A Boat Parked In The Sand

I saw once a boat
parked in the sand
the name of its owner carved on its bark.
The boat which once was a tree.
The waters had left a mark
below where the name was carved.
A name, a mark of identity.
I felt the body of that silent boat
when the sun went down and the moon arose.
The sand below my feet
was damp and warm still.
and a boat upturned lying in the sand.
The briny sand stuck to my feet, lingered on the tongue
and bit my skin,
a stinging sand
and the whistling wind,
and I sat in the sand
leaning against the moist bark of the boat that once was a tree.
I listened to the wind and the body of the boat
whose master was far from the shore,
somewhere fast asleep.
And then it started to rain,
a tropical rain on a darkening shore.
I got to go I said.
I 'll come again tomorrow to the same place
hoping to hear the tales of the boat.

Sushama Karnik (c)
26 June 2016

A Boat Parked In The Sand

I saw once a boat
parked in the sand
a name carved on its bark.
The boat which once was a tree.
The waters had left a mark
below where the name was carved.
A name a mark of identity.
I felt the body of that silent boat
when the sun went down and the moon arose.
The sand below my feet
was damp and warm still.
and a boat upturned lying in the sand.
The briny sand stuck to my feet, lingered on the tongue
and bit my skin,
a stinging sand
and the whistling wind,
and I sat in the sand
leaning against the moist bark of the boat that once was a tree.
I listened to the wind and the body of the boat
whose master was far from the shore,
somewhere fast asleep.
And then it started to rain,
a tropical rain on a darkening shore.
I got to go I said.
I 'll come again tomorrow to the same place
hoping to hear the tales of the boat.

Sushama Karnik (c)
26 June 2016

In the tall cities,
and villages razed to the grounds,
under greying clouds
when the lightening can either
strike an epiphany or
start a rage of surging tides,
the spirit of Earth meditates
while the powers that be speculate
and hoard the rotting wealth.
If the musicians stop singing in tune all are going to lose their spot .
Nightwatchman, watch your Beloved's heart.

Image Latif Z

Below The Window Sill

Below the window sill
the candle burnt
quivering, wavering still in the wind,
as the the sun burst in an explosion of beams
above in the sky in answer to the candle's dream.
The candle heard, a last tremor ran
through the dimmed flame
as the first sun beam
barged in,
leaped over the candle to hold its breath;
the sunbeam felt the thrill
the last of the night's minister of light
had reached the edge
and broken the cage
and the flame ended;
the beam remained;
the candle and the beam were one.
It was a flood of light on the way ahead

sem xtz originally shared:

 

A Rather long Story 2nd installment

On the rostrum, seated in three compact rows of auditorium-chairs were about twenty children, mostly girls, ranging in age from about seven to thirteen. At the first signal given to them by their instructor who looked all-pervasive because of her imposing manners and strident voice, the children looked at one another in bewilderment. Some of them opened their mouth, but were still afraid to articulate the sound, not sure if the others were ready to share the effort. Some of them tried to be clever and just put on an ingratiating smile. With exhortation from the coach to start and be audible they mouthed the words without the necessary feeling. The coach now thought it best not to waste time on further exhortation, blew a note on her pipe and the children raised their hymn-books above their heads and started singing in unison. They sang with the unsentimental innocence natural to their age. I had never heard the hymn, but it had a soothing quality and a healing effect; I wished it not to end soon.

Listening, I drifted in thoughts and scanned those young faces absentmindedly. The child nearest me was in the front row of the group. Well, not exactly a child; she looked about somewhere between fourteen and sixteen, with straight black hair cut to shoulder length, which stuck around her forehead because wet, making her face look languorous and common. But as I continued to listen, I noticed that her voice was distinctly superior to others. It was sweet-sounding, and because it was the surest, it naturally led the others.

However, the young lady seemed to be indifferent to the activity she was engaged in at the time because I saw her controlling an overpowering yawn once. It was a closed- mouth, lady-like yawn, but her nostrils gave it away. Her eyes had no expression at all except perhaps that of being unimpressed because of over-familiarity. Once or twice she seemed to scan the people in the audience with a casual interest that did not amount to curiosity, except as if she was counting the heads.