Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

 

Art by Frank Godwin

image: frank godwin

the western sky
clutches the white
heat of the sun.
the last of the season’s
leaves cling to the umber-
shelled young tree.
is that the breeze
agitating a leaf
into a spiral fall?
no, a roller
a flutter of blues
belonging to wild spirits.
on a lower branch,
a droplet of hummingbird.
floating overhead,
long-tailed parakeets.
further and alone,
a hawk on a hunt,
wings frozen in a wave,
skimming, the sky its sea.

© Anuradha Prasad 2020

Elsewhere

osmosis of the soul

image: via pinterest

we are the silence stirred

we leap dance vibrate
we scream lie break

tired, jaded
we begin

the seeking
of a place without space
boundaries or names
the silence that we are
that we never stopped
being

gentle, gentle
our journey begins
fragmenting again
entering its womb
our edges blurring
centers merging
sparks flying
dying

deep, deep
we diffuse
until
there is only
that
that which is

 

silence

 

 

© Anuradha Prasad 2020

On Instagram: instagram.com/zennonzenn

Entwicklung des Fötus & Embryo - Wachstumtabellen für Ein- und Zwilinge

image: via pinterest

a love so new
it floated
in embryonic
fluid,
enshrined
in a buttercup
dream,
its shape still
forming, its heart
microscopic,
its vibrissae
scoping
for sulfur-laden
sparks of flint
struck, the
heralding.

© Anuradha Prasad 2020

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image: via pinterest

i am drawing
a map to find
us I don’t know
where i lost you
(how
or why)
where i lost me
(how
or why)

i try to return
where we last were
together when i left
with a colon
a closing bracket
not knowing
we would not
return to each
other in that
white rectangular
space of black
and white glyphs
scented in blush
lines of love
darker strokes
of lust, all of it
now rubbed clean
as if it never was

but it was,
it was us.

© Anuradha Prasad 2020

(written to yoko ono’s “draw a map to find us”)

orbit

Posted: February 22, 2020 in Uncategorized, writings
Tags: , , , , ,
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image: via pinterest

she turns
her center still,
in an age-old hula
with an invisible hoop.
to her soundless gaze,
concealing her
wild-whispered seeking,
dawn speaks
a languid language
of merlot and gold and
borders smudged.

© Anuradha Prasad 2020

 

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via twitter

1

image: via pinterest

Hello, my name? H.
Your good name?

He tilts his head and
awaits my good name.

Me? I am engineer.
Software field, he adds.

What do you do? I write,
I say, a touch smug.

Perplexed, he freezes:
processing, searching.

Just as I fear a shutdown,
a reload!

Eyes screwed, he asks,
um, writing?

Ya, I affirm.
Copy, you know.

He runs his fingers along
the air between us, a piano.

So you are a typer?
No! I am a writer.

But you type, no? Again,
his fingers play the air.

Yes, I reply.
So you are a typer!

That declared, a pleased
smile sits on his lips.

I acquiesce.

© Anuradha Prasad 2019

1

image: via pinterest

You blanket me
mold my bones
and flesh
sparing me
the comfort of
clarity. Brown
and brimming:
how i love you.

It’s the taunts, their
memory, stealth strikes
betraying secrets.
Must you be blatant?
So unforgiving?
Why hold my flaws
to the mirror,
to light?

Hold them instead in
the heart, a comforting
secret, till the heart
confuses it for love
for what else does the
heart know but love?

Until one day, deceived
it’ll give away;
splinters will run through
it, raspy breaths, maybe
i will clutch at it,
who cares?
so long as you
glow and radiate
outwardly.

© Anuradha Prasad 2019

1

image: via pinterest

I am from a loud place
of many small things
old things, old furies, old
hands saying stop.

I am from feathers angelic
of the flying kind, yet I’m
grounded, only the heart aerial
never carrying me away from
me. A homing pigeon, it returns
from far-flung places, telling me
stories in flutters, and feathers
fall all over me like promises,
maybe consolations.

I am from coffee, diluted
with milk to make me drink
milk, nurturing instead an
insomniac, a night owl who
burns like the stars and holds
in her veins the seduction of
the moon, dark and cold
moon with pause, of disquiet.

I am from pages torn, balled,
and burned. A bonfire that reduced
me to ashes. I rise again, the ashes
they cling, never am I free of
ashes. Burn child burn.

I am from no-nos. Don’t do this.
Don’t do that. Good girls are made
not born. Be a good girl. That’s like
a good girl. A good girl was forced
under my skin. I said my good byes,
she peers out at me now and again.

© Anuradha Prasad 2019

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image: via pinterest

the egg, once warm
and protective,
grew into suffocation.
growing bigger
against the fragile
resistance
the chick knocked
it down, cracked
its prison open.

falling out
wet and ugly
little blind eyes
squeezed shut
hurt by sunlight.
it grew stronger
fed on sun, rain,
worms, berries.
downy feathers
appeared. Pleased
mama chirped goodbye.

the fledgling
stretched its little
wings
opened it, danced
looking up
it saw the miles
of blue it would fly.

one blue day
it watched a
great big eagle
of might and beauty.
the fledgling
struck by the
breathtaking vision
puffed its little
chest and flapped
wings just as the
eagle fell, stone
to ground, going
splat and none
of its regality
remained –
guts spilled
feathers flew
a foot high,
fell fizz flat.

The fledgling
put its wings down
lay in its nest
watched the
sky, now bare.
The fledgling
learned to love
her nest
her fate
until one day
when she said,
oh, sod it,
and flew
the blue sky
her destiny.

© Anuradha Prasad 2019