Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash

Lost souls in fish bowls,
Twirling in it
Half way, for play.

Need a smoke. Wait.
Swirling, holding, not moving, outside and inside each other, not biting, not groaning, touching, growing, bigger and wetter, staring at the stars, just twirling.

Such a pleasure
So late with the crickets chirping.
Yes, alone.

And some kiddos jumping
in the swimming pool.

Photo by Valentin Salja on Unsplash

A Thousand Knives
Will Stab You
Can Kill you
The Sharpest Blade
Will Let You
Go Alive.

The Iron Edge
Will Blind You
As You Slide Through
The Bloody Red
Will Kiss You
Will Let You
Fall Asleep

The Wood And Hilt
Will Go Through
Right To
Where we need it
We Will Follow
Like Bourbon
To The Surface
Of Your Skin

And In The End
The Carbon Made
In You
It Will Steel You
As Teardrops Do
Heal You
Tease You
Make It
Go Away

A tribute from a faraway lake to the starry night over the Rouen

Picture taken by the Author

It will be dark soon
Moonlit silver, maybe a black moon
I sit on my red chair, red being true
Wobbling on my brick layer.

Wide slits of Bamboo
Anchor, what I can look over
Look at the shimmer, a silhouette
It’s not a shadow
It could have been you.

Between the twin lakes
The parched tree
It frames a sunset
If you walk on it straight
Walking the great divide
That also between people can be.

It’s not a shadow,
It could have been you.

Only the red is alright, true.
The green too is bright, darker in dying light

A Poem

Photo by Yaopey Yong on Unsplash

I can will my knees to rise, but they won’t fold.
They sleep like stones, my jelly of bones
In my Pompeii of gold.

I can make my toes to wiggle, if I told.
They slumber so light, my can of worms
In my Senate of Rome.

I can wish my eyes to close, maybe they hold.
Scared to open, into the light, the windows to my soul
In my Chariot of doom.

So, hey
Dont care to pick up
My notebook
The lamp and the pen.
For, I will lose the shadows
They hide
They vanish if I would just but lift my…

Photo by Jan Huber on Unsplash

Hello Black Street
Turn around
Turn upside down, make it sky
Those are angel wings from yesternight.

Black Street, Black Street
Damn them, you can but shame no more
They chased the lamp post
That they know
Where else could they go
In the storm, the light shines when you flow.

Now, dry
After the rain
The birds
Walk on you
They think
You could be the sky
Black above, is now black below
So, drenched, they shuffle wise
Like king birds, they don’t need to fly.

Hello Black Street
Don’t be cross, blue, or red or pine
Those are golden rods

Photo by Daniele Colucci on Unsplash

Black street
Now, dry
After the rain
No, it is the sky
For a bedraggled crow
You walk, you shuffle
You don’t fly.

Drenched, I feast
Look now, you look close
Those are angel wings
Yesterlight, they flew.

Golden rods
They fell far from their tree
Chasing angels
Around lamp-posts
They knew.

Now, strewn around
Amongst the wings
They too
They lie
Dry from the rain
Yellow in death
Wet on concrete.

A lone ant
In a last fight
Last flight
To rise above me.

Ailerons, rudders and all
Wing it for us
Wing it fast
Wing it before
It outlasts.

You can eat dirt
You can fly slow
You can fall down
You can rise up.

Black street
The dead on the ground
Turn it now.
Turn it upside down
Make it sky.

And maybe, someone else will have use for it too.

Photo by Author

The books of all the world will burn in a fire today, baby. You can save one. What will you choose? Choose the ones to burn. You have always known which one. But that way, all of us together in the end will burn every book away. One book or another. But choices being choices and for what they are, faced with an act of piety for civilization you will snatch your book up from the red and black tinder at the edge of the fiery monstrosity.

The flames will be reaching skywards and licking sideways towards every book, edging…

Same old
Same old
Same old hills.
My eyes, drying
up the mist.
The night,
by the pine.
The leaves
The leaves
The leaf.

We bend
We bow
Down the stream.
My legs, blind
to any dream.
The kite, the squirrel
long asleep.
The mill
The stones
from the mill.

Same old
Same old
Same old man.
My son,
The father and the son.
I died, long
before he’s gone.
The mist
The mist
The trees.

Photo by Sasha Freemind on Unsplash

Clouds and Silhouettes
In the sky
Perhaps and maybe
They will lie.

A broken rainbow
Will bring it all
Down and,
We’d know.

Rain and thunder
In the ground
Surely they will
Make a sound.
Of mud and clay
Of wet and day
Shadows speaking loud.

I know the snow
From some yesteryear
Sprinkling stardust
Without a care.
Dogs and cats
No fighting bone
Sweating, like a noon.

Limbs and words
Twisted still
Like the moonshine
On the sill.
Signs of life
Here and there
Just a sigh, nowhere.

Photo by Mads Schmidt Rasmussen on Unsplash

We, the sleepless
The sheet
The breathless.
We sway like the river
Running stoneless
Running wild.

We, of color
Of white, so heartless
Rustle mindless
Hustle life.

Like hunger
And the mad men
Of the dark vast nightless
We, the flightless
We, of the white.

Sanjukt Saha

Engineer, mostly on Paper. Founder @wallobooks @onebillionminds. I am creating magical storybooks for children in conflict zones —

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