Our Candle

Couldn’t think of a better occasion than the festival of lights itself to recall the blissful emotion portrayed in this poem we wrote a year ago. Wishing you all a happy and blessed Diwali !!

Photo by Hakan Erenler on Pexels.com

Here’s our rendezvous with a candle –

It was a normal night.

Well all nights are normal till,

And Everyone with their laptops

Me with a book in my hand

And suddenly something happened 

Actually, nothing a havoc of surprise around.

The lights went out due to a power cut,

It was somewhere 9 ‘o clock?

All of us staring and trying, setting, mushiness into right.

Even though knowing light would come again alright.

So why not wait for it to arrive?

The encumbered batteries about to drain, 

No one paying  here a sight

Not even the clouds and shudders creeping inside,

And agitation growing, dwindling inside.

Hence, a candle somewhere turned out alright. 

 Some time spent in the dark,

With the single candle being lighted and giving light,

The wax gradually melting 

But till the last moment the candle did thrive.

 And we huddled together to the warmth we found. 

The candle stood there alone and we did.

The gloom and the dark, 

The glow both defied, denied.

We took care that it glowed

Brighter than before,

Till everything went alright.

And the light came ,it sure did.

when the lights went out, we hated it

So, instead waiting for the bulb light to pop on,

We lit one right then in its sheer demise.

To have a candle ‘s light in unusual circumstance

one must take it into strangeness,

when the gloom and darkness prance.

And so did we when frightened by a sheer power cut.

And hence the sooted candle, left a grave mark. 

~DuoDisseminators

‘Eyeing through the lens’

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
~Where the Sidewalk ends

          

Past few months seem like a kaleidoscope 

             There have been great times, many events and fun

             But felt distant from self, as multitasking we coped

             Many hobbies ignored, some friendships slowed.

 Claiming victories, biting sorrows,

            Pinching out a grin to that amazing joke,

            Rising sea, receding sea,

            Receding slowly- back to the same shore.

  The waves of change do bring a shock

              When we choose to take a stand        

             Or succumb to be part of the flock? 

             Ah ! But slowly time must answer back.

 Half a day goes in the abode

Geegaws and mischief makers prance across,

Mulling about the changes alone,

Or are we the odd sheep in the flock?

   But isn’t it ‘’now’ that we create memories 

          Failures, and mistakes sure a part

             But something later to be cherished

             Will be the good old days close to heart 

  Her peeking in, till you have to sigh,

 Giving in to her bated eyes,

 Laughing till the skull cries,

  Farce culminated with a sweet lie.

   Carefree as we roam around

              Innocence deep inside

              Acting like an open book

              Having too much weight to hide.

  P’rhaps they are more troubled

             When they choose to walk alone,

           Or Perhaps we youth  are,

            Just a complex mystery -always unknown

` ~Bolded Paras- Khushi.M

Lighter Paras- Kunjal.G

~DuoDisseminators

P.S Hope you are doing well. This is a post after 9 days.( A long break from a rigorous posting schedule!) Hope you like it!😃

‘A reunion called!’

Hello everyone. This is Kunjal. This is my first attempt at a sonnet. Hope you like it.

https://mapio.net/pic/p-92631280/

On a long drive to aunt's sturdy white house
On a  road our car dances in the mist
Grasshoppers bounce and  mischief-makers trounce,
Green fields melting and attuning adrift.
 
We traverse through a foulish filthy lake
Muddy dogs and goats, squirrels swim with gay,
Eyes towards the land, we want to make haste,
Yet moving slowly in the pool of rain,
 
Little tinkers from school  singing in gay
 Carts, single bikes vans stationed to wait
Train paddles past which turns the blue sky grey
Parting with the hawker, without bargain!
 
 Dust playing with eyes as reunion takes place,
On a dusty lone lane tears make their way.

It was a reunion after 3 to four years for my dad with his sisters. One sister travelled from Bangalore, the electronic city of India all the way to Itawa in North India. We met at my father ‘s elder sister ‘s white bungalow. The first floor is still occupied by workers though.

The skies were always dry and sand always pressed on faces whenever we moved out of the house. But not that day.. not that day when we reached the place. The day was as cool as it ever could be. I still remember the emotional reunion that took place. And it was then the sun chose to shine on us. In 3 to 4 years, the time spent at her house was the most memorable.

This is written for a prompt at Skeptic Kaddish hosted by Britta Benson.

~Kunjal.G

~DuoDisseminators

Into the bushes

This poem is penned for the prompt at Skeptic Kaddish where the poets were asked to write a poem following these rules

• 12 lines of free verse;
• Must include the adjective “adorable”

The Mulberry Cottage still  stands firm

The gladioli,Lilies and orchids still dance with the wind,

One part of garden looks loftier with tons of leaves some wild begonia, twigs and daisies

 And a silent creature- rests within.

