They drink water and carefully chew earth
Soaking in that rich photons
They are sun-tanned
Yet they grow no dark
But beautifully do they age
And withers without a tinge of fear
Blossoming every spring
They are Azaleas so stunning
Sometimes amalgamtion of different colours Sometimes her scarlet blush
Attracting not only human eyes
But winged angels from far and wide.
I still have that old photograph
Me and my mother beside
That new mother happily
bursting with pink azaleas
It was last winter,
Grandpa had to cut it short
I still remember that expression
Of discomfort and regret
“Don’t be disheartened baba
They will grow again”, I said.
But his reply gave me a shock
,“They knew I would cut them.
It gives me much pain to inflict the same upon the plant I planted and nursed.”
“But they will grow next year”, he consoled himself.
Weeks haven’t past
My mom sick and in pain,
Tortured me more…
Yes, there is a strong connection
Between a mother and her child
It was then I realised
My grandpa though a Father figure
Had already become a Mother
To the plant life he was giving birth
With every passing year,
Trees,plants,orchids and so on…
Thankful to my grandparents and his generation who planted these trees.
Keeping the tradition alive wishing everyone a very happy World Earth Day.
Below writing 👇👇👇Via http://www.indiacelebrating.com/events/world-earth-day/
“World Earth Day is celebrated every year as an annual event by the people all across the world on 22nd of April in order to increase the awareness among people about the environment safety as well as to demonstrate the environmental protection measures. First time, the world earth day was celebrated in the year 1970 and then started celebrating annually on global basis by almost 192 countries.
World Earth Day observance was started to celebrate as an annual event to get national support in order to better take care of the environmental safety by solving its issues. In 1969, there was a peace activist of the San Francisco named John McConnell who actively involved in starting this event and proposed a day to get together for the environmental safety. John McConnell had chosen this event to be celebrated in the spring equinox on 21st of March in 1970 whereas United States Wisconsin Senator Gaylord Nelson had chosen this event to be celebrated on 22nd of April in 1970.
They had contacted the people to join this event to get together for solving their environmental issues for better future. During the first time celebration of the earth day millions of people shown their interest and participated to understand the motto of the event. Instead of deciding one date for the celebration of the earth day, it has been started celebrating on both of the dates. Generally, the earth day event celebration starts with the common practice of new trees plantation in the required areas worldwide.”
A warm hug 🙆and Namastey🙏 to all my WordPress family( the blogs I follow,the blogs who follows me and the future blogs I will be following and vice-versa). Lately I haven’t been able to paint the WordPress wall with my words because of my busy schedule( college, classes and my Ama being quite unwell) . But still I have managed to write quite a few lines before bed or while travelling by bus. So these are the pictures of my work.👇👇👇👇 Happy writing and reading.💗💗💗💗💗💗
Thank you for visiting by blog an giving a minute or two reading my simple writings😇I hope it was worth reading/ worth taking your time. Hope you all enjoyed. Check out my other posts -articles/poems. Wish you all a very happy today / tomorrow. Keep praying and do not let your smile die.
With infinite 💗💞
I woke up and
Placed myself in front of the mirror
That carefully detailed my features
The face, the eyes, the nose, the lips and my hands
My spotted skin, few scars and freckles
My smile with teeth not visibly bright; few lost
My natural silver hair ,Few black dyed and artificial
They say my skin, thin and pale; loose and sagged breast.
I call it elasticity with
channels of blue nerves visible and
Every year the invisible artist sculpts
What people called wrinkles on my face
But I call them dimples
My eyes recently got rid of that cataract still nothing changed
And the power keeps on increasing
The skin isn’t the same like it was when my mother first breast-fed me.
That change is just permanent
My lips is forever sucked in. I find this a little weird, funny as my ears too droops.
But do not worry
Oh! it’s the gravity that has pulled it down.
No more does the blood river within me flows
The ascending years have mutated me
In a beautiful way. Still I am me the same person with my story unchanged.
I did not worry like the evil queen in Snow White and the seven dwarfs
Even when my mirror spoke and showed me the glimpses of my future days
Instead I was happy because
He who created me is an Artist and I myself his Art.
Having consumed so much of this Earth
I will still have nothing to repay her back
Except after my death,my decomposed self
Ready to merge with her;
Still ready and willing to turn each page
Thank God! you never age…
Where on earth am I safe?Where? Those eyes staring at me constantly as if I am walking naked. I think their mind has become a dress scanner. Such is their looks. Girls its high time we visit a smithy and construct an Iron Woman outfit or Is this the reason why many girls choose boys’ attires. Well may be.
