THE FLOWER THAT FUSSES ME

This red flower hits my eyes,

in this afternoon, it fusses me,

like a cool stone in the setting sun,

as if dust forms a ring around it so long.

How do I feel now?

It is my memory what I missed

fifty five years ago at my teens.

Am I fine, well now?

Still I am restless, to find

a loving, beautiful face of my choice,

in the same air that was half a century ago.

And I feel storm followed by

Wilderness in an arc of cradle.  

THE PLAY

                                                Photo Credit: Blue Bell Books Twitter Club

There are two little children - one boy and one girl - both are of six years’ old, playing in a children’s park in a spring afternoon, some conversation is there between them from innocent talks, to know each other’s pretty minds:

“Where do you live?” says she, “Far away in that direction.  We go by auto-rickshaw.”

He points out little fingers towards east.

- “Who takes you here? My mother is there.” she points out to one beautiful lady sitting on a lawn- chair a little far away.

- “My grandpa comes with me.” says the little boy.

The little girl takes a glance at the old aged man with silvered hair, standing nearby.

- “Where is your mother?” She said,

- “My mother goes on a long duty, she cannot come. She will return home next day after four mornings.” He says.

By this time, mother of the girl calls her daughter and takes her away from the children’s park. The boy stands stoned with a glance on the way they have gone away from the park.

Every playing is sweet,

And everyone plays a part in it.

Parting away isn’t pardonable,

Flower shreds something

We have touched,

Perfume in deep sensation

Left behind by flower’s kindness,

A gift we receive with warmth of heart.

It reminds us a paradise

Where we feel warmth and kindness

And leave it with some

Sweet memory, the little boy perceives.

THE SUN AND THE FLOWER AND LOVING CASTLES

These red flowers bloom with the sun’s burning rage,

They remain alive tucked within periphery of greens,

It brings me to think glimpses of events of last year,

Here is celebration of New Year in firmament of cheers,

Beneath are the warring and surviving zeal with landscape.

Spring with dry meadow, hot crust of the earth makes

Every green dry, yet life is not killed, two pigeons, together,

Move around meadow, and pick corn into hedge and grass,

Those hide corns strewn over dry land of cultivation,

With amorous stories those are still figuring out like

Magnets around crystalline wetness, waiting for rain in its

Season, two birds set off one sentiment of soft spring.

Para-metrical elongation creates labor that blooms

The eccentric pasture for living and connoisseur of loving,

When beautiful footsteps move to cross the land

For home that is not abettor of leaving, but waiting for

Answer from her, that she may try to bridge loving castles.

Shadow, grass blades and tree-trunk support walking through. 

FLOWER

See those small flowers in the garden,

Whose blooming has pride to molten

Aggrieved mind with enshrined chants

To resume work for life, tearing wrenched

Fragrance of strained mind, to see abode

Of life’s journey with love and innocence. 

I DON’T DO ANYTHING

I don’t do review

Because

The flower blooms

Contrary to

My wishes.

I don’t react,

As it is time

For its blooming

Neither have I chosen

To walk on its way,

Nor have I bothered

Of its existence,

I don’t do anything

Because

My wishes can’t destroy

The law of nature

The song of life. 

MORNING FLOWER

You have bloomed in simple raining

I watch you closely in the morning

Dripped in raindrops with smiling

Wind blowing slowly, and scare you for viewing.

You have charm that brings joy we share

You hold the beauty and sense of loving

With better living and brighter hope for smiling

That feeds me courage for next beginning. 

BEES

Sitting near bamboo fencing of a village house

I am looking where bees are moving around.

The fencing is covered with small creeper plants,  

With flowers blooming in this spring season.

From where do these bees come? I think,

I do not find bee hive nearby or in vicinity.

How long do these bees collect honey? I think,

All the time I see bees are hovering near flowers

And collect honey for a few moments, and fly away,                                                                            

Sometimes, they sit on flowers and immediately

They fly away and this tells that honey from

Those flowers, has already been collected, I think.

Are these bees are like those are living within us?

Are these bees symmetry of our thinking? And

Are these bees composing hives of collective dream?

We are on the forefront of our living panorama here.

SELLING OF FLOWERS

I stopped before the shop-window

It showed flowers for selling to customers

And the eminent was telling in whispers

“Come, love me, buy me, it is my pleasure.”

“You may place me upon study table,

You may place me upon the whole house

Or in your garden, with some sticks to nail me,

I will pose with my beauty, fragrance, instead.”

It is stitch of blows on the truth, motivated,

As market moves with open buckles of drove,

Living with pleasure and moving with status

The symbolic transition is author of all maestros.

LONELY RED FLOWER

Our bus follows destination,

Speed and sound of engine

Make us awake in lonesome expense,

Among greens both sides of road.

Looking through window

I find one lonely flower

Red in color in all green bushes

Not touched with peers for love,

That we need in great happiness,

With time of loveliness, alongside,

Mind knows wishes of green and red,

Yet I cannot touch the red heart. 

THROUGH THE WINDOW

Window panes open

Bed-room of my friend’s cottage.  

Outside unknown flower blooming

In neighbor’s garden.  

Mind flows with crystal sentiment,

That pleads for freeness from cage.

The grills of window seem iron barricade,

Into mission of soluble wisdom, hindered.

Flashing outside with flowers and

Green leaves of banana tree conglomerate.

Mind moves child-like,

Amid pristine bait of imperial sentiment.   

“I do not tear you.” Mind tells to the nature. 

WHITE LIVING

Walking on the living platform,

I feel like a dry leaf with lovely background,

Easiest way is not for my living, not like the way

Of flowers those are simply clinging with beauty.

Many times, I see the flowers on the roadside,

With expectation; but for me, price of life is turning white

With turbulence, and all songs of life mean nothing,

Money turns as scarcity, as if money is head of all holdings.

The flower still blooms as it is origin of life,

Bones and marrow are not removed, earth operates the nature,

Unending with scope of love and caring.

I find me as an unspeakable object of the white esteem.


Picture Credit: Malabika Bhowmik, Kolkata 

REFLECTION OF LOVE

Beautiful things,

Moving in spirit of dream,

Are needful to loving persons,

As if window gives entry

To the vision of flower,

Whose beauty is true,

In real belongings, and in dream, too,

And love is like wakeful singing,

Into mind, and kissing is a term of living,

And it takes time to know love.

If something is slipping away,

It is the mind that swings in vision,

And a look into flowering appearance

Will bring beauty of love,

Every touch will bring peace,

Over body and mind,

And everyone will learn,

Love is an essence, and

Nothing is missing in its presence. 

Picture Credit: Malabika Bhowmick, Kolkata