Did I Cry? Why?

On waking up in the morning
I felt the smears of tears
across my cold cheeks,
with the gory image
of the last evening
of a sparrow killed
by the neighbour's cat
still burning my eyes.
'Did I cry? Why?'
I wondered aloud.
The walls replied,
'Because we could not.'

©Portia Burton

The Girl in the mirror...

How the world got changed
In a mere moment!

Flower-like dreams got crushed
Under the sudden darkness,
And a tiny star
Twinkling with celestial music
Became lustreless and mute.

Tales of frolicking fairies
Lost their charm,
And the lips of the branches
Gently kissing a stream
Became totally numb.

Eyes knew for the first time
That they carried tears,
Sobs got arrested in the throat
Like the daisies strangled by weeds.

The girl in the mirror
Lost her smile.

© Portia Burton

When I Decided to Love You...

When I decided to love you,
I first charted your sphere,
The orbit of your attractions,
Traced the tendrils of affection
Sprouting from your heart
To see where they finally reach,
Only to find encircled with them.
I then realized it was pertinent
That I should start loving myself
To be worthy of this adornment.

© Portia Burton

October

The yonder hills look like
The birthday cake with green topping.
My eyes were swimming in the ocean
Of the sky's infinite blue.
Autumn golds are melding together
Sepia toned with a tint of brown,
Rustling leaves look like the lips
Of girls singing in a chorus.
There's our favorite coffee shop
Where our hearts will beat in 'mocha lattes'.
And, yes, as you say, this is HAPPINESS!

© Portia Burton

Granny's Cottage

I am visiting my granny's cottage
Some time after her sad demise,
I hold my breath on the threshold
As her memories flood my mind.
Without going inside I can see
Each room of this tiny cottage:
The front room where she welcomed
Her friends, and even a stray goat.
Her table by the curtained window,
Where she raised her cup of tea
To the rising sun, and to the birch
Whose branches always waved to her.
Her kitchen where she always had
Something delicious only for me,
At least her dainty hand-made cheese.
Her husband's study which remained
Locked even for her darling me,
It was actually a treasured vault
Where the memories of the moments
Which she had shared only with him.
Then her room, her books, her bed,
Where as a child I slept in her arms,
As my mother also may have done,
Reaching for her face with tiny hands,
While drifting away to meet the fairies
On the wings of her magical stories.
And it was there our roles where reversed,
When I had to put her to some sleep,
As she clutched my hand like a child
To find some support while drowning
In the unbearable pain of her sickness,
And it was on that bed I had found her
Sleeping peacefully in the arms of death,
And as per her wish I had prepared for her
From her garden's flowers a clumsy wreath.

© Portia Burton

Me and My Muse

The dusk has fallen, it is getting dark,
Alone and nervous I wander in the park,
The breeze is cold and has started to bite,
Everything is gloomy, nothing seems right.

Now comes wafting a  scent  that I know,
And in an instant my eyes start to glow,
Lo, there she is! A goddess in every way,
Has the breeze stopped in awe of her sway?

She is my muse,  heavenly  and  glorious,
Friendly as  a fairy, albeit mysterious.
Her tresses glisten around her angelic face,
She comes to me in her lovely grace,

Like a charged spirit I rush to her,
How ardently we meet each other!
In her calm eyes I find my solace,
But she gets dissolved in our embrace,

I submit to her and through our union,
I realize that we are not two but one!

© Portia Burton

My Room

Sorry, my room is totally disorganized:
There are more books of poetry
On the shelves than text books;
Crumpled ***** of paper containing
Unfinished poems jeering at me
Are lying here and there, along with
Some incomplete drawings and paintings
Of wingless birds, truncated trees,
Confused paths ending abruptly
Before reaching any destination;
Dried up brushes coated with colors,
Disheveled like my auburn hair...
Then, in a corner a dusty vase
Squirming with dried, crooked stems
Mourning the petals turned to dust...
And me, circled by an invisible cage
Which prevents me from touching the sky
Which calls me out like an yearning lover...

© Portia Burton

I will accept your flowers...

I will accept your flowers
With a guilty heart
For robbing them of life
Which we can never impart.
I will hold them gently
Close to my chest,
But will they find it worthy
Even for a momentary rest?
from their faint fragrance
I seem to hear their words,
'Why do you pluck us in bloom,
Like you shoot down the birds?
'Tomorrow when we will wilt
You will throw us in the dust,
But the same fate awaits you,
You'll return to dust, yes, you must.

