We walk along

hand in hand we walk along,

singin’ for all a soul song,

we ramble through woods,

and talk of vagrant moods,

there’s no dwelling for us,

we ain’t got no home, no fuss,

round and round we roam,

look at widely arched domes,

we are nomads of true worth,

being not noble from our birth,

and thus we shall stay as we please,

everyone’s heart, love, we appease,

they ignore us, look disdained,

their bright white collars unstained,

peace is our protest, we shan’t care,

and open up our frivolous fair,

earn a penny or two and some notes,

singin’ from deep within our throats,

hand in hand we walk along,

deeming society, no ill, no wrong,

hand in hand we walk along,

singin’ for all a soul song

.

The Sunday Challenge at Imaginary garden with real toads celebrates the music of Woody Guthrie. What I love the most about his songs are the simplicity of rhymes and the gentle words flowing one after another. Therefore, that has been my inspiration for writing this poem. Please do share your feedback.

This is tagged as the poem for 25 November for NaBloPoMo.

We wait…

7/12/71 it is heard, the siren of the night

.

we rush back into our burrows,

hollow compartments dug into the streets,

and sometimes an unclassified basement

made, in the otherwise grounded houses,

a little light lamp is all we have as

we wait, waiting to know what

is conspiring, pondering over

the question, whether there is

going to be a war in our region,

I have clenched my mother’s saree,

it is plain cotton, no embroidery,

as she has her eyes shut, and her hands folded,

invoking the blessings of gods to keep them safe,

and to hurry the sun-lord to rise,

and make it seem right in the brightness of day,

the men gossip their trades, still important

to be discussed, and sometimes I could catch

their hesitation, of talking about

the war, spreading through every border,

marked by silence, more shrill than

the temple bell… kids cry, as the illumination

of the lamp dims, due to lack of kerosene,

and we wait… we wait in our bunker,

shadowed by our unaware selves

 .

we are waiting in quarters in candle lights,

waiting for the order from high command,

pondering whether we would also face the war,

a new package has arrived of artilleries, there

is a rumour, that the enemy would try to seize

the territory nearby soon, but we have to wait

and think, muse within our minds, I wonder

what my new born is doing back at home,

she would be nursing him… may be and

that brings a smile across my eyes,

I should, I must write a letter but what

would I write, my mind is frozen,

it is getting cold and colder, December

winds are piercing… ruddy thorns into

the skin and, that has made me thinking

of those hiding in the city, below the ground,

unknowing, blind to the action-less night,

may be there would occur nothing, and may be

things will be normal soon, I can hear my

comrades scratching their unshaven face,

and that gives me an itch in my coarse beard,

and I wait as others are waiting, the siren has

ceased its solemn tune, and someone switches

on the light… flickers and then is switched on,

.

and we wait…

 .

years have passed, calendars have changed,

there was that war of 65 and 71 and also of 99,

and I wonder how many more wars would be waged,

there has been trouble at the borders this year,

the cease fire was compromised and I wait… wait,

with a hope that it would not happen again,

and just think of the stories told to me… and

in this black room, at this moment, I reflect

her expression as she had shared her tale, while

chewing over her tongue, the bell for the period had rung

.

A little explanation required for the ending… the tale of girl told from the beginning is inspired from the experiences shared by one of my teachers about 8 years back. She had told of her war story, of the underground compartments and that has paved the way for the poem… so the end marks the time when she had narrated it to her students. The wars are real but the narration is fictional… rather I would consider it imaginary because I have imagined the setting during the war of 1971 because of course, I was not even born then. If you are confused about something or if you have any questions, please do ask.

I was thinking of writing something about it but then, I was also inspired by dVerse Poetics prompt of Calendars today. I haven’t used the theme explicitly but of course, the time and calendar has a lot to do with it.

This is tagged as the post for 24 November for NaBloPoMo.

And before I forget, I wrote a guest post for Yeah Write, dated 23 November, which you can read here.

*The date in the first line is written in the format of dd/mm/yyyy.

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Where no one sleeps

a land where no one sleeps,

no one ever wakes,

inundated in the petals of reverie,

encrusted with the hues of red,

each soul is profoundly embalmed

in the hymns, of requiem,

rendered by the wailing winds,

there is something about this place,

but there is nothing extraordinaire,

save, for what is felt and seen

.

This is tagged as the poem for 23 November for NaBloPoMo. I am linking it up with:

1. Transforming Friday with Nature’s Wonders Prompt

2. Friday Flash 55

Unsaid words

the unsaid words die within after all,

wheels of time spinning, their relevance lost,

on the pages of past, their names, I scrawl,

.

I make a heap of them into a ball,

my tarnished repentance on it embossed,

the unsaid words die within after all,

.

I carry their weight, on my back, I haul

my believes against each other accost,

while on pages of past, their names, I scrawl,

.

I rub myself against comforting shawl,

saving me from the sharp bites, of this frost

of unsaid words, dying within after all,

.

their last sting marked on my heart, on its walls,

standing crooked, I am paying the cost,

on the pages of past, their names, I scrawl

.

I shed this pain bit by bit, every small

pang prodding, strengthening me, to exhaust

these unsaid words, let them die after all,

on the pages of past, their names, I have scrawled

.

This is tagged as the poem for 21 November for NaBloPoMo.

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Dissipate

dissipating into the slivers of my being,

I hoist my head for a last look of galaxies,

before I cease to prevail, in these imperious,

instantaneous, ripped realms of reality,

and deflower my skin, into flagrant

deceivers… these seraphs of fantasy,

embracing the abode of my soul,

sanguineous shelters for my mind,

away from dispositions of the world,

unevaluated, I dwell in locus of lies

.

This is tagged as the poem for 20 November for NaBloPoMo.

There was a religious “conference” going on nearby. The loudspeakers were actually making me deaf. After about five hours of public display of the religious sentiments, it came to end and thus finally, I could write something. I have got a headache right now.

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