Category: poem

Half-inch Poetry

Reluctant footsteps
at my door
should I ask him in?


Unfinished poems
at my bedside
I will miss evenings like these
smell of virgin rims


Unfinished bedside poems
to pause,


is to end


I write
to remember
to forget


I live life
life lives me
Both lives-
are they mine?


A thousand
inside me


Last Night
I made a wish to
a flickering bulb
far away

Sky was thick with black clouds.



scarecrowsA Scarecrow in the field
of Barley Rice wheat

With urn red on its head

A scarecrow in the field
of crows pheasants trees

Like a practitioner
In the field
of prescriptions cautions threats

Neither eats nor let eat

A scarecrow in the field
of men axe sweat

ploughing the field
of scarecrows.

I organize papersfire_or_ice
carelessly scattered
on my study table.
There is one paper
bearing burden
of a heart-
eleven year old.
I read it again, a hundredth time.
The world of stars
and galaxies
has shrunk itself
in pink and blue
four lined paper.
Just a few words,
of a boy- little lone.
He is asking me, over and again

“Will you tell me madam
what is the definition of a family?
Mother says
there is
a destinyuniverse460x276
a dream
yet to be fulfilled.
A sole journey
to eternal happiness
yet to be accomplished.
She says
‘When you really want something
the whole universe conspires
to help you achieve’.

Madam will you
tell me
‘Does universe conspire for everyone?’
We all have dreams
my parents toocosmos
have one
or should i say two?
Different dreams
Directions different
‘Are different universe
conspiring for them?’

Is it just one
in many roles.
Wretched universe
where is mine?
No geography
No Physics
No mathematics
could answer me
just so simple
a question.”

Just to ease
his troubled mind
I asked him
the other day
What he wanted to beuniverse4
when he grows up
like all of us.

“An astronaut.
for i will go
in search
of my own universe.
May be of my parents too.
I will reconcile
both of them
and find a destiny
that everyone shares.”


“Life is a bed of roses.”
Thorns prick when we sleep on them.
All our life we regret
Why blood and roses are red.

© Copyright, Tina Rathore.

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