I tore a page out of a Time Magazine from 1938
To help me write a poem about discovery and loss
About an internal war over what I should have done
So long ago.
There was nothing I could do.
Now I look at the worn page -
Ephemera of what could have been
And place it back in my journal
Like a pressed leaf
Preserved away waiting
To be discovered.

The little things a loved one did
That irritated when they were near
Would no longer cause frustration
If today they were here

Some small thing they used to do
Some word they used to say
No longer would cause us anger
Now that they are gone away

Some small annoying habit
That would cause us to dispair
We now would gladly endure
If only they were here

So many unimportant habits that troubled us
That didn’t really mean that much
O how gladly we would take them back
To once more feel their touch

RLB

I light an incense stick to pray
The smoke spirals ascending slow
O I have nothing left to say
I dread my nights and dread my days
Fly away with the smoke that sways
But there's nowhere left to go
I light an incense stick to pray
The smoke spirals ascending slow
I turn this way I turn that way
There's forever left to go.

(c) Amrita Valan 2021

Some poems seem to write
themselves;
I just move the pen.
Others, are like lumps
of clay;
they refuse to be molded;
they need moisture and time.
This one is like
a robin that just learned
to use its wings.
It heads west, on a
gentle breeze, into
a tangerine sky.

Don't believe a word
if their actions never speak
the absolute truth

5:06 PM
17/3/21

He bent over
The shadow in grey
Kissed the lips
Of life away

Eyes, closed buds,
Ne'er more to open,
Veins of blood
Weary and broken.

Spirit released
From skeletal prison,
Body deceased,
Soul arisen.

Flowers of light,
Music immortal,
Embrace a child
Unto God's portal.