From Vault of Memories Past – (Continued)

[I wrote this poem over a span of one month. As the poem is long , I shall post it in parts every Friday. It’s a poem about love but some may find the content semi-erotic. Lest their finer senses be disturbed, be aware and proceed at your own risk.]

Link to the previous part : https://wp.me/p73yZZ-4lM

Part II

How does one write about one’s own heart?
A feeling that lies buried deep inside,
Carried to every part of one’s being,
A constant reminder of being alone, but not,
A dull ache that throbs,

A painful reminder of what could have been
and now never would be,
Memories that would be carried

for the remainder of the life,
Memories that cut deep and slowly bleed pain,
drip, drip, drip,
Freeze the moment and stop time,

exhilaration and it heals.[9]

The moment from eons ago
when we first embraced,
My fingers stroking your lustrous hair,
A wave a satiny black cascading to infinity,
Darker than the darkest night,

Like the darkness from the abyss of a bottomless ocean,
Sweet fragrance of jasmine

wafting in the air from the wavy darkness, and
lost in the depth of those dark waves,

My fingers touched
the graceful arc of a swan’s neck
and I found heaven.
[10]


[November 29, 2020]

Pulsating veins in a neck
gently bent backwards
as my fingers traced up,
A beautiful song in the making,
Quivering rosy lips parting softly,
Hint of a pearly whites necklace
showing the tip of a rosy tongue,
As I softly touched those inviting lips
with the tip of my index finger,

A soft moan ensued
and the most beautiful pair of eyes
that I had ever seen,
Opened slowly and looked into my eyes;
And I sank
In the deepest mystery

of those bottomless eyes;
Rendered senseless.
[11]

Thin eyebrows arched like a bow
framed a smooth halfmoon forehead
glistening in the afternoon sunlight
filtering through the leaves,
Unwrinkled smoothness that
unable to contain
the beads of pearls of rising passion,
let it flow over the bridge
of the slightly upturned nose,
perfectly angled;
And as it dropped ever so slowly
from the tip of the nose to
moisten a pair of thirsty lips, I gasped;
No salt of passion ever tasted so sweet
to the waiting lips of a thirsty lover.
[12]

[November 30, 2020]

© Pranabendra Sarma, 2021

Connect with me in twitter @pranabsarma2020

From Vault of Memories Past – (Continued)

[I wrote this poem over a span of one month. As the poem is long , I shall post it in parts every Friday. It’s a poem about love but some may find the content semi-erotic. Lest their finer senses be disturbed, be aware and proceed at your own risk.]

Link to the previous part : https://wp.me/p73yZZ-4lw

Part I (continued)

Please come near.
Age has robbed my vision;
It is not as clear.
You say it does not matter,
You promise to speak,
If I keep my eyes shut
And let my
Feelings speak.
[5]

My hands cupped in yours,
Lilting voice I
Waited so long to hear.
Lovingly you spoke.
“Keep your eyes closed, my dear, and
Feel me with your imagination,
Fill my heart with tender words,
Words of passion, not of lust,
Words that a life-time will last.”
[6]

Touch me, my love, with your feelings
From head to toe,
And whisper those words of love
In my ear.
Let your imagination sculpt
A picture of my youth,
I shall always carry with me.
Let the passion flow
And let us flow
In the torrents of love.
Vagaries of time may be cruel,
But we shall have enough,
To last a lifetime and more.
[7]

Don’t hold back my dear,
I have felt your touch before;
The rousing passion,
Love mingled with lust,
The explorations and the discoveries,
All inhibitions shredded,
All these years I have carried you
Inside me.
Today, let me hear in your words,
Strip me bare,
And let me feel myself,
In your words,
Let me quench my thirst.
[8]

[November 25, 2020]

© Pranabendra Sarma, 2021

Connect with me in twitter @pranabsarma2020

Original Sin and the Forbidden Fruit

Thy thin waist, the
Twin crescent moons,
In those curves
I dive,
Douse my love, and
Emerge purified;
The puritans, the believers,
Paint it as lust.


Those who look for beauty,
Only in merging with
The one unseen,
Blind are they to nature’s gifts, and
Brush it as the original sin.


Let them search
For the fountain of
Everlasting peace in heaven,
One never seen,
I have found mine
In my imagination,
And is blessed,
By the forbidden fruit.

Fantasy

what is life,
if not colored by a little fantasy?
I shall rather fly away
on the wings of my imagination,
than wither slowly by
dripping sands of time.
is there anything more painful,
than dying by grinding of the mundane?
let them ridicule me,
for my feet not being grounded;
will the bean counters ever comprehend,
ecstasy of riding the winged horses,
and flying away?

Ethereal Enchantress

This poem was first written in Assamese (Axomiya, my mother tongue) and I translated it to English today. The original poem is attached below the English version.

Ethereal Enchantress

 

Oh my ethereal muse,

Your shadow dances across

the mirror of my imagination.

Crossing the boundary of dreams, Continue reading “Ethereal Enchantress”

Searching for my muse

Deprived of my wings at birth,
May be the angels
were afraid, that
like Ikerus,
I shall attempt
to touch the sun,
and get burnt.

 
But I bargained
to set my
mind free,
soared high
and gained the
whole universe,
Imagination unbridled.

 
From unseen depths
of the ocean,
To places even
gods fear to tread,
I roam,
in search of
my elusive muse.

 
Alas, it’s a journey futile,
Travelogue continues,
Search goes on,
Certain that
once destination arrived,
the reward of discovery
shall silence my mind.


Featured image by Sabine Sauermaul from Pixabay.

Somewhere between the lines, love got lost

My life is bared for you to see in all the lines I wrote

You decided to read between the lines and pick and choose

You let imagination run wild,  gave free rein to emotion

Somewhere between the lines, love got lost in translation

I just ask for a moment of your life to read and look

And you will find that my life is an open book

Like a river that runs calm and runs deep

So is my love for you darling, forever to keep

Black and White : February 1 Flash Fiction Challenge

There once was a movie named
The Manchurian Candidate
Why Manchurian
I scratch my head
Little up north
The cold frigid waste
Siberia
The Siberian Candidate
That would have been
More realistic
Wouldn’t it
Oh my my
What did I do
Realistic
May be a reality TV show
But not real life
Siberian Candidate
Everything in life can’t be
Black and white
Must use our imagination
Little shades of gray
Not just left and right
Not conservative and liberals
A little compromise
Maybe thinking about
Siberian cold
I am mixing my
Black and white
My imaginations
Taking a flight


Charli’s prompt this week:

In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that features something black and white. It could be a nun in a zebra monster truck, a rigid way of thinking, a bird in a tuxedo — be imaginative and go where the prompt leads.