Thursday, June 11, 2015

2 tanka


my life
by loneliness
a pauper keeps playing
butterfly melodies


i wait for the sound
to explode
her lips trembling
eyes angry with tears

The tapestry

She calls her life a tapestry,
a humble stitch-work of a home
with a tidy garden; the garden where
juvenile follies have ripened into
fruits of ardour; fruits that have treasured
seeds for a butter-flavoured mid-life, daily
talk of cups and saucers, the warmth of
genteel love, smiles, friends, sun and rain...
She has imbibed them all in her patterns.

Nowadays hours go by talking to
a yellow butterfly; how pristine will be
the twilight! What brilliant hues will
spill out of the clouds! ...She struggles hard,
hard to thread her needle again.
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