It was a lovely morning and the day,
Special, my son’s 16th birthday
Happy and busy with the preparations
But there was something amiss
Couldn’t put my hand or heart on
The day was fine, but by evening there were signs, sickness crept up its way

An out of this world experience
My jumpy heart raced between its place and fist, and the pulse on my wrist
Devoid of any feeling, my fingers numb

The lungs screamed
To be left alone, in silence  
With the painless calm
And the pain, unseen

The chaos outside was too much to bear
My heart weakened by the deafening noise
Wanted this break, from some, I prayed
Believe it or not, god listened to my prayer

Fear disillusioned
Too many places, invited
Never the one to travel
At loss, amidst the chaos

I felt a deep pull
In the eyes of my husband and children
They wanted me to be fit and fine
The other side allured me, twice
In my mind, I swayed on both the sides

I remembered the words and faces of my ageing parents
I knew they would be worried
Parents, never fail you
Wise and old, they have great advice

To stay safe from, I tried, but couldn’t
The virus and I took head on
Single combat, the family safe
No more on the battleground
Self isolation done

Home isolation worked well for me
Locked in my room, with the windows facing the road, my days, alone, duly spent
The room lights on during the nights
Been longing for a break since March
Albeit, in a beach resort

Music has the power to heal
Takes you to places, language free
Pre booking, no requisites
My quarantine sojourn complete

Physically I could be weak
But mentally I am strong
With infinite hope and love of the family
Yes from the clutches of the virus
Came back alive, I survived

If words could speak for themselves
Then they are best, written
Spoken, they are sinusoidal
Unless, the wavelengths match

Thank you so much, my dear friends at Hp
My family of poets and poetesses
For reading my words and sharing yours
It’s always home here, I reckon

🌿🌿

~
Romantics find her flawless
and the mystics find her wise.
The ancients found "The Huntress"
in her sharp and searching eyes.
Italians say "bela luna"
when they look at her and sigh.
The cavemen painted pictures
as they wondered at the sky.
The moon has many faces
and her light's a work of art...
And to the simple poet...
she is tonic for the heart.
~

He splashes light against the sky,
  broken heart that makes her cry
  remembering yesterday's goodbyes,
  begs her to explain. She just sighs.
  She was a ***** he loved, paste white.
  He splashes light against the night
  making stars that swirl like madness.
  He splatters yellow suns on his sadness
  with crows in skies warning us of doom.
  He cuts his ear off in her white room.
I scratch this poem upon the page
with his blood spilled in red rage.