I bet my children’s parents never have to worry about weeds in their yard. Because these kids…. they pluck every beautiful flower (or weed) they see. Instead of playing they’re busy picking flowers for their mommies and daddies ❤❤, wiping their pollen-stained hands on their clothes, their hair whipping in the wind, their eyes shying away from the sun. I do not know what their parents think of when they open up flower-filled backpacks, see mud-caked clothes, or pollen stained on dresses, but I hope they realize the love their children have for them when they say, “Look mommy/daddy. I got you a flower!”
Tell me one thing,
do fireflies lose their
light if our wish is granted?
I recently submitted a poem to Robi, an online literary journal, by Bangladeshi Identity Project. As it says on its introduction page, this journal in intended for the Bengali diaspora by the Bengali diaspora. It’s for us Bengalis that belong there, in our native country, but call this place our home too. Despite speaking our foreign tongue, we keep our mother tongue close to our heart, interchanging words consistently, their meanings translucent. My poem was accepted and published. If you’d like to read the journal, please do. I chose to submit my poem, Immigrant.
Your serenade makes the leaves twirl about,
Twirling and twirling and twirling
As if their feet just can’t stop dancing,
The blades of grass running across the ground,
In mindful chatter,
As if time is of the essence.
Where are you all off to?
With outstretched arms, trees reach up to be caressed,
Their fingers barely clasping around your tresses,
Their brittle branches falling off here and there,
You move on.
You move on, your voice bellowing,
Brushing up against windows, tapping on wooded floors,
Knocking over garbage cans and garden swings,
Whipping up hair, hats, and people.
They barely stood a chance.
Is this finally the start of Spring?
Hardly. Snow is on its way.
people say that laughter is the best medicine but
why does it hurt so when you use it to push all our problems away
The art of anger rests on expression
The art of breaking rests on how much you let yourself give in
I sometimes wish I could make a hole in the wall, smash everything within my peripheral vision
I’m a volcano, molten lava seeping out from my skin
But the art of release doesn’t mend what’s broken
And so begins the start of a celebration
although we should make everyday
The best part of a foggy, wintry morning
in the rural parts around here is enjoying
freshly collected from the sap of date trees,
free of dust, noise, pollution,
A big thank you to baba (my father) who helped me understand the process of how the molasses were collected from the date palm trees. I knew molasses were being collected but it looks a tad bit different than collecting maple syrup, as I’ve read in Laura Ingall’s “Little House in the Big Woods”. The things you can learn from books 🙂 . Anyways, baba has experienced this before and he misses it quite a bit. Also a big thank you to Shoudho Bhaiya. When I actually saw you out there the other day, enjoying the very same thing I’m writing about, I just had to know what your experience was like 🙂
After what seemed like forever, thunder, dragging his feet, roamed off to somewhere distant, roaring and calling. And just like that, the clouds parted and let the sun peek through, as her light caressed everything she touched.
》》》 I don’t know why it took me so long to post this. It was just lying in my drafts folder for 1.5 years. Maybe I wanted to add to it more or maybe I just didn’t have the time to post it. Well…it’s here now. Maybe, just as this poem depicts, we’ll get a break from this dreary rain and see some sun this weekend 😊.
The heat is constantly running yet the house is freezing cold. The house sways and creaks to the wind’s battering.