© Portia Burton

Ten Long Years...

For the last ten years I've been suffering,
But, no, I don't want to tax you, dear friends,
With my sob story, since I know
That this pandemic has played havoc with many people.

No, it has not affected me at all or my family.
My family? That word makes me laugh bitterly.
Where is my family? My mom has gone,
Taken away by the deadly cancer,
My gramma has gone due to old age,
And my dad, Oh, whom I loved so much,
Who loved my mother intensely,
And I thought that he would grieve with me
For my mother, his darling wife,
And look after me as she used to do,
And my aunt will lessen my grief
With her music as she used to play for mom,
But, NO! These very two people hurt me,
Stabbed me straight in the heart
By marrying each other very shortly
After my mom was laid to rest.
Oh! What a haste! What a haste!
My dad became Claudius,
And my aunt proved to be Gertrude!...

They didn't say a word when I left
My house where I was born and grew,
Where I learnt many things from my mom,
Including playing piano, which, very sadly,
These two people have sold!

If that was not enough, then my Bestie,
With whom I spent the most beautiful years
Of my life at the Queen's College,
She succumbed to an horrible accident,
In which I got my leg fractured,
Suffered multiple injuries, only to come out
After almost six months with scars
And a broken heart....

Now I am all alone on my own,
Still gathering pieces of my broken life,
But I will surely rise again,
Only to fulfil the promise I had made
To my Bestie to pursue my research
For the betterment of the mankind.

© Portia Burton

Childhood Lost

When on the wings of a gentle breeze
Came the enticing scent of flowers
To nudge me awake and out of my bed
To  greet the new sunny summer day,
I rushed outside to wash my face
With the rosy glow of the smiling sun,
Thinking that I will always remain
A little girl roaming among these flowers ....
But, oh, the day always gave in to the night
That filled me with fright of growing old,
Wrinkled and wobbly like my granny,
And as the darkness' ink spread over me,
Alone, me and my doll clutched each other,
Thinking the world had been lost for us.
But again came a new bright day,
Reassuring me of myself and the world,
Showing everything is what it was,
Though the flowers had wilted in the vase,
I thought everything was sunny and sweet
Like the robin's melodious morning tweet,
But slowly the time took its toll,
It robbed me of childhood and my doll.

© Portia Burton

Tattoo

I blossomed like a wild flower
That is allowed to grow from its crack
By an ancient moss-covered rock
By softening its stoic arrogance.

I then felt a soft musical strain
Rippling through my tingling veins,
Felt transparent like the morning dew,
Adorned with the sky's ethereal hue,

But just then the moon came up above,
Making me hastily cover my *******,
Lest she should see the tattoo upon my heart
Carved by the soothing singeing of the stars.

© Portia Burton

Granny

Granny,
It was you
who put away
my childhood 'walker'
and taught me how to walk,
fall ,
and walk again on my own...
It was you
who swirled around
like a ballerina
in  my school auditorium
when I played  a ballet dancer...
It was you
who lovingly
massaged my aching feet
after my mountain trek...
you could walk
only a few steps
holding my hand,
yet
there used to be so much joy
on your wrinkled face
as if all the paths of the world
were bowing down before you.
.....

Now
All I have is a quilt
made by you for me,
and though it is very old,
I still seek through it
your warm touch.

© Portia Burton

After My Mother Passed Away...

After my mother passed away
I realized the hollowness
Of the words of consolation.
All those gentle words,
Loving pats on shoulders
Could not console my mind
Which was crying silently within.
All that it felt was a vacuum
Which could never be filled.

Actually I did not remain as I was,
Some part of me had gone forever,
I had lost a place where
I could vent all my anger, anguish,
Pour out my doubts, worries,
And rest my head to find support,
Solace, love, and forgiveness.
Now nothing has remained the same,
For who can call me by that special name?

© Portia Burton

Sublime Presence

Here I stand among a throng of trees
Wrapped in dense and dark shadows,
And feel like standing silently
Under the dome of a green cathedral,
Drenched in irradiant silence.
I feel around me a sublime presence
Watching over me with love and care,
While the breeze fondles my curly hair.
I also feel some inaudible melody
Streaming all around, in the leaves,
In the blades of grass, nascent flowers,
And even in my overwhelmed heart!

© Portia Burton