The Pond and the rest

 Uneven round

Stink of green algae

Silence, warm breath

As I sit on the flower bed

Which pours beside the pond

Far from the rest

 

Croak of that slimy green

Crickets sing, hidden, unseen

Wet mud underneath

Creamy moon and breeze

Making life, enough to freeze…

Far from the rest, far in the east…

 

The pond of delight

A vagrant’s retreat

Who comes to life

Like an autumn leaf

To fall on the water

Stagnant and green

A treasure serene

 

Far from the rest,

A pond so much mine

As less I am of myself!

                                                           ~ Kripa Sarkar

 

Black Rose

 The black rose stood lousily,

 Hidden in a dump yard, like junk,

Bearing the fragrance of heaven,

It blossomed as much as it could,

Displaying the pattern of THE ARTIST,

You know, the who is found in the mist...

With the texture of wet cotton,

Followed by infinite thorn steps,

It lay there lousily, hidden...

I wonder why it was forgotten?

I wonder why it was a black rose?

                                                         ~ Kripa Sarkar

The Grief Poem

 I must not talk of grief, or should I?

For most know how it feels,

And very less have its lack!

Is this how life deals?

It holds me when I care less and love more,

It holds me when I want the horizon but,

Have not a thing to leave the shore,

I must not talk of grief, or should I?

I'll only speak if you'd like to hear more!

When the others say I know not,

When I seem to be a part of the helpless lot,

When I choose right over my heart,

It holds me when I am just about to start!

I must not talk of grief, or should I?

To bear the emptiness deep inside,

You, my friend, do not need to hide,

Grief, in life, will away stride,

Past the pages, turning to the next!

I must talk of grief, oh yes I must!

Grief is the cause the we're alive,

Yes! You and me, and everybody,

It gives us a gift- hope,

Neatly wrapped in an envelope!

I talk of grief, and I will very much!

I wake up very morning to let go it...

When the first bell of the day rings,

 Hoping  it to be the envelope, I still have a choice,

I ask myself, " I must not talk of grief, or should I?" 

                                                             ~Kripa Sarkar