Turquoise Heartbreak

It's been a long, long day,

with its set of fascinating discoveries

and heartbreaking epiphanies,

a smoke ring, for example,

can exemplify a life's century;

a wound long healed, unscarred,

can carry phantom pain within;

a trace on the surface of grass,

moves it to a shiver,

a ripple can crush a butterfly,

happily resting her new wings,

when,

crushed in the cruel heat,

she seeks to rush to someplace cool,

but concrete seems to be her gravestone,

and she spreads her wings 

one last time,

embracing her lover, 

the cosmetic grey soil;

her turquoise luster

engulfed in a bone-crushing kiss,

burning her

in a rapturous goodbye

©Geetakshi Arora

April 29, 2014

In the Beginning

Autumn sprung 

with colourful leaves:

red, bronze, orange and golden,

and the flowers were generous,

they donated their colours for a bit;

"Do you know that leaves are living things?"

Mother's voice came grudgingly

from memories long forgotten,

(I was five);

Crunching my way across 

the sunset rug,

I recall and bend,

touching a few small ones gently,

they were too young to have fallen

like all the others;

There was one though, 

frail, 

like an old lady

after her chemotherapy,

tired and scared,

with bright smiling eyes,

waiting for some well-earned peace;

I run across the russet spread,

still clutching the shrivelled small leaf 

in my hand,

not so small anymore,

I could have crushed it in my hand

with a satisfying crunch;

I gently set it in the book:

"She felt the abyss of disenchantment.” 

©Geetakshi Arora

April 21, 2014

Blue

You’re betrayed for being depressing,

your hues are tiresome too,

yet, you’re the first sign of a bright summer day,

and you’re the measure of water

that is supposed to be colourless;

Dark- you contain galaxies,

light- you’re cool, sandy beaches,

your wounds are too diverse to be recounted,

and your lives too deep to be measured;

Your deepest secret is your ability

to metamorphise

into words,

inky words that create worlds

and emotions,

actions that despair

and celebrate:

you are the colour of victory

of life over defeat:

you are the colour of

the defeat of courage

over red rage.

your waters wash away wounds gently,

and yet,

you are demolished,

betrayed,

dethroned

to a small drop:

you are merely

a colourless

saline drop

© Geetakshi Arora

April 19, 2014

Uninspired Musings

If I were a poet,

I'd wring tears from words,

inky blurred lines would run 

like crimson tides,

and perpetually flood the cream grounds of unlined paper;

I would build images,

make tangible each smell,

every sight and touch,

like the roughened smoothness of

an ordinary white wall,

or the smell of freshly buttered corn;

My words would be like

music suddenly blaring

in a silent room,

noise till the mind and heart beat 

in rhythm to it;

I would write long letters to my multiple lovers,

pretending love to none but one;

Then,

maybe,

my words would live on,

despite my efforts

to burn and destroy each block 

of plastic letter:

Another self-destructing attempt at creating immutable gold.

© Geetakshi Arora

April 15, 2014