dutta,

He has tones of cutting, burning, creating of iconic salvation

And talking with him is like talking with a learned emissary

From the moon, taking the listener as his admired visitor, and he says,

“I am useless either for the society or for the familial peer, yet I survive.”

THE RIVER, SUBARNAREKHA

In one winter morning this year,

I stand upon a make-shift wooden bridge

Upon the flowing of the river, Subarnarekha,

Sunlight sparkling on waters

Light-bubbles dancing,

Looping and pulling time and tide alongside.

Moving fast with bouncing waves,

Glittering episode of life just survives with joy

Sharing and glowing with great integration.

I come here sixty years later

Of my childhood, and that time I stood here,

Played with water and sand,

And childhood memories do not mess

With present happenings, all are going

With anchor and shore,

With distance and dream,

The river Subarnarekha flowing with gleam. 

Note: This poem is written in celebrating Thursday poets Rally, Five Year Anniversary ,  Week 79, January 14 - 27, 2015, i.e. January 14, 2010 -January 14, 2015.

THESE CHILDREN ARE GROWING IN SILVER SUNLIGHT

Autumn sun-rays play in the hill region,

Morning spreads pleasing care around,

Lightly move little children in the village,

They are enjoying in wind of soft harmony,

Birds and greens mingle in sweet singing,

Climbing papaya tree is magic with balance,

For food of the day, the boy tries to pluck

Papaya while others are looking at him.

At that time we are walking along there

Seeking some desperation to find life,

It is another sojourn over our living pattern,

We are delighted in the boy’s turn

On childhood honeying with the nature,

It becomes fairy tale in bold and free

Spin of the boy’s attempt to go forward,

These children are growing in silver sunlight.

THIS CLOUD

This cloud reminds me

When I was in my childhood,

Mother said I was young

To know the world,

Sometimes it is playful

Sometimes it is hurtful

Sometimes it is soothing,

Sometimes it is benign,

But many times it is bliss.

Cloud makes us turn to look

At the life’s vision,

Leading to a standard life,

That is amused with time,

For that reason we do well

And we feel tenderness of blessing

When cloud bursts into rain,

And the world rejoice

With all that it holds on surface.

YOU WILL DWELL IN A NEW WORLD

What is mystery in the sky?

The sunlight itself? Or a small bird?

Your eyes caught into aerial visits in surprise,

Rainy clouds do hide shining and shifting

Of spreading sunlight, as little it is seen,

As little you are in search and invent

Time of the earth’s flowering season.

You are child to know the speech

That God has created for your nascent eyes,

Life is breathing, yet your childhood thinking

Does hold curiosity, first to know, then to follow

And find all things with clarity, then as a man,

You will dwell in a new world, appearing splendid.  

INNOCENT EYES

Innocent eyes

Behind the sunglass, looking

Through a train-window,

As mirror reflecting life,

Childhood eyes of dream delight.

 

 

 

CHILD IN LOVE

You have a beautiful gesture,
like little Krisha,
The man-boy
wandering the world,
Where childhood,
beauty, mind,
keep us cheering up
Moving round
your growing eternal light,
You are beloved man-child,
Singing like song
of Kshina’s flute

 

MY LIVING STANDARD

My childhood, a spoon on the sickle

That gets hot at every burn of struggle,

As if I am blown out like a burnt fly in heat wave,

That covers me in its huge wing folds.

It is not that I am on the wrong path,

I want to survive, struggling with reality,

I am not aimless, but some unknown

Luxurious persons drug my feet for their gain.

The entire dream is a broken night lamp

That clings over my head while sleeping.

My bed is screwed to a fixed wall,

That is crude, coated with blood-soaked color.

On this way I am moving with affiliations

Those are not mine, but are imposed capsules

That cannot generate dream, but give nightmare,

And with this, my living standard is poor and nostalgic.

Note: I am happy to received 

The Perfect Poet Award List For Week 73, Happy Rally! Thanks to Hyde Park Poetry

LONELY WOMAN

She has everything,

Husband, a son, a daughter-in-law, a grand baby son,

She feels she is locked inside,

She works with them, as if she is one of them,

She keeps her cheerful, smiling on every occasion,

The fake strokes she makes with hard labor all time.

She sleeps in a small room,

She leaves her bed room for her husband,

She gives the second bed room to her son,

She assists everyone, no tiredness she feels at work.

She shed no tears even if there is quarrel with her hubby.

She does not complain anything on her life and feeling.

She is happy on her long journey with all,

All villagers are with her side for her sweet charms

As she carries morning freshness in her walking,

As if she is the beauty of knowledge and mystique,

Effervescence fills all around her she talks, shares good feelings,

The neighboring observers think and feel her kindness.

Most of the time she takes much care of her grandson,

Whose little limbs, half spoken words, broken sounds,

All movements keep her awake and she feels the essence,

With love, care, along with her childhood memories, it is divine.

Long time, she cares for baby’s work, when his

Parents go for work, and her husband does not help her.

One day her son tells that he will stay in other house,

She looks at her son’s face,

And then looks at the face of daughter-in-law,

Long time she finds no response, and she feels angry desert,

Gently she reads the fate, tells her mind, in broken sigh:

“My husband does not love me; my son does not love me,

I have to live alone, sacrifice the little one whom I love and trust most.”