I often wonder would Miss Mackenzie,

Be thinking about her flowers

And the house, her cat Wily and

‘One electric bulb’* would she still ask?

Was she smiling adorably when her body felt,

The ‘grunt’ and the ‘tup’ of that shovel,

And the precious book of wildflowers she gave me

 Would she not give it one more stroll, a caress?

~Kunjal. G

*The poem is inspired by the short story ‘The Prospect of Flowers’ by the eminent author Ruskin Bond.

The Mulberry Cottage is the house of an English spinster Miss Mackenzie. There is nothing extraordinary in her life until she finds a boy plucking flowers in her garden. Together they both come together to study flowers in a book filled with many names of different species. Time flies fast, the boy goes afar and she dies, cold in her bed. I imagined her to be buried within a bed of flowers and the visit of the boy after his vacations…

*One electric bulb I would care to explain. She one time exclaimed to the boy to gift her some electric bulbs for hers always flickered and his father did a business of electric bulbs.

~DuoDisseminators

‘ It’s Light’

I am very elated to tell you guys that I recently hosted a prompt at Skeptic Kaddish . Do check it out! I received amazing responses from different poets and they took the groovy challenge extremely well!

Rules

• Your poem must be no more than 16 lines;
• It must include the word ‘groovy’

 It's Light,

The doors  held ajar,

Unto the striking dark,

And in and in it traveled,

And burst in more shards.

.

Shards of gold they were,

Primmest of diamonds they were.

To cover the deadly expanse of dark,

They slackened in ribbons to disembark.

.

The big or small scrapers,

All looked like little tiny huts above,

Snoring and grumbling in sleep

People awaited its touch-a sly sneak.

.

Light traversed and it took

A groovy path- into nooks,

I tell you, twas a wonderful element.

Before we moved into the deep trenches of blue.

This was the first time I hosted a prompt! Thank you David for hosting wonderful W3 prompts and allowing poets to challenge themselves!😃

~DuoDisseminators

The Good Ol’ Days

This is a short collab with Veera- a poem that came out on its own after long mulling about the Good Old days when we spent a great time to play!

https://www.parentcircle.com/9-indian-traditional-games-for-children/article

I remember four years ago,
When studies were irrelevant,
When going out and sweating
And playing was important.

Cricket in the morning,
Swimming at twilight,
Football in the evening
And basketball at night.

I remember four years ago
When sleeping did count,
Eyes drowsing innocent,
And blinking up with vigor

Sweat in the hot sun I did,
As every muscle I strained
To give my all in every sport
I played without disdain.

I played without any disdain,
Of yester’s fights,
Enjoying every bit,
In today ‘s sunshine.

And brows drawn
To create something new,
And mind busy on
‘How to add more fun?’

To this question arrived
An answer in games
Invented by young minds
That gained immediate fame

Immediate fame they gained,
Twere played again and again,
New kids learnt them all,
Ne’er forgetting the maker ‘s name.

Police and thief, a classic,
That I shall never forget,
Where I remember infiltrating “prisons”
To free jailed suspects.

Ice and water,
Running with madness
To save ourselves from ice,
To unfreeze our friends left.

Capture the flag we chose
To play when many gathered,
Capture the flag we had to,
The guards a spot of bother.

The grimmest places
Were the best hideouts,
When lights went out,
It was a chance to tread out.

But when all else didn’t matter,
A good ol’ game of squash did,
Smashing footballs onto the walls,
Ignoring angry parents’ cribs.

And when armed with agility,
The best runners were picked,
They overcame the trail of chasers,
The hills and blocks it contained.

Ah those were the good days
When the desk mattered not,
When sweating in the sun
Was quite worth the effort.

-The Forgers of Fantasy
-Kunjal(Duo Disseminators)

The bolded responses are those by veera!😃. Check out his post

Homeless

Written for Sadje ‘s prompt. A poem by Khushi_M

Prompt pic

In search for a home,

Found solace in mind,

Oblivious to how this would be lost,

In a very short time .

.

Like  invasion of countries

The mind attacked

By others taunts,comments 

By worthless spats 

.

No missiles, no bombs

Their words did it all,

To shatter the mind,

To break up its walls 

.

Unconscious explosions

Grasping my pain

Losing my home, 

I was on the streets again

~DuoDisseminators

‘ Eyes On Us- A Quadrille’

Eyes on us.

Bars in front, bending down for breath.

One second to look up.

Hands covered with red circles.

Face torchlit with recent smacks.

Eyes gasping down in breaths.

They look up.

But no sight to see,

Travelers fading away-

The lone figure.

Written By- Kunjal Gupta

~DuoDisseminators

.

.

This is a poem describing a lone injured man on the street. The picture given in the challenge- the eyes stare intensely into us. This prompted me to write a piece which questioned many people together, their willingness to bend down and help someone in need. This is written for sadje

.

‘But. Before you leave. Help me stand up first‘