some words remain remembered;

scullery, coal scuttle, hod,

broom.

that is yellow.



sbm.

We aging poets
Scribble hard in the passive
Recalling the active;
I envoke your separate, central parts,
Merging in the hard ripples of you
In August's evening lake;
Re-absorbing the yellow blur
That dries the pressed grass.
These passive lines from past lives;
This aging poet loses clarity
Re-capturing the passions
Of the young poet's life.

The blanket embellished with typical artwork.  
Winter nor summer the snippet could hold.
Melancholic memories trail its framework.
Its restricted dimension not developed to unfold.

108 beads of rosary I gained in legacy.
While chanting your name I went on twirling the beads.
What escalated my heart, were the waves of agony
The beads broke down and fell into 108 seeds.  

I do not want the blanket or beads in heritage,
The spark that you left on such abandoned ruins
Which is now pulling the anecdote from wreckage
Just before my eyes memories were stewing.

What to talk on gains that do not rhyme?
Though mortals attains salvation in course of time!

© 2016 Geetha Jayakumar. All rights reserved.

The course of our lives
Predestined
Free will,
I don't know
We'll never know

The reason for love hanging on
delighting in the white light in the eyes where love shines
I don't know
Maybe we'll never know

The seasons nourish life
Everything spins round and round
Though we feel the whole time
like we're standing still
I don't know
We'll never know

The  woman bending over
lighting a candle
red curtains rippled by the wind
She's the great great
great grandmother
to a generation
she'll never meet
I don't know
We'll never know

Waiting for the executioner
Hoping for immortality
That's all that's left
But I don't know
Maybe we'll never know.