We are little kids until our periods visits us.Our bodily transformation begins. Period days and the stomach aches that lasts for hours.Your breast begins to develop and gets perky and the initial phase of course is painul. We start getting conscious and we are taught to be careful.
While we are on this transformative phase,even the neighbourhood and the street eyes looks at us differently. Officially no more kids. Those sanitary napkins inside your mothers’ secret lockers,bras,now occupies your space.
When walking down the street. I heard for the first time the special sound,they made with their tongue.They whistled while carefully speculating our back.We now meet eve teasers and we are taught to ignore.
While walking down the usual path,the sound of a motorbike,two guys,one grabs my boobs and shooo the bike vanishes.The society remembers me.
I reject someone and the psychopath comes throws acid on my face,shooo the criminals vanishes. The society will never forget me.
Again this is not enough,one day they grabbed me; a hundred licentious eyes and hands their mouth salivating as they clenched my arms and feets,their claws tearing my soft clothes and flesh,one by one they raped me,inserted foreign objects inside my vagina. My body bruised and blood dripping. But shoooo the rapists vanishes. The country will never forget my name.
But does anyone remember any assualters,molesters, rapists? Their names? The place where they belong?
Yes! I am afraid of the dark,of those nocturnal eyes and hands ,of those ghastly beasts who haunts our bodies and enjoy our pain.
Where on Earth are we safe? Very recently I received a message from an unknown person in Facebook asking me to indulge in a sex chat with him.Very instantly I had to block that person.
Even in the virtual world these dirty minds craves for sex.
A few months back. We were inside a three wheeled vehicle and an old man who was seated in front of us. He looked at us and after a while put his hand inside his pant. At first we thought may be he was uncomfortable but no he kept on reapeating that a couple of times touching his private part and putting his fingers inside his mouth. That was gross and we were about to get out from the vechile but fortunately he left .
Thousands of cyber crimes,rapes take place every single day and many cases are not even reported.
Sometimes it is outside your home and sometimes it is inside your home and neighbourhood. It is usually the victims who are blamed by the society. Her dress was short, she was alone, she walked during night,she had a bad character, she had many past relationships,may be she was a call girl,she was friendly and open with guys and so on.
Thousands fingers pointing towards the victim and the voice crying for help is just silenced. But the fault lies not in the girls or in her dress or in her character but in those shameless eyes that are naked and distorted ,that lacks good food and nutrition. Thereby effecting the entire mind making their body abnormal. If we are proud to be the the citizens of a land that is rich with temples and cultures we have much more reason to be ashamed of because thousand minds are getting distorted in a peculiar way thus defaming the whole nation and the human civilisation.
These uninvited guests are present in every street corners and the very recent Bengaluru Molestation incident baffled the whole country. How long! How long! Will the girls have to live their life in fears? How long will they have to stay indoors? How long?
Our country India is blessed with rich cultures, the land of Gods and Goddesses. In every house we have these miniature Goddesses- Parvati,Laxmi,Saraswati,Durga,Kali and so many that we can hardly remember each names and every year we celebrate the festivals, Kali Puja, Saraswati Puja (prayers offering to these special Goddesses or Mothers/Ma).
The picture below which I received in Whatsapp perfectly describes the present scenario.
We all have these questions. Are they people like you and us? Are they human?Are they really men of flesh and blood?
Were they born from a mother’s womb? Those boobs that they sexualise now. Were they not fed by their mothers’ breast? Were they not inside their mothers womb for nine months and were they not born out from a labour pain? Didn’t they cry for the first time as their heads came out of theirs mothers’ vagina,covered in her blood while that umbelical cord still connecting them? I doubt those people were never breast feeded by their mothers. They were never connected to Mothers’ because that female body is the first known part to every men and women when they first step into an alien world.And the same body they now sexualise and disrespect.
Yes,it is true that thinking separates us from the wild animal kingdom but this intelligence is of no use to those retarted evil minds. Its such a shame that even animals such as them do not exist. There is no such thing as Rape! in their world. Better is an animal than a human.
We have used our intelligence to such an extent that we are the most cultivated advanced being who are ruling the earth and the space. But when these uninvited guests disturbs the peace and purity of an individual,we are in the nadir and not in the zenith of our civilisation.Infinite
I note the obvious differences
in the human family.
Some of us are serious,
some thrive on comedy.
Some declare their lives are lived
as true profundity,
and others claim they really live
the real reality.
The variety of our skin tones
can confuse, bemuse, delight,
brown and pink and beige and purple,
tan and blue and white.
I’ve sailed upon the seven seas
and stopped in every land,
I’ve seen the wonders of the world
not yet one common man.
I know ten thousand women
called Jane and Mary Jane,
but I’ve not seen any two
who really were the same.
