A collage called life
A collage
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“Open the window.”
“You may catch something.”
There descends a bird on the sill
chirping about a colored tale,-
the sick mom and a tired son
with a plastic arm to pick life
won’t see and now aren’t listening…
bird flies to the other houses.
“Shall I read the news?”
“What is the use, boy?”
“I’ll then check the mails.”
The insipid mails have white covers
and crème and light brown, even red.
The shuffling of mails is always
a game he plays with hopes and rays
with a tilted cynic bitterness.
“Nope! Surprise, surprise!
It has not come today.”
“Tell me when it does.”
The roaming cold sighs settle on
the winter garden of negligence.
The worker father has embraced death
and the son is a certified
handicapped with the job letter
still is a dream frequently seen
and waited till the empty cans
refused to be filled on their own.
“Now take care, mom.”
“Are you going to
gather foods my son?”
“Let’s see uncle
this time. His turn.”
He wears his armor, takes his shield.
Gathering foods and to be fed
need the armors and shields these days.
“Come back tomorrow
little yellow bird.
Tomorrow the letter
may bring warm spring.”
The mother whispers and the air
carries the message to the birds.
© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
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“Open the window.”
“You may catch something.”
There descends a bird on the sill
chirping about a colored tale,-
the sick mom and a tired son
with a plastic arm to pick life
won’t see and now aren’t listening…
bird flies to the other houses.
“Shall I read the news?”
“What is the use, boy?”
“I’ll then check the mails.”
The insipid mails have white covers
and crème and light brown, even red.
The shuffling of mails is always
a game he plays with hopes and rays
with a tilted cynic bitterness.
“Nope! Surprise, surprise!
It has not come today.”
“Tell me when it does.”
The roaming cold sighs settle on
the winter garden of negligence.
The worker father has embraced death
and the son is a certified
handicapped with the job letter
still is a dream frequently seen
and waited till the empty cans
refused to be filled on their own.
“Now take care, mom.”
“Are you going to
gather foods my son?”
“Let’s see uncle
this time. His turn.”
He wears his armor, takes his shield.
Gathering foods and to be fed
need the armors and shields these days.
“Come back tomorrow
little yellow bird.
Tomorrow the letter
may bring warm spring.”
The mother whispers and the air
carries the message to the birds.
© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar