Poem: I wonder

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Poem: I wonder

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Lakeside Verses 2
Moonlight shines
Above the deep blue
Whilst wheels overhead
The stars in their everlasting vigil.
A ripple stirs
And the tapestry quivers
Before once more
Flat and glassy
The mirror sits.
Somewhere off in the margins
Where reeds and rushes sway
A chorus of frogs sing out for themselves
In cacophonous harmony
Before falling silent
Leaving once more
The moon and stars in silence.
Hope tastes like sunrise
Death tastes like chocolate
Where History meets Poetry
The second national level multilingual poetry festival organized by Hindi Anusandan Prasar Kendra Ahilyanagar is being held this year in Hampi, a World Heritage Site in Karnataka. Those who wish to register their names are requested to contact the contact number on the poster below. You can present poems in any language in this festival. The inauguration of this national festival will be attended by the famous Kannada Marathi writer Sarju Katkar (Sahitya Akademi winner), while the President of Punjab Sahitya Akademi Sukhdev Singh Sirsa and senior poet Vimlesh Tripathi, who lives in Calcutta, West Bengal, will be present. Two seminars and eight poetry sessions will be held in this festival.
I see my beauty” he said
then he closed his eyes and
stared into the sunlight
remembering friends long gone
those who still remain
the voice of his grandmother
the first person to ever make him
aware of it.
the trees that gave
him a home and a place to become
the warmth of Spring days
the laughter of children at play
the cold city streets in Winter
the breeze atop the Ferry in Summer
he remembers dying a thousand times
and living only for less than a decade.
All he ever wanted
was a six-figure salary
a German car
and a place of his own
He found his freedom in his Creator
and it was more beautiful than he could
ever imagine.
Amen

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you’re more alive to them dead
I will most likely be posting far less poetry ... well poetey in english that is because Imma try to make an active effort to write a book in my native language
...
And I'ma write it in a historical dead script just because I know how
“Forgive me, Lord of honeysuckle, of trees,/ of notebooks, of typewriters, of music,/ that there are also these:/ the lover, the singer, the poet/ asleep in the shadows.”
—From A Note Left on the Door by Mary Oliver