Washed Away

Soft hands embed names

on pliant golden sand

Making nonsense patterns 

Too precious to be named;

Transient, to be washed away 

with the next weak wave

that leaves in its wake

a silent rush of deep brown mud:

Tear-stained and cracked. 

Repititive patterns

similarly mould 

a willing force,

defensive against itself;

Too selfish to be safe;

A quiet echo of painless surrender

Destroys all castles built out of purple reflections 

on the surface of some

silent, glassy lake

©Geetakshi Arora

November 9, 2013

Sediments

Those unmixed colours try to mingle

in the wavy sea of salty tears:

A deep, deep blue;

Like the silences you occupy

That mix with unspoken words,

Unspoken, not unheard.

The dark intent in your eyes

Resounds like a ripple

Somewhere in that forgotten within;

A pink-purple twilight laughingly

Strikes the orange canvas of the weak, winter sunlight;

There it is- that blank, silent night.

A thick grey haze erases,

rewrites a story,

replacing this lie with another

etched with glistening drops of red pain:

Everything is fine.

©Geetakshi Arora

November 8, 2013

Gossamer Yarn

Have you been to that tiny wool shop?

Pink, purple and red–

Clashing colours lie side by side

in perfect inanimate harmony.

Have you felt the warmth

of the old lady knitting at the back of the shop?

She orders around a younger man:

"That shade of blue, with glitter on it, 

not the blue with black in it!"

Have you been to that inconspicuous shop

in the middle of two big stores?

It has no name nor perfumed air within;

Only mounds of gossamer threads—

another romanticized pack of commercial ware

©Geetakshi Arora

Oct 28,2013

Goodbyes

The last rays of the setting sun

seem to whisper a final goodbye

as it sinks into clouds of orange and pink,

illuminated by its own moody light;

A single moth welcomes a gloomy dusk,

humming around a pair of bloodshot eyes:

another lonely night must be faced

with candles and dying fireflies;

It is a new moon night,

made brighter artificially,

It is a night filled with wailing

and weeping in odd corners 

of bright homes, decorated with light.

In a small room of a corner house,

a candle lies unlit,

a box of half-filled matches lies near it,

a hand wanders, lights a match and shakes it off,

shocked by the noise outside;

Used up matches paper the room

as prolonged crackles fade away

to welcome a quiet, hazy day

with its watery, pale winter sunlight

© Geetakshi Arora

October 29, 2013

Suspended

In some forgotten past of glittering life,

a dull throb awakens;

nebulous, tentative:

tired.

It gazes with starry eyes

into darkness;

Burns itself

in attempting to cajole

an imagined abyss;

Daring it to transform

into a pink and orange dawn,

with unassuming humility,

it throbs onwards to unsung glory,

leaving a name that illuminates

with a single drop of dew

that fades into silence without an encore.

© Geetakshi Arora

October 23, 2013

White Echoes

Happily unbidden the trees remain silent—

A solemn sadness pervades,

The gentle breeze caresses half-frozen water

And stirs it into a million dancing droplets;

A face fades,

A memory corrodes,

Rusty hands try to shake:

It is cold.

With a shiver, the trees wake—

The gentle rhapsody of an ordinary night,

Like everything else,

 this too shall fade;

That hazy figure in the half frozen lake,

Disappears into the ice,

Forever erased.

Fairytales seduce.

Once more,

Leaves fall,

With a fearful grace:

A recycled eternity

© Geetakshi Arora

October 8, 2013