I wrote the poem below today morning in my mother tongue Axomiya ( Assamese) and translated to English just now. Posting the poems in reverse order here.
Isn’t the year about to end, Why no one has let the bird singing merrily know;
I asked the half-bloomed rosebud Stiffened in the winter cold, No, no one told her, The year is just about to end;
I asked my dog Sitting and lookin out, Did anyone tell him, In a little while The year about to turn; He ignored me and kept looking out, Maybe waiting for winter to end and return of spring, when He can frolick in the cradle of nature again;
I asked nature Are you getting ready to Welcome the new year? Smiled she sadly and said, Will you listen to my pain? I haven’t figured out a way To protect my children from the madness of mankind shouting hoarse about Global warming and climate change; Spare me the additional pollution of your insanity, The false promise of A Happy New Year.
Now the question is how do I say happy new year to my readers after this. The bird sang in my ear and said, yes you can in the least polluted way and my dog Skooby barked his approval with a loud woof. So here it goes my dear readers, A Very Happy New Year 2022 to You.
The damsel waits, For the long winter night to end, and The warm embrace from Her beloved, To make her blossom, With nature’s gift, to Debut her beauty, and Her sweet fragrance, that Will attract her suitor, her Nectar, effervescent, ready to spill.
Alas, the night dragged on, and Cold hand of winter touches with A deathly kiss, as She wraps her tightly to Avoid the chill, Morning comes, cold and wet, Her beloved hides behind the clouds.
First winter showers Run down her cheeks, As she cries for what Could have been, Spring is just a distant dream, This bud won’t bloom, Her gardener won’t come, She cries, as Death looms.
Photo by author in his garden today(12/12/20) morning.
This week’s Tuesday Photo Challenge prompt from Frank is “Rain“.
I grew up with rains, lots of it, about seventy inches in average a year. Monsoon, thunder and lightning. Sound of raindrops drumming on the rooftop. Hot, humid summers cooled down by a sudden downpour. Flash floods and muddy roads, swift flowing rivers, overflowing drains. And the place with most rain, Mawsynram, four hundred seventy inches of it, is about sixty miles away from the city I grew up.
Now I live in place with hardly any rain, just an average of fifteen inches a year and that too in winter. Last few years we had much less than fifteen inches, with about eight inches in 2015 and about four inches in 2013. So as you can imagine many a times we play hide and seek with rain clouds and we get deceived. Today is such a day, the sky is gray, the day is cloudy and there is just a nine percent chance of rain. From experience I know it is not going to rain. Here is a photo of grey sky today pregnant with the promise of rain that will turn out to be deceiving. Couple of months back I had posted a poem, Flirtatious Rain Clouds , on this topic.
Sun fighting a losing battle with the clouds but chances of rain is minimal.
But there is always hope and what is hope if not that elusive pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. And where would be a rainbow without rain.
Another school shooting, another debate. When will this stop? Congress have blood in their hands. Hiding behind the second amendment, debate will go on between the gun lobby and those clamoring for gun restriction while innocents will pay the price.
I wrote this poem a day after six religious fanatics shot dead hundred and forty nine people including hundred and thirty two students in a school in Peshawar, Pakistan on December 14, 2014. Originally posted this poem in my blog on December 20, 2015.
There was a storm here yesterday, And I saw this tree Bereft of all the beautiful colored foliages, Strewn all around it on the ground. One leaf was clinging to a branch Quivering in the winds, trying to hang around.
I love winter
With its promise
Of spring not far behind
You say you have
The winter blues
But hope is
All that I live for
I sing the
Lights up the world
I stay indoors
Don’t want to be burned
By the scorching sun
Or the raging envy
At the six pack abs
The sculpted bodies
On the beach
I hide my
By winter’s warm clothes
Summer shamelessly disrobes
For public view
I ruefully sing
The summer blues