Silver Mud

Silver Mud

Sleek silver smiles scream

At the end of dusty street corners;

A naked girl shields her eyes

Against the smug, yellow dust–

Impartial at first,

It seems to target her;

And settles comfortably,

Wherever it can:

Her eyes, her hair, her nails;

Her feet, her hands, her mouth,

Till she is suffused,

Till she feels no more

Than gravel around her, on her;

In her.

Dusty hands on

tear-streaked dusty cheeks

Create more of the same

The faintest blink of kohl-lined eyes:

The betrayers of beautiful silver smiles.

© Geetakshi Arora,

August 27, 2013

Lost Tides

Scared sounds bounce off
deaf years,
As dead desire rises again,
to engulf in smoke,
Long forgotten suffocating fears
Of whispered screams perhaps,
And a few trivial smothered dreams;
'Tis nothing, to anyone but a delirious sleep
A compulsive dreamer, a destitute one at that;
There is a poet who lies by a dirty river,
Singing broken songs for each drop that flows past,
Awash with the crimson of strangled love

Geetakshi Arora
August 24, 2013

Silent Progression

It was one of those nights,

Those bland, ordinary nights,

Of no fresh beginnings and no happy endings;

It was one of those absolutely mundane nights,

When a gray fog snaked through sleepy, tired streets.

Somewhere, a cat mewed,

And a dog snored nearby,

The garbage dump smelled as bad

as it had on last year’s December night.

That dawn was not far away,

Consoled a nervous, cowardly chap,

Who’d go on to become,

The best in some job he never liked.

And somewhere,

A couple lay dreaming under the stars,

Unmindful of hazy clouds;

Amidst dreamy eyes and half-whispered promises

There was a bright moon that dimly shined.

Smoke sneaked through an open window,

Into a room filled with friends and strangers alike,

All were having a great time,

Except for that recluse who was universally considered nice.

An old lady was walking back home,

Tired after a long day at work

Her eyes were weak, her knees weaker:

Both collapsed, under a twinkling streetlight

A few other such scenes,

Need not be carefully described,

It was after all an ordinary, silent night:

Silent but for a hushed, progressing sound–

Indifferent to the pulse and throb

That orchestrate ordinary life

© Geetakshi Arora

 August 6, 2013