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 !
To the beauty of the ladybug,
A leaf stares awestruck,
Each day to express his love,
He waits for the sun at dawn,
Clad in serenity when she walks,
He gasps; no words fall,
Another sleepless night goes by,
Wandering in her thoughts,
The leaf decides his final call,
To express thy love to the ladybug,
So when she comes again,
With the glistening morning rays,
He gifts a diamond dew and proposes.
What’s divine?
A conscious belief or
Forced tradition,
May be an eternal argument,
Of HIS existence and beyond,
I know not of the power,
Because I'm touched by the love,
Not in exchange; in exchange of,
Incense sticks, prayers;
Candles, promises;
Or fasts and flowers;
Rather unconditional.
I speak of THEE, to THEE,
like a friendly bond,
Sharing and accusing,
The little nothings and everything,
From finding my lost eraser
to guiding me in my lost path.
And when I see around me,
A world so strangely beautiful,
in its differences and union,
I believe there’s an unknown artist,
Busy in HIS timeless design.
This poem is published in an anthology, HEAVENLY HYMNS by PoiesisOnline.
A bite into its juicy fibrous body,
Your taste buds are excited,
with the strike of sweetness, so royal.
Your nonchalant pleasure,
Trickles down from the corner of your mouth,
Sweltering heat, no time to bother.
The aroma itself is enchanting,
Draws you cunningly towards itself,
No matter what resistance comes.
Until each strand of its flesh,
Has consumed your appetite,
And soaked your soul with satisfaction,
It continues to embrace you with its regal delight.
Early morning when sleep is still comfortable on your bed,
She comes down with her armour and shield,
A broom in her hand and a basket to collect the dried leaves,
Smoothly, she sweeps the road and side-walk too,
All this, for a petty pay and some food. You get up in your lazy mood,
Call her for that extra work,
And when she is done and dusted through,
You wait her up for tea and rusk.
You search through your kitchen,
In the dark corner behind the cupboard, with one hand in, you find something.
The half-broken china clay cup from last year,
In which you now, pour her the hot tea,
You give her as if it is special,
And she soothes herself well,
For she is promoted now, from the rusted tin can to the china clay cup.
