Powder Puff
The slender red needles
On the dark green platter
Tacked with hardknots
And stitched,
When I asked for the name
Said Powder Puff
And Laughed
Recalled the earthly declaration
That eyes would
Always remember Birth,
Cradle, the odour of milk,
The powder puff in the bowl
With the lid
And the little writhes
Isn’t there another view
That the eyes register?
Death!
In the stillness,
The stroke of the flowers
Embracing the body
Make the wraps for the Soul
Until the end.
Powder Puff
Hearing that name
Being called
Sitting in the laced platter
The flower shuddered
The wind came and cradled the flower.
What’s there in a name?
There is a lot
Is the reply
With the affixed name
The flower left the plant,
Leaned on the house
The house held the flower close
The voice of the house,
Its colour,
The births passing on,
Pleasures and all.
The flower says rain is coming
A bird came and nested
And a family flew away
They talk eloquently
A crow came to test
The salty veggies drying in the courtyard
A cat came and dug a hole
And walked away slyly
They prattle pointing their fingers
Spreading the drapes,
Embellished
With the secrets of happiness
The powder puff
Turns ecstatic
Then, in a sigh it touches
The souls of those
Who flew away from their homes,
Mumbles the little secrets
Of sorrow
And hugs the house tight
With a frenetic laugh.
The Preparation
All the tools look
Old and worn out
And seem to be blunt
There ain’t any grained rocks
Here in this terrain
To grind them left and right
And sharpen.
Ye who came for harvest,
Be quick to pluck the flushes
Pluck off the tiny shoots
Break the ripe ones slow
Ye who came for harvest,
Be quick to pluck the flushes
Pluck off the tiny shoots
Break the ripe ones slow
Without thrashing up
The flowers,
Or shredding the fruits,
Let my core feel
Your patience explicitly.
The new garbs
Distract me
So let the failed
Breathable threads,
Come and cover me left
And right.
The freeze of the granite
Wakes up the bones
The grated cages
And the tents showing off
Their face
To the open, tempt me.
With the precision of
A midwife
I will keep myself awake
In the open
When the spreads
Unravel themselves
In Black and White,
The essence of the soul
Which slips off from my palm
Will be sent to the earth
For reincarnation.
I need
Even the breath
To be delicate, When I climb the mountains
And hills
Through the inaccessible
Drab terrains
That suits well isn’t i?
At the end
I wish I could say
“Relieved to be home”
Jiggling my shoulders
Without palpitation.
Author’s note on the above poems:
About the Author
Rose George , Author , Poet and Translator, has an avid interest in issues concerning humanity and the environment. She records everyday life, as simply as possible to help people, see through the clutter. In her typically humorous way of writing, she describes herself in two phrases, one who got into the wrong bus and two who found an extra supply of oxygen in writing.
