My National Poetry Month challenge to myself has become a collaboration between synaesthetic artist Sammy-John, myself, Anjum Wasim Dar and Jay Gandhi: Day Two: In Grandma’s Garden

Grandma's Garden III

In Grandma’s Garden

Old, gnarled trees give hugs.
Roses smell of antiseptic.
Especially when you’ve grazed
your knees. Dew is a sloppy kiss
and leaves a red mark.

Her arguments with Grandad
are unmown grass, unweeded borders,
Magnolia bushes that need a prune,
Daisies between the cracks of flagstones.
My pocket money is her laughter.

Gradually even the raised beds
need a hired gardener. She sits
in a white plastic chair at a white plastic
table on the patio flagged by her son in law
And granddaughter and says
I’m going to have to move.
That sun is in my eyes.

By Paul Brookes

Every time a tiptoe sounds,
I close my eyes to see
as I feel the page, as words
take shape and form

my thoughts encircle the song,
inside the circle of the dance
in a  soft move in a semi trance
is it the dancer or the dance?

I reach out to touch- Nothingness ‘

Ah! only my soul knows only
my heart can see- I close my eyes
to look up from the book at the love
of purity which is but a scent sweet,

I reach out to touch- Nothingness ‘

Ah, The presence in Nothingness’
Love of Eternity, close closer than the
thorn is to the rose, growing from dust
glowing in the dust, dust to dust, we rose

Reaching out to touch- Nothingness’

engulfed spirits in time, destined to be
together to repose, arms spread out
to receive like the scattered petals
of the beloved rose, eyes on the look

reaching out to Nothingness’

I now close, the dancer moved bent
and rose, life went on, life goes on,
To Nothingness  unseen, serene, sent
far far away, forever on, up to heaven

Into Nothingness yet into Everything

By Anjum Wasim Dar

The Note

The outer cold and inner coldness
coexist. The chimney is charring
wood while it emits the smoke
of my misery.
I have bleed. My mind has been
twisted & knocked and all the
memories have been erased.
Memories of all the people
who once hugged me is lost
Though I write this note,
there is no reason
By Jay Gandhi

 

One thought on “My National Poetry Month challenge to myself has become a collaboration between synaesthetic artist Sammy-John, myself, Anjum Wasim Dar and Jay Gandhi: Day Two: In Grandma’s Garden

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