PadmaShree, Sri Jayanta Mahapatra once said,"There is something in me that refuses to die. It’s there, somewhere deep inside me perhaps. And this is poetry."
The genesis of POETICbug was thus an act of unleashing the curbed thoughts in the form of poems. POETICbug,says, "I praise; I dare; I invoke care; You write, recite my glory; I am, Poetry."
-Taking forward the spirit of poetry !
There are souls that ignite minds, Giving wings to fly, above and high,
Shining bright as they live along,
In simplicity their kind dwell,
Hoarding aspirations,
Achieving goals,
Inspiring the common as they soar,
When they walk beyond the horizon,
To those lands far, far away,
They leave behind their success trail,
And a legacy for us to emulate.
(A humble Tribute to one of the most loved man of India.)
Chit chatter, whoop, screech,
We come in a group, hanging on trees,
Dancing and jumping on branches together,
Babies holding onto their mothers,
“Naughty little troop” is our name,
We love playing so many games.
Brown round bodies, hands and feet,
A long winding tail; bananas we eat,
We love each other and live in a pack,
Just like you, we also laugh,
So, now do you know, “Who am I?”
Think a little while and give a try.
In the large open veranda of my old house,
A tree stood beautifully tall.
Chirping gleefully on it,
little brown birds there were,
Swiftly flying and hoping around,
“Noisy little creatures”,
My grandpa would shout.
In some nooks and corners,
Or branches of that tree,
They built their home.
Come evening, they would all be gone.
Time moved on and I moved out,
Leaving behind the brown birds and my home town.
Some holidays, one summer when I returned,
The house was there but that tree no more,
No tweeting; no noise;
On the veranda floor.
I looked in the nooks,
And those corners where;
some hay and twigs used to play.
All clean and tidy, everywhere,
Now aesthetics of the house
had to be taken care.
Saddened and in dismay,
I boxed in hope to see them.
But since that eventful summer day,
I have not spotted a sparrow again.
Let's plant a tree,
and build their nest,
And wait for a while,
Till the little brown birds,
Return home.
With a pearl white background,
The bright blue lilies adorn well,
Then on the side,
at the edge of the vintage wooden fence,
The blue bicycle rests.
A series of shades of blue –
light; dark;
navy; sea;
cobalt; teal; azure;
and the classic denim,
Hang from the clothesline.
Since yesterday no one picked them up,
And I am happy no one did,
For these shades add colour to my blue mood.
I sit on this chair,
Overlooking my neighbour’s lawn,
where the blue lilies and bicycle stay.
I search for my fountain pen
And the royal blue ink,
To write a few lines on this bluish scene.
