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on January 11, 2024

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#poems #poetry #flightsoffantasy#funpoem #loveofpoem #paperplanes

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Down The Rabbit Hole

Down The Rabbit Hole By-Anubha Mamgain This little girl is lost again. She drifts away from me, I am lost not to the world, but to me. Some days she doesn’t wander too far. On others, she is lost for days. She steals the moments running through her fingers. Meandering slowly. Deliberately. Scaring me. Will she ever find her way back home? There she goes down the rabbit hole again. “Why is it that you are always, either too tall, Or too small? And never, just about the right Alice?” * I pretend not to hear her. She doesn’t seem to care. But the question leaves its mark. And as I try to climb back I ask her “Why am I always either too tall or too small? “Why can’t I just be...?” She looks at me and smiles “Cause how else would you escape This drudgery called life?” I grin as we make our way back. Looking for a new rabbit hole. By - Anubha Mamgain *Character from Tim Burton’s “Alice in Wonderland”

the portrait

T he portrait --By Neeti My mom is an artist she has painted all her life We grew surrounded with canvas and paints And brushes , easels , painting knives So when I was six and boisterous I went to her and said in glee You paint horses and mountains Why wouldn’t you paint good ol’me ? Sweet my mommy set out on the task And I put on my favourite little dress Tightly braided my mad curly hair And sat still in much duress And I sat and smiled and posed But it seemed just so so long Bottling up my six year old’s energy As my mom laboured on She seemed troubled and perplexed What she’d drawn made her unhappy But when I checked it seemed fine The figure on the canvas did look like me Mommy said- baby , there is a problem Without your ears ,it just isn’t you But as soon as I paint them on It looks like something from a zoo After the shock of her own honesty Mom said -my sweetheart ...alas Your beauty , yo

Deer Park

At Deer Park the sky glistens, its own kind of blue the sun breathes its warmth all over the valley. The sky is not specked today with nylon birds escaping their city lives. and the clouds are busy painting on the blue canvas. Not Tara Hall but Manjushree beckons me this time the smile of one teacher traded for another. And yet I see her- Her silence-permits me To occupy this space- Renews me with my old friend- who had laid buried, Under the pretense of my worldly life. Now- as I walk in, tentatively to meet new strangers & fellow seekers Manjushree greets me With a lotus and a sword And partially closed eyes.

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