Mirror twins are different
although their features jibe,
and lovers think quite different thoughts
while lying side by side.
We love and lose in China,
we weep on England’s moors,
and laugh and moan in Guinea,
and thrive on Spanish shores.
We seek success in Finland,
are born and die in Maine.
In minor ways we differ,
in major we’re the same.
I note the obvious differences
between each sort and type,
but we are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
Introduction by Peter Davison
February 3, 1999
In February of 1912 Robert Frost wrote a poem called “The Wood-Pile,” a poem that meant something special to him — he would single it out for reprinting in his annual Christmas card nearly fifty years later,just before he died. The poem emerged at a crossroads in his life: he was about to make “a great leap forward,” as he had written to the editor Susan Hayes Ward in 1911. That year the Frost family, after many years stuck on a farm in Derry, New Hampshire, had at last uprooted themselves enough to move, for a season, one hundred miles north to Plymouth, New Hampshire. There, Frost taught college students (women) for the first time in his life, and was observed to be speaking in a different, less formal, more casual way — a way new to him.
At Christmas in 1911 Frost took the train to visit Susan Ward — the only editor who had consistently encouraged his work — in New Jersey. Frost had sent her a sheaf of the last and best poems in A Boy’s Will,his first collection of poems (which he would publish in England in 1913). In New Jersey they spoke about his work and of his plans, as yet unannounced, for the future. After his return to Plymouth, Frost wrote to Ward as follows:
Two lonely crossroads that themselves cross each other I have walked several times this winter without meeting or overtaking so much as a single person on foot or on runners. The practically unbroken conditions of both for several days after a snow or a blow proves that neither is much travelled. Judge then how surpised I was the other evening as I came down one to see a man, who to my own unfamiliar eyes and in the dusk looked for all the world like myself, coming down the other, his approach to the point where our paths must intersect being so timed that unless one of us pulled up we must inevitably collide. I felt as if I was going to meet my own image in a slanting mirror. Or say I felt as we slowly converged on the same point with the same noiseless yet laborious strides as if we were two images about to float together with the uncrossing of someone’s eyes. I verily expected to take up or absorb this other self and feel the stronger by the addition for the three-mile journey home. But I didn’t go forward to the touch. I stood still in wonderment and let him pass by; and that, too, with the fatal omission of not trying to find out by a comparison of lives and immediate and remote interests what could have brought us by crossing paths to the same point in the wilderness at the same moment of nightfall. Some purpose I doubt not, if we could but have made it out. I like a coincidence almost as well as an incongruity.
To me the letter seems fateful. It signals the crystallizing of Robert Frost’s talent at Plymouth, his determination to “set forth for somewhere,” his hesitant welcoming of the true bond between speaker and hearer. The voice in which his poems would take place would alter shortly: it would be the voice more of the farmer than of the teacher, “the sound of speech.” And the poem he wrote next, in the same month he wrote this letter, was “The Wood-Pile,” the first-written poem and cornerstone of the collection he would entitle North of Boston when it was published in London in 1914.
Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day,
I paused and said, “I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther — and we shall see.”
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went through. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what hethought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather —
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled — and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year’s snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year’s cutting,
Or even last year’s or the year’s before.
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labor of his ax,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.
Frost’s poem speaks of finding a kind of order hidden away in the depths of the woods, that perfectly cut and measured cord of wood, “four by four by eight,” the only one to be found, a cord of wood tied up with a cord of — what? — of clematis. It is a poem about trees, like those that had sounded over the house in Derry, and which Frost would write about in “The Sound of Trees.” (“They are that that talks of going/ But never gets away…./ I shall set forth for somewhere,/ I shall make the reckless choice …”) These trees are “too much alike” to let the speaker know “whether I was here or somewhere else.” When the bird hides from the walker he puts trees between them; and when the walker finds the wood-pile it is propped between one live tree and one dead stake, like a body of work that is propped between the established civilization of Europe and the live-but-frosty land of New England, between the meter of a poem and its rhythm, between stasis and motion.
Any careful reader of Frost’s work can point to twenty or thirty of his poems that tell in one form or another what he thought to be the story of his life, the story of a man who ran away from civilization, quitting for his own reasons, and went off into the woods, at the risk of getting lost, and found there something worth taking note of, something that lay at the heart of the mystery, a directive, say, or a star in a stone boat, or a pasture spring, or the song of a darkling thrush — or a decaying wood-pile. In this, the first of his truly great poems, he finds warmth in observing how the labor of our hands ends in “the slow smokeless burning of decay.” The syntax and artistry of this poem’s last sentence may embody Robert Frost’s discovery of his true mission as a poet.
Source: The Atlantic Online via Facebook